Leaving

Three years ago I dropped out of college. Well, technically I didn’t drop out, I took an “Extended Medical Leave of Absence”. I’ve always been quick to point out this technicality. “Oh, no, I’m not a college drop out, I’m just on an Extended Medical Leave of Absence.” It’s taken me three years to come to the point where I’m okay actually saying that I dropped out of college. And by “okay” I mean I’ll reluctantly admit it to a stranger while watching their reaction to see if they’re judging me for it. And if they are judging me I tell them how dropping out of college has actually helped me to fast track my career goals of being a technical writer and novelist.

When I say I dropped out of college, it’s more like I dropped off the face of the planet. At least that’s what it must have been like for my college friends. One day I was there, the next day my parents drove down to bring me home and I was gone. It was hardest on my roommate. It was Passover and she’d gone home for a long weekend to celebrate with her family. She came back to a half empty dorm room and a note on her bed. I tried to call her, but she was terrible at keeping her phone charged and didn’t know how to empty her voice mail so I couldn’t leave her a message. (Sorry roomie, but you know it’s true). She wasn’t sure if I was alive or not.

Three weeks ago we saw each other for the first time in three years. I wanted to write this post then, but I wasn’t sure how. It’s hard digging into the past, dredging up my greatest failure. Anyway, I went down to Smith for the weekend and went to see my roommate. She saw me, recognized me, and then realized who I was. She jumped up and shouted “You’re alive!” in the middle of a crowded room. We garnered a lot of stares.

It was great to see her again. We fell into our old rhythm. It was nice to see her and not be sick. Because I was very sick when I left college. I was so sick that I didn’t even know how sick I was. I’d been sick for so long that when I finally went to an infectious disease specialist I was diagnosed with a lingering viral infection. No idea what kind of viral infection because the virus itself had already been defeated by my immune system and I just had lingering symptoms left. We know it definitely wasn’t mono and that’s about all we do know about the disease that sent me packing.

What ever I had really did a number on me. I stopped sleeping because I developed this strange fear of sleep. I was so weak with exhaustion that I didn’t have the strength to go to the dining hall and eat. And even if I did have the strength to make the trip, I didn’t have the brain power to ensure that I was eating things that didn’t make me sick. (see my blog about my ridiculous number of food sensitivities) I survived on peanut butter that I’d bought in bulk online and ramen noodles. Not exactly nutritious. I lost a lot of weight. I did the reverse freshman 15. I basically lay in bed, watching Supernatural and trying to keep on top of my schoolwork (not an easy thing to do when you haven’t slept in a week and you barely have enough strength to hold a pair of chopsticks). I absolutely did not think about calling my parents and telling them that I was super, super sick and wanted to go home. That would have meant giving up.

Thank whatever higher power there is (if there is one) for Netflix watch history. If my brother hadn’t seen that I’d been watching Supernatural for 48 hours straight and told my parents about it…I don’t even want to think about where I’d be now. My parents called me. It took them a while to get a hold of me because I’d lost my phone in my pile of dirty laundry and it was dead. They had to track down my dorm’s land line. At first I tried to lie, I don’t know why. It doesn’t make any sense to me now in 20/20 hindsight. But at the time I was so desperate not to fail. If I left college it was a failure. It didn’t matter that I was bedridden – I managed to graduate high school with a 4.0 GPA despite spending half my senior year out sick with Lyme Disease. I thought I knew how to live my life from my sickbed. I thought I could handle it. I refused to admit defeat.

My parents and my class dean finally managed to convince me that I needed to go home. The dean assured me I could always come back. “Once a Smithie, always a Smithie,” she told me over and over like a mantra or a safety blanket. And in truth that was a comfort, something to latch onto. Even though I was leaving, Smith would still take me back. I wasn’t finished yet, this was only a temporary retreat. The Battle for First Year was lost for the moment, but the War for the Bachelors Degree was not yet lost. I could still return and triumph over my coursework (This is honestly how my brain works, not just a metaphor. School is a war, people, and anyone who says otherwise isn’t taking things seriously enough. Jesus Christ I’m intense).

My mother took me home. I spent a month in bed, eating chicken soup and slowly getting my strength back. And when I say a month, I mean a month. I got back from school in early April and barely left the house except to go for a job interview. I got the job, I started working when I was finally recovered. I was still weak. It took so long to get my strength back. Even now, three years later, I’m not sure if I’m entirely recovered – at least not mentally. But I’m getting there, slowly but surely.

I started working full time, eating properly, sleeping eight to ten hours a night. I went to work, I ate, I slept. That was it. And then I decided to take another look at a book I’d started writing when I was fourteen. I realized that I didn’t need college to learn to be a writer. I just needed to write. So I sat down and wrote a disaster of a draft. It took me nine months while working full time. There were plot holes galore, characters waltzing in and out randomly. I had about thirty different points of view and no real ending. It took me about a year and a half to figure out what aspects of that draft were good, which characters and plots I could actually use to write a book that worked. I’ve since written several drafts. I’m in the middle of a rewrite right now – about 70% done, in fact. I think I’m actually on to something.

Brick by brick I’ve been rebuilding my life, rebuilding my image of myself and how I fit into this world. I’ve realized that yes I dropped out of college. I failed. I’ve learned to admit and to accept that failure. Now, I know some of you are saying, “Emily, it’s not your fault you got sick.” And you’re right, it’s not my fault I got sick. But it is my fault that I didn’t ask for help, that I didn’t tell my parents. It is my fault that I didn’t actively try to get better. I thought I could shoulder it all myself and that only made the situation worse. I thought I could get through it on my own and probably the most important thing I’ve learned is that it’s okay to ask for help. Asking for help is not the same as admitting defeat. Every war requires allies.

Thank you for Reading.