The Fragility of Mind

The light from outside is toned out by the harsh fluorescent lights from above me. As I sit in this uncomfortable plastic chair, surrounded by people, I unconsciously feel my legs shaking, any fingers passing each other. In the brief moments where my thoughts have found a moment of calm, I can hear the crisis agent ask me “Have you made one of these before?” My focus shifts. My eyes hesitate to meet the stares of everyone else, my counselor, the social worker, my mom who stares back with a look that’s equally both full of guilt and pain, the two crisis agents dressed in formal attire with red lanyards around their necks. I answer with a soft no and begin focusing on the scenery behind it all. The soft, slow flakes of mid-winter drift through the air, dropping from the grey, dreary sky above. The sound of cars passing by is noticeable yet hard to focus on for long enough. I wonder if the park is full. People enjoying their time in the snow, dogs rolling around and playing with one another. I wonder if life really is still going on even from this bland room I’ve been trapped in.

It was the week before I decided to drop out. Walking into school that day felt suffocating, my thoughts louder and more persistent than usual. After two years of going to a school like Tech, the heavy feeling on my shoulders wasn’t anything new; however, it was certainly worse than it had been before. The overwhelming feeling of loneliness and disappointment in myself had finally reached its last level that I could handle. First period of the day came and went with a simple drop-in from my counselor. Second period came and went but with increasing difficulty. By the time third period came around, I found myself sitting in my counselor’s office, tears streaming down my face as I let the thoughts in my head spill to somewhat of a stranger. I already knew I was alone in fully understanding how I felt and how severe the thoughts in my head were. No matter how much reassurement or taught comforts I was given by her, it didn’t make any difference to my sense of despair. Despite that, I felt a mild comfort in the two strangers that ended up sitting beside me hours later. I felt that after making my safety plan with them both and going over options with my mom for treatment options, I would be okay from now on. I would be able to keep going with school and push my way into my dream schools, and eventually my dream career. I sure wish I knew that wasn’t the case afterwards.

Dropping out was the puzzle piece that never quite fit into my puzzle. The comfort I felt after that day only lasted for a few weeks, being that soon after came Covid. At first, like everyone else, I thought it would be far better than waking up at 6am every morning and walking into what I saw as a prison. The process of waking up at 6am in your own house to go nowhere though proved to be ten times harder than the simple routine I had before. Waking up at 6am, turning on your laptop, talking to and watching a screen of boxes with pixelated faces, taking notes on things you can barely understand. Pair that with at least four hours of homework a day and you get a routine that’s practically impossible to carry out. The day that I decided to call it quits is one I remember vividly. It wasn’t that I simply just gave up after giving no effort in the first place. I had no expectations for myself to give up anyways. Growing up, I wasn’t given many family accomplishments to look up to. My brother got expelled from high school and went on to get his GED. Mom dropped out to take care of her new maternal responsibilities at 16. Went on to get a degree from Brooklyn College in a different field than she’s in now. Sister, the golden child, got all the praise for going to an architecture high school in Williamsburg and to City College to keep pushing for her degrees.  Ended up dropping out in her last semester of senior year. All different paths, yet the same outcome for all three. As I sat and listened to my Spanish teacher drone on about participles and other topics that mattered not to me, I could almost feel the energy leech out of me. School was tedious. It took more energy to wake up with every day that passed. There was no simple fix this time. There was no intervention and a simple goodbye. I needed to be rid of it completely, even if it would lead to the rest of my life being duller than that of my former classmates.

I stayed out of the school system for two years after that. Watched as my friends went on through their junior and senior years. Scrolled through all their pictures of prom, homecoming, graduation. It was nothing short of bittersweet, yet I didn’t hold any bitterness towards any one of them. I did things my own way after all. I got my GED, applied for colleges the same way they all did. Even though I couldn’t get into the Ivies or SUNYs or other impressive institutions, I still dedicated my time towards slowly making my way forward. Part of me thinks I entered college purely as a means of pissing off all the kids that tried to make me feel shameful for the things I went through. The other part knows I did it for those who I let down, my mom, my brother, my grandmother. I did it for everyone, including myself, in hopes that I could try and make good of the potential I still felt I had. Even to this day, I feel the urge to back down. The urge to simply give up and go the other route that I try so hard to avoid. Yet, no matter how strong that urge gets, I carry with me the experiences of those closest to me. I hold it and strive to do better than they ever did. If a dropout could do this, anything else could be possible.