Fifteen Months a ‘Freshman’

As I sit here procrastinating, desperately avoiding studying for the calculus final I have tomorrow morning, I can’t help but think about my time in college. Where I started, where I am now, and everything that’s happened in between have been nothing short of unexpected. It’s taken me 15 months to actually complete one full term of college, and it’s spanned two schools and two states. In order for this to make sense, I have to bring you back to fall 2018. So, if you’ll have me, here’s the story of my freshman year.

I started off as an engineering major at Cooper Union, a small school in Manhattan. When I committed, I truly thought it was a great fit and that I would thrive living in New York. I’m a self-proclaimed city girl, after all. But as classes commenced, I realized this couldn’t be further from the truth. I knew I was forfeiting the conventional college experience, but this sacrifice was easier to deal with in theory than in practice.

I had no meal plan, and even though I was in a dorm of sorts, it didn’t truly feel like college living. I wanted “a weird cinder-block room with a Reservoir Dogs poster on it and the first real heartbreak of my life and probably HPV,” just as John Mulaney so eloquently described college in “Kid Gorgeous at Radio City.” Okay, maybe not the Reservoir Dogs poster or HPV, but I wanted to experience college for what it was—the good AND the bad. Instead, at age 17, I was living in a sterile apartment on the 16th floor of my building, 2,000 miles away from my support system with roommates I never spoke to and an oven I could hardly use. I was anticipating a ~quirky and unconventional~ college experience, but what I got was downright miserable. Keeping up with the demands of living on my own while going to school, engaging in extracurriculars, and maintaining a social life may be possible for some, but at that point in my life, it was too tall an order—life was asking for a Venti but I could only serve a Grande.

I told myself I would get through it and eventually things would get better, but they never did. Just to add fuel to the growing fire, the eating disorder I insisted was “functional” became increasingly dysfunctional. Come early December, doctors suggested that I leave school and start treatment. Deep down I knew they were right, but I hated that and vehemently fought against the suggestion. I was too scared to leave school. Somewhere along the way, I had convinced myself that my personality and worth were only comprised of academic performance and status as a student, so I couldn’t leave. Without school as a crutch, I had nothing.

It took less than a week for me to change my mind about leaving. As I continued to lose control over my thoughts and behaviors, I took a blind leap of faith and officially signed the medical leave form. Fear initially held me back. I thought surrendering my ‘college student’ status would hollow my character. But, in retrospect, I realize it didn’t matter whether or not I had a personality when I was that consumed by an illness to make any use of it.

Treatment started, and thankfully, my belief that my worth was only derived by the letters on my transcript dissipated. People actually liked me, even if I wasn’t in school! I had more time on my hands since I wasn’t chained by the demanding responsibilities of college, and I took the opportunity to explore anything and everything that caught my mind’s eye. I started listening to podcasts on subway rides and reading books—I’m a classic literature aficionado. Learning no longer felt confined to school and when I stretched beyond STEM, I realized that amidst all of the highly technical classes I had been taking, I didn’t notice that something was missing: interest. Truth is, I didn’t want to be an engineer. I wanted to take English and economics, maybe even get crazy and try out horticulture. Anything but take another engineering course.

I kept quiet, but started seriously flirting with the idea of transferring. It was too late in the year to start an application, so I did my best to choose classes in line with my interests but still felt choked by my institution’s limitations.

I laugh now looking back at all the tears shed over my Cooper schedule. I thought I was obligated to stay there, and I have no idea why. I mean, I was literally paying to take classes, so I didn’t owe them anything (except for the debt I accrued during the 2.5 months I had actually taken classes of course). I was convinced I had no opportunity to leave unless I was accepted to another university. After a talk with a friend however, I remembered that if I were to leave Cooper, I would still have somewhere to go: my local community college. Growing up in the Silicon Valley, this path was always heavily stigmatized—not only at school but also at home. My parents and classmates would laugh and joke about going to community college, especially after doing badly on a test, implying that was where I would end up if I wasn’t intelligent enough to get in elsewhere or stay in the institution I was at. And as much as I hate to admit it, I still hold the same conviction and need more time to keep dismantling it in my mind.

Choosing community college may have been a slap to my ego initially but it’s been one of the best things I’ve done for myself. I’m the happiest I’ve been for a while. This isn’t to say that transferring hasn’t come with its own woes, trials, and tribulations. Being a commuter, I’ve had to readjust to living with my parents—no easy feat after living alone for a year—and take far more initiative to spend time with peers outside of class. The first half of this quarter was painfully lonely because I was too embarrassed to ask my 4-year college friends if they wanted to meet up, but too shy to befriend my peers. Dealing with an eating disorder for so long, it’s always felt safer for me to establish relationships based on my grades and illness. This isn’t to render my friendships from high school and college invalid; I have great friends from high school and Cooper alike, and I know they see me as more than those things, but I also know I’ve lost people through this questionable befriending tactic. I wanted change, but worried that by explaining my circumstances I would inadvertently label myself as “the sick girl.” It’s taken time but my walls are starting to come down. I’ve made some great friends here who know me as more than my grades and the eating disorder I’m still learning how to manage.

The year may be coming to a close, but I’m eternally grateful for the opportunities that have come with treatment and transferring. Even though I’ll have to reopen the forsaken Common App once again this upcoming quarter to transfer back into a 4-year university, I thankfully have more insight on what I’m looking for this time around. It may have taken me 15 months to fully finish the first half of freshman year, but I wouldn’t change them for the world.

By Anita Mukherjee

Bio TBD, just like her transfer! Chill pls.