Monday, September 23, 20XX

Ahhhhh, the first day of fall. As the excitement of the beginning of the school year settles, a mellow tone rises to replace as the march across the academic marsh begins. The temperature is cooling, the leaves on the trees are transforming into aged but bright and beautiful arrays of red and yellow, and the sun begins its hibernation ritual. New friends greet and support eachother in battle against great foes such as SLEEP-INDUCING POWERPOINT LECTURE NOTE-TAKING (w/lights off) and PRACTICE PROBLEM PACKET BUSY WORK (odd problems only). It's the perfect mood to ease into, to relax and drink tea amidst the gentle breeze and dying light.

So tell me, why, why am I breaking my back rolling on some musty mat downtown?

It all began with the afternoon of '20. A historic moment. A confrontation of war.

I remember it like it was yesterday...

It wasn't yesterday. It was September 20, when Leandro challenged Mark to a battle, and somehow I was roped in. I've been thinking back to this moment, because if it weren't for this, I could be chilling in the club room reclining, legs up, head down, chest out, knees in—all that good stuff. But nah. Here I am going at it round for round with Mark Rodgers.

I am committed, but still a little disheartened. After yesterday's chill session with the cat (Rocky-kun) and Nozaki-kun (Nozaki-kun), I've been having small doubts about whether this is really a good idea. I'm down for the challenge, don't get me wrong, and I'm already knees deep in the waters of trouble so I'm going all in. But, after relaxing hard, to be thrown right back into this is quite jarring. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to take it so easy.

This morning, we received the excuse letters from Mr. Kafka, so we're safe to dodge club for the week (it would've been just Mark and me anyway). Instead, we're hitting the dojo and GETTING AT IT BOYS, as I like to call it. We're continuing the rigorous regimen.

A continuation of Sunday. No problems so far. We're progressing smoothly, working hard and making gains. I for sure still doubt this will be enough to prepare me, of course, but Mark doesn't seem vexed, and we did bust our brains off last weekend coming up with a good strat. I'm just going to carry on and trust in him. He's the expert, after all. I have no better option but trust the guy who got me into this and the plan that'll hopefully get me out.

When was the last time I worked this hard? All of this training brings back troubling memories of my formative (high school) years. Those first two years were my diligence years. Jokes aside, all this hustle talk was my lifestyle—my way.

It was a very calculated path. I planned each chartered course, each careful step along the by-way. And more, much more than this, I did it my way. Nobody pushed me onto this. I came to it of my own accord, I'd like to say. I reached the pinnacle of all I wanted, against tremendous odds, and still—still, I felt empty. All of that planning, all of that work, all of that struggling across social ladders, academic cliffs, and physical limits and what is left is someone acknowledged by everyone except himself.

I remember a certain moment. I remember it like it was two years.

It was two years ago, and there was a super hot exclusive party coming up. I've been waiting weeks for it, doing my best to pop off at that crazy school, and I finally got a highly sought after invitation. I was ecstatic. It was easily the biggest party of the season and I HAD to go to it and make my presence known. There was no question about it.

Especially because people doubted me. How about THAT Brad, Chad, Plaid, Dad, Mad(sen)! I did it! And I was going to follow through and show them up!

Dad, how could you. That thought haunts me to this day.

Anyway, it was all cool stuff. Better yet, in the days leading up to it, Mrs. Larson announced this huge extra-credit assignment that had the potential to turn my grade over. I had a borderline A in her class, and with the end of the quarter near, and no big test grades left for her class, this was the perfect opportunity to cinch my grade and preserve my spot in the top five. This was a no brainer.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

I had my plan set. I was going to work hard on it the days prior and submit it online before going to the party. Simple enough.

Except it wasn't that simple. I had everything set. Friday morning it was looking clean. All objectives completed, all problems eliminated. I worked so hard on that I prestiged.

Then I lost it all. Due to some sleep-deprived mishap, I idiotically lost the files. I don't remember exactly what happened—I was too hung over, after all (from that HUSTLE JUICE BABY). I remember feeling very frustrated and vaguely confused.

I had to start from scratch. Not only that, whatever I ate that day gave me terrible stomach cramps, and after a heavy dose of pre-calculus tests and multiple biology "fun labs" (like the candy... it's not mini it's fun-sized), I accrued a massive headache. I tried going to the nurse, but all she did was shine obnoxiously bright lights into my eyes and hand me peppermints. I sucked on those suckers with heavy discontent.

How can I get out of this? This is an impossible situation... But the me of back then did not once doubt himself. For him, pushing through, working hard, and achieving his goals was the only option. It was a no brainer.

I did the impossible. That evening was one of the toughest in my life. I couldn't scrap together a project before the party started, so, with two Tylenol capsules and a container of Tums (both did not help much), I pushed myself through the evening, stealing breaks to secretly work on my project through a laptop I brought in my backpack. I made the backpack a part of my fit, so it was inconspicuous. I played the dangerous and infuriatingly difficult game of making appearances, socializing with everyone, working on my project, and battling my body. There were many moments where I hid in the bathroom fighting my stomach, staring at the mirror wondering if I was going to make it. There were many moments when I made the excuse that I left something in my friend's car, only to hide and work on my project in 10-15 minute increments, before popping back out and playing the clutz. There were many moments when I'd be talking to a friend, and mid-sentence my vision would be hazy, as if someone had slipped something hallucinogenic in the lemonade, and in the middle of the haziness I'd have to manage switching conversations between two to three people. There were many moments when I had to battle spiders in the host's converted basement. It was a long and straining night.

But after a grueling four hours, I was able to meet a lot of new people and make a good impression for myself AND submit a completed (though rough) project just seconds before the deadline. I was able to glide smoothly in and out AND not get bit by an arachnoid fiend. I was able to clutch it.

It was a terrible decision to force myself through that, but I did it nonetheless and I did it well. As well as I could have. And I would make many similar such decisions later on.

They say with the college experience you can have a social life, good grades, or sleep, but not all three at once. You have to pick and choose. I think for the ambitious high schooler, that is true too. I definitely fought that battle, and the crazy thing is I won. I was that unusual student who had all three, somehow. By sheer ingenuity but more importantly, drive and dedication I rose from zero to hero—my version of a hero. The problem is, that hero wasn't really as glamorous as I thought.

He's hollow.

I always had at least seven hours of sleep. Every weekend, I would hang out with friends, switching it up often but never leaving anyone out. Early mornings, I would study, and in the evenings, I would exercise if I didn't already have practice. I attended every big social event and through painstaking work, developed the largest and deepest social network among anyone that I knew. I placed in the top five of the class, was elected the male class representative my sophomore year, was a starter on the basketball team, etc. I was amazing, and I played it off like I had always been this way.

But I wasn't.

And I lost it all.

My decline wasn't anything extraordinary. You know how it is. An organization conspired to bring me down after finding out their secrets and rigged the system from the inside, framing school crime after school crime until I was stripped away of all my glory. Naturally, that would begin my ruthless vengeance plan to slaughter all of my enemies until I become THE HEAVENLY IMMORTAL. But nah. That didn't happen.

Something more cruel, something more genuine followed.

Journaling may really be therapy, but it is also really conflicting. Writing this out for the first time is allowing me to come face to face with memories of my past. I avoid thinking about these things, because while these may be the glory days, these glory days were also very misguided, in many ways. Thinking about this time makes me feel very troubled, but I suppose I need to do this.

Maybe not all at once, but gradually. A slow drip healing process. That sounds like the least painful option.

I worked really hard then, and I'm working pretty hard now. Maybe not as dramatic... or maybe something very close. Maybe getting beaten up is stirring my mind. Maybe... No actually, my aversion to hard work... Or something...

Ack. All this thinking is troubling. But it's also a sort of catharsis.

A-fall-from-a-bridge effect. I think my memories of this time ran through such and such a filter. Remembering it all now is deeply conflicting.

Let's put that to the side for now. Mark is right. Stay focused. I gotta get my head in the game. Can't be afraid to hit the outside J.

Back to work! Let's rock and roll.