I’m barely legal, badly dressed and bottle-blonde. I’m from a small town just outside Boston and I’ve been medicated for depression since I was 15. Starting college, especially at a big state school, was never going to be easy. Psychologists have helped me list the ways not to deal with stress since high school: I must not slice razor-thin divots into the skin of my thighs, can’t skip meals until all I can hear is the rumbling of my stomach, shouldn’t cut my own hair over the bathroom sink and need to stop drinking vodka straight from the long-necked bottle.

I wasn’t much of a partier before I came here, to the University of Massachusetts—“The Zoo” as we know it. During high school, when I got drunk, I did it alone. When I kissed a boy, it was after months of flirting, hand-holding and walks down quiet suburban streets until he would lean in, nudge his nose against mine and press our mouths together. High school was Prozac and perfume, necking in the dark and hearing whispered “I love you”’s. High school was never saying it back.

In college, my life changed—and I did too. The first few days stripped me down like paint thinner on an old car, until I was raw, shiny and prettier than before. My roommate said the dark circles brought out my blue eyes.

Frat boys liked this change too— they liked the way my lips were red and swollen from being pulled between my own teeth, not a display of coquettishness but of anxiety— and I liked that they liked it.

Something about the hot, wet air of basements and the stink of too many sweaty bodies made my skin crawl, but parties were still my playing field. I’d dance, grind my hips back and take it as a compliment when hands wandered. Strangers satisfied me in a way that not many other things did; they didn’t know anything about me, didn’t want to and wouldn’t ask questions. If anyone asked for my number, I’d give them a fake. If someone noticed, I’d say I was too drunk to possibly keep ten digits straight. It was a new kind of endorphin rush, shocking and heady, to know that people saw me as something desirable.

Snapchats sent to friends at home drew the same response: “You’re wild!” But I didn’t feel wild. When I walked around campus with hickeys, dry-mouthed and sleep-mussed after a long night, I felt grounded, at home in my own body. My appetite came back. I slept through the night.

Here’s the thing: there’s nothing wrong with being promiscuous. Almost all of the people my age I’ve met feel the same way. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with using this unusual tactic to keep myself balanced, so long as the other party knows that there aren’t any strings attached. I’m not using or abusing anyone any more than the other party is using or abusing me. What’s the difference between me wanting to regulate my moods and a random boy wanting to have an orgasm and pass out?

Ellis Smith is a Collegian contributor.

Editor’s Note: A pseudonym is being used for fear of safety and potential retribution.