By, A Recent High School Graduate
Originally, I intended to write my Common App essay about mental health. I had several full drafts, but I was repeatedly told it was “risky.” College advisors and online advice warned that some institutions might view mental health struggles as a liability. The message I absorbed was painful but clear: don’t give them a reason to see you as “broken.” Here is one of those drafts.
When I type, the first thing that flows from my fingers is, “I am alone.”
Whenever I am buffering, moving back and forth in drafts, or mentally spaced out for a second, I somehow always end up typing it in some form.
When I was younger, I felt alien. I felt like my family only saw me as an acquaintance.
I knew from a young age that my brain was different, a bit off. I did fine in school, and I acted fine, socialized fine, and did most everything fine. My brain just worked differently on the fringes. It asked me to do things that made no sense: small, random actions without cause, purpose, or consequence.
At least, originally.
There was a quiet second voice, one that told me to do nonsensical things like walk a certain way, breathe a certain way, avoid touching a surface, or not pass through a certain place. I felt off all the time, but did not know how to place it. My parents, my friends, my family — none of them could see the invisible markings on reality around me, the ones that floated in and out of focus as the voice’s demands shifted.
Over time, those demands grew more severe. More of my house became a trap, an area I couldn’t pass through without subconscious calculation. More of my actions became fused with the nonsensical, ruining my ability to think clearly. Every tiny action became infused with the voice, and the voice came closer and closer to me.
I felt like an alien pretending to be human, with the seams showing through every strange thought.
Now, after therapy, I can truly say that my connection to my family is stronger and more vivid than it has been since I was ten. It is not as strong as it was meant to be. No amount of connection now can fully suture the quiet rift that formed during the most important stages of my life. I will always remember when they were only there on a surface level, because they never knew who I was under a thousand masks.
But these things happen slowly, and improvement does not have to be perfect or turn into a neat redemption story to be life-changing. It is gradual, but it is progress. For a kid who never thought his family would see him even partly again, it is a damn good place to be.
