This is an anonymous article.Content warning: this article contains mentions of depression and suicide.
Exactly a year ago, I quit. I sent in my letter, packed up my things, let my only two friends have a shopping spree with my leftover Big Red Bucks, and I left Cornell University. I hit the muggy air while stepping out of MCO, and for the first time, I couldn’t have been happier to feel it.
At this point, I still believed I would be back for the fall semester. I had just taken a leave of absence, not fully quit yet. However, the longer I spent back home, the more I realized there was no way I would ever step foot back in Ithaca. I had felt like a prisoner there, not a student.
I hate grieving a decision that I don’t even regret. My smartest decision was leaving. I know that. But, I don’t know if my heart will ever agree with that.
Why I Decided to Leave Cornell
Nothing I had ever done could prepare me for arriving there. I immediately had a panic attack that night. I knew this feeling wasn’t that uncommon for brand-new, freshies who move across the country to a new school, so I told myself it would get better.
It didn’t. Honestly, it only got worse.
Throughout my time, I found myself more isolated, sick, and crawling through every week. Cornell is a tough environment for social life. My lack of success is partly due to my introversion. However, Cornell doesn’t help it either. After a while, I gave up on socializing. I woke up, went to class, napped, ate as fast as I could, then went back to my single to do homework until 3 a.m. I’ve always loved school, and my grades were great, but I couldn’t find anything to live for anymore. I felt like a product for the school, just there to make them money.
I knew I wasn’t the only one, either. In one week, two of my peers jumped into the gorge that cuts across campus. The same week, there was a report of drugging and sexual assault at the Chi Phi house. This wasn’t some huge anomaly. This past fall semester, three students and two faculty members passed. It wasn’t until the fifth death that the administration finally said something.
In the Daily Sun, student Brayden Handwerger put this feeling into words. “The school has done a lot to give students resources to talk about why they’re mentally unwell. But it has not necessarily done enough to ask why students are unwell.”
I’ve suffered from Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) for more than half of my life. Not once did I question why my peers did it. After a terrible preliminary exam, which didn’t end until 10:30 p.m., I sat over the huge gorge; it was the only way to get to the freshman dorms. I stood on the bridge where, just a few weeks before, two of my peers jumped. Cornell acts as though this is the price to pay for greatness.
I watched the waterfall for so long. I didn’t blame them once.
Besides dealing with classes, I spent almost every day there with a fever, nausea, or having some new illness from stress. It’s even worse when you know you’re alone, over 1,000 miles from anyone who could care.
My biggest realization was lying on the carpet of my dorm for nine hours in excruciating pain, unable to think or move. I sat there guiltily, hoping it would turn into something dangerous, so that I had an excuse for a break. I ended up in the E.R. that night. I still went to my 10 a.m. class, and I realized something needed to change, or I would not make it out of undergrad alive.
The Logical Regrets
Even though it wasn’t exactly like I had hoped, Cornell University had always been my dream school, so of course, it hurt to say goodbye. The one aspect I logically miss is the wonder and inspiration I felt from everyone I interacted with. I was at one of the few institutions in the world where world-class people constantly surrounded me, whether that was students or professors. These people were the top people in their fields.
I went to my Ancient Greek class every day in awe of my professor’s knowledge, wisdom, and experience. It was like he knew everything about why the words were the way they were. His class kept alive my old expectations of the Ivy League experience: true learning and a love of academia. I miss that feeling and experience, no matter how many times I couldn’t recall declensions.
Everything I Gained
Since beginning at UCF this fall semester, I could not call this a loss. I had an internship within months of transferring. I’ve gotten sick once. I have help, family, friends, and a school that cares more about me than Cornell ever did. While we all love to complain about UCF, I have felt so much kindness and care from the school itself. I feel like it’s here to serve me, not the other way around. I can use the wellness center here for free.
Even more important to me, I’m able to spend extra time with my father. I’m lucky enough to have such an amazing one, especially one who unconditionally supports me. I’m not ignorant of the truth of what will happen as his disease progresses. Nothing at school can replace the time I still have. He never told me once what decision was right, but when I got home, he hugged me and told me I made the right choice. I cried.
Next time I talked with my friends, one said, “Wow, this is the happiest I’ve heard you in months.” A separate friend later told me it was the liveliest I had seemed in forever. Being told to my face the light that I didn’t even know had left and returned so abruptly again made me realize I had made the best decision.
Ambition
Why, through all of this, was I still crying over leaving? I had to face something that I had always wanted to ignore: I’m far too ambitious. Some people tell me it’s my most admirable trait, others tell me it’s my biggest flaw. I have never fought my ego this way before. To my heart, this was me giving up.
Ten APs. All 4’s and 5’s. Skipped a grade. Top of my class. Scholarships, honors, and societies. I wanted it all, and I did it all. I felt like there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do if I set my mind to it. I don’t want to think I’m better, I want to prove I am.
I remember a professor joking, “You’re all here at Cornell. No one comes here without a severe inferiority complex.” He was right. I reflected on that a lot.
I wanted the title. Why else would I sit through this hell? There are equally amazing schools that would teach us as well as, or even better than, the Ivy League schools we were sitting at. The Ivies aren’t that different than other great schools. But I wanted the title. Not even to tell others I did it, just so that I could never doubt myself again. I asked myself after, if Cornell’s Ivy League title was stripped away, would I still want to go? The answer broke my heart. It was clear that anyone would be silly to go there, given everything I had gone through. Without the title, it didn’t justify the suffering and pain I was in.
One Year Later
Today, I still feel the effects, but it has gotten immeasurably better. I still struggle with my productivity. I decided to take 16 credits this semester, and having free time has felt terrifying. This isn’t some amazing growth story, either. I still struggle with wanting “greatness” and proving I’m better. I am still dealing with the chronic physical side effects. However, I would rather grieve an old life than have ended mine.
I am still always looking for a challenge. I love school, learning, and the feeling of understanding hard topics. But I wouldn’t be blind enough this time to let the name override every other fact. While I will still overload myself with credits to feel the vigor and stress of it, the stress is different. It’s controlled, completely academic-focused, and not a near-death experience. Struggling does not make you better.
While I’m still pushing down on the feeling that has stayed in my gut for a year now, I feel it grow smaller every day. I still have to remind myself daily that I am more than my achievements, more than my school, more than a project. But, most importantly, I am a person who can experience love, comfort, and excitement freely. I am not a product.