I Died at 17

I was 17 and had no personality.

I had let go of my dream of being a fine artist, so I could avoid being labeled “the kid who can draw.” I hid my music taste because I didn’t think mainstream pop music was "cool enough" for coming-of-age Black-American teens like me. I also allowed the identity of being an identical twin define me.

Yes, me.

An insular, self-conscious boy with very few friends growing up.

I was quiet. Very shy and to myself.

My peers questioned whether I was gay, straight, psychotic, stupid, or just…weird. Some thought I was kind of mean. I couldn't confirm nor deny the many labels they placed on me. I used many tactics to shield who I really was from people.

It was the fall of 2016.

And the beginning of my senior year of high school. The year otherwise known as the tip of the iceberg to a slow, painful death.

Like all of my classmates, I had a list of colleges I prioritized applying to first. Even though my dream schools outweighed my target and safety schools, I was sure I would be walking the campus at one of the top universities in the nation.

I was willing to sell my soul to be a first-generation college student.

I wanted to major in pre-med. I had dreams of being a psychiatrist one day. A career many people will never be able to do in life.

Mind you; I had no extracurricular activities lined up for me to brag about in the “Activities” section of my application. (I was also terrible at math.) The only thing I clinched to was the neglected business club I used as a clutch whenever someone asked me, “So, what are you into?”

Despite my low SAT score and no personal interests worth a damn, I thought my high grades would slip me through the cracks.

And yes, my high academic grades and being at the top of my class did absolutely nothing for me.

After becoming co-president of my business club and withstanding one year of being a member of the National Honors Society, I got into nowhere.

Yes. Nowhere.

Well, I guess I can include the half-assed offer from Michigan State University welcoming me to come at the start of my second semester of freshman year.

So, that would count as getting into somewhere, right?

It didn't count to me.

I felt destroyed. My small world came crashing down and everything seemed to have flopped in my face.

And by the end of the school year, I was flailing.

As in, I completely panicked.

I applied to one school after another just so I could yell, “I got into college!” to the invisible audience in my head. Just so my parents could brag about me at the next family event and market me to people they didn’t even like. And, of course, I wanted to boast to my classmates that I got into a list of schools to make me feel better about myself.

And in the process, I lost more and more of myself as the year came to a close.

I graduated magna cum laude with a 3.82 cumulative GPA.

At my graduation ceremony, I draped myself with many colorful cords from clubs I forced myself into for the acceptance of others. Dying inside, I couldn’t wait to post pictures of what would be the last day I would see all of the people I so desperately wanted to accept me.

That was the year I became a bonafide people pleaser. And also the start of an ever-growing anxiety disorder.

Throughout the next four-and-a-half years, I grotesquely indulged myself with the escapist trap we all know and love today: social media.

The many failed attempts to establish an all-around, marketable 'digital identity' ripped chunks of my true self from my soul. I silent-watched hours of Youtube videos of various online personalities to extract their onscreen persona. I kept tabs on many influencers to copy their style and live vicariously through them. I bought clothes only to get compliments from my coworkers.

(And damned were the days I never received an ounce of praise on a cheap shirt I purchased from Zara.)

My former classmates seemed to be having fun in college through many posts on Instagram and Snapchat. Meanwhile, I was tucked away in my room, scrolling past all of their simulated experiences.

Now at 22, I guess I can say nothing went as planned.

The last couple of years were filled with many ups and downs, but it was all worth it.

Nevertheless, I received my associate's degree from a nearby community college. I was depressed out of my mind, but I did keep a job while juggling school at the same time. I made it out with absolutely no debt, and I had ample time to think about who I wanted to be in the future. And to this day, I still don’t feel the need to go back to school and finish my undergraduate degree.

At 17, I died a mental death.

According to an article published to PubMed.gov, a mental death is essentially described as losing oneself. You plague yourself through hurdles of interpersonal stress and psychological torture, and, in my case, it was just to fit in. I worked tirelessly to impress people I didn’t care much about in return.

I measured my worth by how others saw me.

I thought I would be seen differently than boys who looked like me because I had a college degree. I thought society’s stamp of approval would catapult me to upper-middle-class success and I could finally be viewed as the ‘exception.’

But like all American teens at this age, I was sold a dream.

I brainwashed myself into thinking that the "perfect" job was best achieved with the perfect degree from the perfect school.

It was only til now I realized perfection does not exist.

References: "The experience of mental death: the core feature of complex posttraumatic stress disorder," PubMed.gov.