When I was 17, my therapist told me how excited she was for me to go to college. It would be a clean slate—a new opportunity to make friends with similar interests and to get out of my comfort zone. Throughout my teenage years, the therapist’s office had become an all-too familiar environment to me: Sun-lit, with a view of the public library, quiet classical music, children’s toys, and gaudy, celebrity-clad magazines arranged in the waiting area. I was hesitantly optimistic—my high school years had been defined by my virtual invisibility in classes and seemingly perpetual identity as an outcast.
For me, like for many others, college was promised to be an opportunity. I soon realized my naivety during my first months at McGill. I told myself that I would become what I had perceived as ‘normal,’ make friends, join clubs, and go to events. What became of my determination was one-time attendance at clubs, excessive amounts of time spent in corners kept company by only a plateful of free food, and fleeting relationships that would soon disappear once the semester ended. The feeling of living with some 744 people in New Residence Hall did nothing to curb the void of loneliness I felt.