7. Buy the Stars

Throughout my senior year, Drew would attend my therapy workshops. Other patients would attend with their caregivers as well, and we would often have exercises to practice how to set boundaries. When Drew was asked to respond to a question regarding an abusive partner, they gave the answer, “simple: you say ‘okay, bye-bye.’” Everyone chuckled at their no-nonsense attitude.

As Drew put all of her energy into cheering me up for the remainder of my senior year so I could get back to studying, we would often frequent AMC movie theaters together on Friday nights. Since they wanted to get our money’s worth for our tickets, after getting them on discount from Costco, we made sure to movie-hop after watching the movie we purchased, usually watching two, but sometimes three consecutive movies for the price of less than one. Drew would be dozing off by the middle of the second movie, and sometimes I would start nodding off as well, but I would shake myself back to consciousness, so I could explain to them what they missed when we were driving back home. After all the drama I had put them through, I was at least glad that movies gave us a respite from our quarrels. Plus, I liked cozying up beside them in those dark, empty movie theaters.

Since Drew was fixated on making sure I got into a good college to ensure I would have a good life, they didn’t hesitate to get all hands-on-deck for my college admissions. They hastily reached out to one of our neighbors, whose daughters recently got accepted into prestigious universities, and requested that they read through and edit my essays. Though their mother was one of Drew’s first friends when they immigrated to the United States, their turbulent friendship reached an abrupt end since their family could no longer put up with Drew’s pestering phone calls that their daughters MUST help me write my college application essays. The last straw was when Drew left a voicemail, accusing their mother for purposefully ignoring her calls, and from then on, our families never hung out like we used to. Nevertheless, Drew didn’t budge on their position, claiming that their family was always morally bankrupt, and they were cold-blooded for not understanding the sacrifices a caregiver would make for a child in their care, especially for such a pivotal time like college admissions. I could tell that Drew was deeply hurt from this loss of friendship.

Naturally, I was also enrolled in another college preparatory class where instructors helped us write essays that would get us into top-notch colleges. The world was spinning faster with each passing second, and us measly mortals were struggling to keep up. Back in my caregivers’ day, going to a university in their country rested all on a single test score. However, things are much more complicated for my generation. Everyone, including my childhood friends, were being enrolled in college essay writing services by their families. It was considered reckless NOT to do so. I remember my first consultation with my assigned counselor to discuss what I wanted to write about, in a small pale room as the sunlight shone in,

“I want to write about… my mental health struggles in my personal statement… the ability to gain a perspective by widening the way I viewed life.”

“Hmm… that’s an interesting one. I think we can work with that.”

I don’t know what might have possessed me to dream of such a crazy idea. Perhaps I was jaded by my high school and wanted to make some self-absorbed, grand gesture of rebellion against an invisible oppression. I had been depressed for so long, that depression and suicidality WAS my personal statement. I couldn’t exactly speak for how “I” solved some complicated math problem, or brag about any of “my” science fair projects because I didn’t feel like I had merit in any of those domains. I could talk a little bit about my singing, but still, it wasn’t as flashy as some scientific breakthrough, and half the time I sang I was doing it to check-out from my life. If singing was the thing that I did, depression was my state of BEING. I had always been that anxious girl who’d fly off the handle over stupid shit, one of those teacup children my high school counselors would point a finger at. I might as well brand my hot-mess as something that I overcame, since I had nothing else to offer that was truly me.

When I told Drew and Emerson my grand idea of speaking earnestly about my anxiety and depression in my junior year of high school for my college essays, they were absolutely horrified.

“Please, just think about how your high school reacted to your suicide attempt. These colleges might be less likely to accept you knowing you have depression,” Emerson tried to talk some sense into me. “But, that’s so unfair! And it’s not like I’m still suicidal, I’m trying to show how I was able to overcome this challenge!” I naively argued back. I was so tired of always having my caregivers’ protection dictate who I really was. What if I wanted to truly feel what it felt like to have the world tear me apart? Damned if colleges no longer wanted me because of my head; at least I could live happily in isolation being authentically depressed, no longer worrying how I was being perceived by everyone else. I could simply rip off the band-aid, and know the cold, hard truth that I was all alone. Some impulsive side of me wanted the freedom to do something so horribly reckless, just so I could simply suffer the natural consequences of the world instead of restricting myself for the sake of my caregivers.

In the end, my caregivers and I made a deal. The essays for my “dream schools,” and any other schools with stellar reputations minimized my mental health struggles. No gritty details about my self-harm, my suicide attempt, nor the people I met during my hospitalization. After having my essays be revised by my instructor, Emerson and I were up at ungodly hours writing and editing my college essays together, as delegated by Drew. Slowly the admissions came in. Denied. Denied. Denied. None of the top-ranking colleges I applied to accepted my mediocre report card, endless ravings about singing, and vague accounts of “mental illness.” But finally, when I was accepted into a decent public university, Drew breathed a sigh of relief. I was glad that this chapter was finally over, and since it was the only one that accepted me, it made the attendance decision easy.

The last few days before I was sent off into the wilderness that is college life was riddled in chaos. Emerson was so frustrated with Drew that they clamored that once they both helped me move and settle in my dorm, they wanted to move out of our house. Though I was engulfed in perturbation as I was about to embark on one of the scariest moments in my life, I didn’t know how to process my feelings, and was subsequently taking out my frustrations on Drew. I hated that I was raised to be so dependent on my caregivers, that I had no trust nor faith that I would be able to take care of myself once I was on my own. Was I supposed to still ask them for help with my schoolwork even though I would be miles away? Would I even be able to keep it together if I didn’t get an A without minus in one of my classes? Though I may be a young adult, inside I still felt like a fetus that needed to be sustained by a flimsy umbilical cord. I sizzled with anger as Drew quietly piled all of my belongings on the downstairs couch to prepare for loading into the car. We finally left our house four hours after our scheduled departure time, which Drew of course claimed was my and Emerson’s fault for not helping with the packing. Drew would later tell me that when I was initially about to leave for college, they were glad I was finally out of the house, since conflicts with Emerson regarding how to raise me reduced significantly. Once again, I was clearly the biggest problem.

Freshman year was rough, as I had to suddenly figure out how to manage myself on my own while I shared a space with people who were not my family. I used every fiber of my being to hide that I was one of “those kids,” who didn’t have any common sense or life skills. I wasn’t gonna be that MIT kid who managed to burn a cucumber in the microwave. It got to the point where despite all of us agreeing we’d take turns taking out the trash, several tallies were lined up next to my name while the others barely had any. The codependence that was modeled to me at home was rearing its head in how I was approaching the world.

6. Teen Idle

8. Lonely Hearts Club