Harshee's Lit Lounge

There is a deep sadness that etches within the depths of your chest, and all you want to do is claw your heart out. This agonizing grief that comes from mourning someone who’s still alive, especially when that person is you, hurts inexplicably.

I can’t help but find myself endlessly fixated on this former version of myself. She haunts my present, effortlessly gliding through my memory with a grace that I can no longer replicate. The girl who haunts me was bright, relentlessly passionate, and possessed an innate, quiet confidence that did not falter despite failure. Back then, effort yielded execution, and execution yielded excellence. Now, all I do is watch her from across the divide of a few exhausting years, filled with an incredibly complex cocktail of admiration and resentment. She is my ultimate idol and my most ruthless tormentor.

It is a weird position to be in. I honestly have no real right to complain, not when I lead a privileged life surrounded by warmth and approval. I am still capable of challenging my peers for the top grade, and I am successful most of the time. Yet, it is still not enough. On paper, everything remains intact. But privilege does not make one immune to the quiet decay of exhaustion.

The trouble began when “trying” stopped being a bridge and became an abyss.

Somewhere along the way, the drive that felt like a spark turned into a wildfire burning through all my reserves. My brain started to blow out, not with a bang, but with a slow, painful realisation that my absolute best was no longer enough to give me the results I wanted. And then there was the day it felt so much easier to give up on things I liked than to work hard. I do try. I still try with all my might, but I know I will never be able to reach my potential like her again. 

I’m obsessed with her – this past me who made living seem so easy. How did she manage to carry so much without dropping one plate? How had she woken without this heavy, suffocating anxiety pressing against her chest? I envy her warmth and her sharp mind and her unblemished potential. But beneath that envy is the bitter knowledge that it was me who took her. I ran her into the ground, building a standard that I can no longer maintain.

Now, whenever I go for achievement, I’m measuring myself against a ghost. And a ghost never tires; a ghost never falters. 

I am learning, painfully and slowly, that I cannot live in her shadow forever. I cannot keep punishing the tired person I am today for failing to be the flawless person I was yesterday. Perhaps the work forward isn’t about clawing my way back to who I used to be, but forgiving myself for outgrowing the ability to burn at both ends. But until that peace arrives, I remain trapped in this silent rivalry with the girl I used to be—forever trying, forever reaching, and learning how to live with being human instead of perfect.