Populus Euphratica

My high school life hasn’t been spectacular, but it’s been quite "dramatic."  

One afternoon in my final year, a friend came to me, wanting to hear the rest of my "female lead" high school story. I laughed—I’m not a so-called female lead, at best an ordinary actor pushed to the center stage completely unprepared. I told the story with a smile, and she listened with relish, urging me to continue. My three years of high school have been like a play with a disjointed plot, where unexpected twists frequently disrupt the originally calm routine. I suppose everyone’s youth has a bit of this drama, but mine just had a larger audience.  

When I first entered school, I was completely unguarded against the world. Once, I reposted the classic line from The Shawshank Redemption on social media: "One day, you will smile and say something that has hurt you. Looking back, the boat has passed through thousands of mountains, I used to think of the mud that couldn't be walked out One day the wind will be light and the clouds will be light. " At the time, I just found the words powerful, never expecting that two years later, they would echo back, illuminating my own situation with stark clarity.  

At first, I didn’t pay much attention to the rumors about me. But by my second year, the voices had piled up like snowflakes, finally exceeding what I could bear. That was also the first time my parents known that I had been living under others’ gossip at school, and the first time I broke down crying because of it—I realized I wasn’t as strong as I thought.

I do care.  

Of course, I could pretend not to care. In fact, I did endure many times, but the negative evaluations, the nicknames laden with mockery, the open booing—they didn’t disappear. Instead, they became fine, invisible thorns embedded in my heart. They resurface in my dreams, strike suddenly as I walk down the school hallway, make me feel on edge while eating in the cafeteria. I still can’t forget that time I had to pass through the main teaching building for a special reason—I wore a mask and hat, clinging to my friend’s arm, bent over and scurrying through like it was a haunted house. That feeling of being watched, discussed, and defined is like a low-frequency noise, constantly disrupt my life.  

No matter how hard I tried, I seemed permanently fixed in the image they had assigned me. People believe what they want to believe, and the loudest voices often hold the power to define.  

How I wish those who don’t truly know me would stop viewing me through the lens of old, outdated stories. I’ve been constantly trying to prove my worth, but what’s even more exhausting is that I feel the need to "prove" myself, to crave understanding—this forced process of self-justification is tiring in itself.  

I must thank my parents and the friends who always stood by me; they are my most important source of strength in facing all this. I’m also grateful to the teachers who handled things fairly, though I know that even if issues are superficially resolved, the gossip won’t truly stop.  

Those who like me say I shine like a star, holding me in their palms and praising me unreservedly. Others, however, without even knowing me, describe me as utterly worthless, criticizing me without mercy. They haven’t encountered the real me, seen my struggles in the dark, or witnessed those vulnerable moments unknown to others. Nothing is as simple as it seems.  

Am I still on the path I once dreamed of? The "audience" won’t understand unless they truly stand in my shoes. They’ll never grasp the knots I can’t untie, because they only want to see the surface they choose to see. Believing in me is hard, but judging me is easy.  

If I am bound, if I fall, if I am truly wrong, if I am broken—why has no one been willing to tell me directly? Do I really not deserve a chance to be heard?  

At sixteen, I stood in the spotlight, dreams of the stage in my heart, yet I’ve never been able to move past that frightening night. I am willing to take responsibility for everything I’ve done, but some people, posing as saints, judge me based on fragments. I came with goodwill, but in the end, I’ve only learned to let go.  

"Haven’t these experiences made you stronger?" Yes, I have become stronger. But back then, I was just a child. What a child needs isn’t strength, but safety.  

I’m growing increasingly weary of this numb state. Now, I just want to shut out the irrelevant noise and focus on experiencing the real world. I feel like a shell wrapped in "well-meaning lies," but thankfully, the truth always surfaces eventually. I’ve always believed that.  

I know where I wanted to go, what I wanted, and I remember those nights I worked hard for every small improvement. I’m even clearer that my greatest wish is to make my mother proud and become her support, and become someone who hugs the wounded self of my childhood, telling her how ambitious and successful I am right now. When the outside noise gets too loud, I calm myself down. Now, I just want to live authentically, even if authenticity isn’t always pretty.  

Perhaps it’s time to go all in. Diving fully into what I truly love is like shedding heavy, wet clothes in the rain, or igniting a sober heart in the flames. There’s nothing wrong with freedom and honesty, and I’ve stopped concerning over others’ opinions of me. Whatever. I’m tired of living in someone else’s script.  

Writing this feels more like organizing and comforting my thoughts—finding an outlet for the child who wanted to clarify but never found the chance repeatedly.

It’s hard, but I’m happy to see my mindset slowly improving. I can’t sink; those who always look down at the ground can’t fly. In the picture of my life drawn so far, even the pages that were torn out, I will clean them up myself, then smile at myself. I want to face the "me" I once disliked and tell her: Everything will slowly get better.  

The important turning points in my nearly eighteen years of life always seem connected to "rain". They begin in the rain and end in the rain. How much longer will this rain fall in my life? Hasn’t the prolonged dampness been enough? The rain doesn’t answer, and neither does youth. To this day, I’m still not accustomed to the feeling of being drenched by rain. My soul yearns for the north—for lives that stubbornly grow in arid conditions, like the Populus euphratica; for existences as crisp and unhesitating as gravel.