In August, when I moved into my new dorm room in lower Manhattan, I never imagined that by May, I would be counting down the days until I could move out again.

But here I am, with weeks left in my first year of college, wishing someone would have grabbed that breathless, eager August version of me by the shoulders and told her not to bother with the daydreams.

It would have been easier if I’d known back then what a disappointment this whole year would be.

That I would be leaving with no more friends than I had during Welcome Week.

That classes would either be the kinds of soul-sucking core requirements everyone claims die in high school or related to my interests, but so stressful they make me question my interests.

That a startling number of eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds never learned basic manners; everyone here brags about drinking and doing drugs; and we all pretend it’s healthy to cram as many majors, minors, and internships as possible into our schedules where sleep should go.

That I would spend most of my time alone, wanting to be anywhere else.

That if I wanted to take a hundred-year nap in high school, that was nothing compared to the existential exhaustion of college.

I am fed up. I want to go home. I don’t want to do this anymore.

Whatever college experience everyone else is having, with their Instagram crowd shots and elaborate weekend plans, my college experience is learning to cry discreetly in the library and wondering what the drunk strangers in my living room think of my cat-patterned pajamas when I tiptoe past their revelry to use the bathroom.

As a high-achieving high school student, I often complained about the restrictions and monotony of high school. And I was told by well-meaning adults that come college, I would finally be able to grow into myself and my intellectual interests. If I could only hold on for four years, my frustration would be replaced with fulfillment.

I wouldn’t be trapped anymore.

It seems a bit like a cruel joke now. I chased that carrot dangled on a stick, only to have it moved further out of my reach as soon as I got close.

And now I’m still trapped, just in a different cage.

I’ve thought of transferring, but my grievances are fundamental elements of college as an institution, and I’d find them anywhere.

I’ve thought of dropping out, but then what? I was an honor graduate in one of the best public school systems in the country, both of my parents have college degrees, and I knew college was my destiny before I finished kindergarten.

I have been tremendously privileged to have the kind of finances, family support, and educational resources many people much smarter and more qualified than myself never get.

How can I justify throwing all that away?

I can’t. No matter the emotional cost.

I wish I could reflect on my first year of college and see an upward trend of personal growth instead of a downward spiral. I wish I had a more positive, optimistic message to send about the college experience. I wish I’d had a more positive college experience.

Above all, I wish it was okay to talk about how miserable I am. Instead, I’ve gotten used to giving canned responses to strangers’ polite inquiries. It feels blasphemous to say something as simple as “It’s not what I expected,” much less “I constantly wish I could fast forward to the point in my life when I feel excited about living.”

I can’t be the only one, but it still gets harder and harder to respond to old friends’ cheerful updates about their post-high school lives with the truth about mine.

None of this is what I wanted. And I don't know what to do.