Struggling in silence

At 2:17 AM, the only light in Alex's room came from his computer screen, casting a dim blue glow. In front of him, the math problems were blurring his eyes. He had been staring at the same question for four hours. He kept on unconsciously sucking his fingers into his palms, leaving deep marks.

"Just solving one more question…" His voice sounded hoarse, almost unrecognisable. The scattered scraps of paper on his desk resembled his fragmented thoughts, each scrambled corrections silently revealing his inner struggles.

Since entering Form 5, the word "perfect" has become very stressful for Alex. His father insisted that he "must get into medical school" felt like a tightening noose to him, growing tighter with each exam. He began waking in panic in the middle of the night, his heart racing as if it might burst from his chest, yet he dared not tell anyone.

The tension at the breakfast table always makes him feel like a courtroom. His father flipped through the newspaper and asked him, "Has the mock exam ranking come out?" Alex kept stirring his cereal, watching the milk turn into a murky gray. "Not yet…" The words could barely be heard. His mother glanced at him with concern but said nothing.

In PE lesson, a panic attack struck him abruptly. Alex hid himself in a washroom stall, trembling. "What's wrong with Alex? He looks terrible just now." Hearing his classmates joking at him outside the washroom had triggered his panic even more, yet he could do nothing but only bite his hand, so hard that he could feel the bleeding in his mouth.

After school, he paused in front of the community center's bulletin board. A light blue flyer fluttered in the wind: "Mental Health Support Group — Wednesdays at 7 PM, let’s embrace imperfection."

On his first night attending the support group, Alex hesitated before entering the room. As he finally pushed the door open, he was surrounded by warm yellow light and the aroma of coffee. When he heard a girl with glasses say, "For three weeks, I was too afraid to go to school," Alex was surprised to find himself silently crying.

In his turn, a gentle moderator asked softly, "Would you like to share with us?" Alex opened his mouth but couldn't find his voice; cold sweat soaked his shirt.

That question touched his soft spot in his heart. Sobbing, he started to speak out, "I feel like everything in my life has to be perfect," at that point, tears streamed down his face. The moderator offered him a tissue, eyes filled with warmth and understanding: "Thank you for willing to put this burden down." The group members gently applauded, showing support to him.

Three months later, on a Wednesday night, Alex noticed a new boy with his head down. After the sharing session, he took the initiative to sit next to him, and show him his notebook filled with struggles.

"Look, this is what I wrote at the beginning." The pages were filled with "I can't do it," "I can't bare anymore." "But later, here," he flipped to the back, "I started writing 'It's okay to make mistakes today,' 'It's fine to get a unsatisfying result in the math test.'"

The boy, eyes turning red, asked, "Does saying them out really help?"

Alex merely looked out at the trees, in which their leaves quietly sprouting new buds. "I used to think seeking help was a sign of weakness. But now I understand that admitting you need help is the real essence of courage." He pointed to the last page of the notebook, which read: "Today, I told Dad: 'I tried my best, but I might need tutoring.' Expectedly, he replied me: 'Your health is more important.'"

Alex spoke softly, "We're always taught to be independent and strong, but what truly healed me was realising that everyone carries on their wounds. The moment I spoke out my first secret, I started to realise that insisting to pursue 'perfection' is the heaviest  obstacle in the world."

The conference room was shattered by soft light. Alex watched as the boy slowly opened his notebook, writing his first line: "Today, I admit, I need help."