On the surface, I was successful. I was surrounded by diverse, intellectual friends. I led a popular student website and was active in the arts and athletics. I loved learning and made Phi Beta Kappa my junior year. But my internal life was characterized by paralyzing anxiety and depression. I judged myself harshly, to the point of disgust.
I drove myself to excessive exercising and near-anorexia. I felt this way because of menβor so I thought. While there was a major gulf between my public self and my private one, the one thing that remained consistent were my politics.
I told myself that I was a feminist, despite subjecting myself to unfulfilling, emotionally damaging sexual experiences. And I believed it, too. I had a puppy-love relationship with my high school boyfriend, the kind you see in movies. Losing my virginity was a respectful and patient experience.
Almost immediately, I buried this dream deep within my new plastic dorm drawers. From dance floors to bedrooms, everyone was hooking upβmyself included.
The popular media most frequently characterizes hookup culture as a series of emotionless one-night stands. At Middlebury, such casual hookups definitely occur. Far more frequent, however, were pseudo-relationships, the mutant children of meaningless sex and loving partnerships. Two students consistently hook up with one anotherβand typically, only each otherβfor weeks, months, even years. Yet per unspoken social code, neither party is permitted emotional involvement, commitment, or vulnerability.
