One Yalie's journey to hell and back

History is a popular major at Yale. Someone told me it's the most popular, in fact. The 12,500 word senior essay requirement doesn't discourage many people from sifting through Beinecke, poring over secondary sources, interviewing others who have been there, done that. But who looks at his own history? Who takes "Self History 100a: Your Birth and First Year of Infancy"? Who takes "Self History 225b: Your Tortuous First Year at Yale"? I suspect not too many people do. But sometimes it's necessary. Sometimes you slip and crack your skull on the bottom rung of the ladder. You're dizzy, feverish, dark. And then you have to look back up and see why you fell. You have to look back up and see how far you have fallen. Sometimes the gatekeeper to the future is the corpse of the past.

I withdrew from Yale College on Oct. 25, 1999, for medical-emotional reasons. The stress of school was too much for me. Everything was too much for me. It was a struggle to get out of bed in the morning. It was a struggle to take a shower, to brush my teeth. I brushed my gums raw. Red and painful. I had a Crest with the softest bristles available, but I still brushed too hard for my gums to handle. I figured I could make myself feel better by having the cleanest teeth in Yale College. Instead, I had the most abused gums in Yale College. The skin around my mouth was burned by the peroxide from my Arm and Hammer DentalCare toothpaste. It was white and flaky, painful to touch. Sometimes it hurt too much to wipe the drippy toothpaste off my face. I went to class with a DentalCare moustache and goatee. Struggling, see. It was a struggle to eat pot roast and mashed potatoes in the Trumbull dining hall. It was a struggle to read about the modalities and methodologies of white Caucasianism in 20th Century America. I was doing it, though. I was struggling through, hating every minute of it. Life was terrible, and I felt I was terrible for subjecting myself to it. Living vicariously through The Real World on MTV wasn't giving me any solace—especially not with that Hawaii cast (I mean, come on)—and boozing on Friday and Saturday nights left me feeling guilty for not having spent time studying, even though I knew damn well I wasn't supposed to stay in and read every Friday and Saturday night. I felt wronged, abused, fucked by the world.

Here's what it was like. Look: look at me sitting on the floor, wearing my red pig boxer shorts. Look at the tears on my cheeks. I have never been so upset in my life. Living through my parents' divorce was hard. But living at Yale is harder. It seems as though no one cares about me. Sure I have friends, but they all seem to be having a much better time than I am. They're rowing crew, playing football, guiding tours. I'm counting days until I can go home. I wonder if my friends are doing something I just can't do. After all, they're having a good time—I'm not. It's as if there is a finite amount of fun Yale's 5,300 undergraduates can have. And for others to notice my pain would be to give up some of their fun, to dole out precious minutes spent away from studying. Classes are tedious, and I take too-copious notes to pass the time. Sections are worse as each student seems hell-bent on making me look like an unacademic fool. I went home.

The road to graduation in 2002 wasn't going to be a quick jaunt through eight semesters. I flew home to Corvallis, Ore. I started seeing a psychiatrist weekly. I got a job selling loaves at Great Harvest Bread Company. And I registered in Math 252, Integral Calculus, at Oregon State University. I was no longer a Yale student, and I had the prescriptions, W-2 forms, and OSU ID card as proof. Time to rebuild. Time to get un-wronged, un-abused, un-fucked. My time in Oregon was difficult. I called my former suitemates in New Haven. They were having so much fun, so many parties, so many girls. The weight of Yale academia was no problem. Certainly they weren't going to YPI for intensive observation and therapy. And I asked myself, "Why am I different? Why do I hang out with the frat boys at Oregon State? (Phi Gamma Delta, and Sigma Phi Epsilon, mostly.) Why do I know the five essential ingredients in Honey Whole Wheat bread? (Water, flour, honey, salt, yeast.)" So many "why" questions. No answers, though.

And now I'm back. Now it's over. Four Yale Summer Programs classes later and I'm back. I feel different. My trip was necessary, appropriate. Not too many people see themselves at the emotional bottom, the absolute nadir of misery. But I have. And I know I can come back. It's just like Maya Angelou says, "Out of the shacks of history's shame/Up from a past rooted in pain/I'll rise/I'll rise/I'll rise." I'm not proud of my banishment. It's my history's shame. But here I am, a full member of the Yale community again. Here I am, scars healed, full class load in my backpack. Here I am, risen from a torturous low. Here I am.

Simon Apter is a junior in Trumbull. 

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