If I were to divide my life into distinct stages, the line would be stark: before age 14 and after. The influence of the latter continues to shape my existence today, as I still struggle to break free from this long-standing predicament—the "Chronic Illness" referenced in the title.
Life before 14 was relatively lighthearted. My free time revolved around the Baidu Insect Bar, the now-defunct Insect-fans.com, and the diverse insect life in the local square (the one shown in the background). Back then, I was far more interested in playing than in my education. While I maintained good grades in elementary school due to the simple curriculum, my middle school rankings usually plateaued between 100th and 200th.
The turning point occurred in the winter of 2015, during my second year of middle school. Even now, I cannot pinpoint the exact motivation behind my sudden urge to study. Perhaps it was a period of heightened sensitivity, a moment of clarity, or simply a primal desire to stop drifting aimlessly. For the first time, I applied myself during the lead-up to final exams and unexpectedly broke into the top 60 school-wide.
This success was a massive catalyst. During the spring semester of 2016, I truly immersed myself in my studies. It was then that I finally cracked the code for learning English—a subject that had always eluded me. Recalling that epiphany of "utility"—the realization that a subject is actually useful—remains a beautiful memory, though it is a feeling I have rarely encountered since. By that summer's finals, I had reached the top 40.
When something provides such intense positive reinforcement, it becomes almost intoxicating. I had never loved learning as much as I did in early 2016. But just as I reached this peak, the tide began to turn. If "prosperity inevitably leads to decline" is a universal law, then this particular golden era was tragically short-lived...
For a long time, middle schools and teachers in mainland China have been obsessed with a form of academic asceticism—a phenomenon best exemplified by the infamous "Hengshui Model." A quick search on the Chinese internet for exam-related slogans will yield a deluge of inflammatory quotes: "Gain one point, crush a thousand rivals," or "As long as you aren't dead from studying, study as if you were dying." Looking back, it is absurd how easily I embraced this rhetoric, lacking the maturity to see through it at the time.
By late 2016, during my third year of middle school, the success I had achieved earlier that year transformed into profound anxiety. I was ranked third in my class. Given the tense atmosphere among the top students and my own sensitive nature, I refused to allow my ranking to slip. For the first time, I began policing my every move to ensure I fit the "model student" archetype. I became obsessed with the most trivial details—whether I had taken a bathroom break between classes or whether I had meticulously transcribed every error into my notebook. Any minor failure to meet my daily quota would trigger a surge of self-directed anger, followed by a ritualistic recitation of those toxic slogans.
But human error is unavoidable, and one's "capacity for shame"—or emotional sensitivity—is a resource that suffers from rapid attrition. By the winter of 2016, I had spiraled into deep self-doubt. Most alarmingly, I realized I had become desensitized; those slogans no longer stirred the same "righteous anger" or motivation in me. Despite my self-imposed rigidity, I could never complete my daily tasks. My progress was agonizingly slow because I over-analyzed every single problem, and my planning was utterly inflexible.
Retrospectively, that rigid and mindless tactical grind was eerily similar to the "Grey Cattle" of the Russian Imperial Army during World War I—a strategy characterized by sheer mass, lack of adaptability, and ultimate exhaustion.
(To be continued)