Tell us your Story - Wattpad Scholarship

Recipient 1: Headache Hamartia by izzysaphira

I SWUNG MY LEGS nervously as I sat on the patients' table in the frigid room, the smell of sterile premonition infiltrating my nostrils.

"Moderate to severe hydrocephalus in the third and fourth ventricles," the doctor's voice stressed each syllable, as if saying these words should somehow calm my nerves. He pointed to the MRI scan, the anatomy of my brain painted onto the dark sheets like a Rorschach inkblot test. I still found this technology fascinating and intriguing, even though it determined my fate, my own personal doom. This was the grand revelation that was supposed to explain the chronic intolerable headaches I'd been having every day for the past four months. It was my second semester of the tenth grade. The SAT root words I had to memorize for English class had actually come in handy, and I knew this "hydro + cephalus" condition was just a fancy term for extra fluid in my brain.

In the long months that passed, debilitating headaches hung like an angry cloud above me, rendering me incapable to glide through my schoolwork with ease as I had done for many years before. I could no longer dedicate a measly half hour of my time to studying, and then head to class the next morning and ace exams. The doctor handed me copies of excuse letters to give to my teachers to allow late work and absences — I placed them underneath my twin-sized bed to party with the dust bunnies. At times, I heard their music, their calls, beckoning me to use them to my advantage, but I quickly muffled them by delving into the lives of others in the stories I read.

Several times, the austerity of the headaches threatened to wrap their tenacious fingers around me and drag me down with them, but I fought back — books, papers, a calculator and a pen in hand. An angry fist did not scare these chronic headaches away, but finding the derivative of long calculus problem seemed to send them running.

Whilst my fingers whirred against the keyboard, reinforcing the argument in which the theme of individualism found in Ayn Rand's "The Fountainhead" led to a greater society, the headaches grew restless, waiting for the second I was finished so that they could pester me once more.

In preparation for an anatomy exam, I clicked from YouTube video to video, watching animations of action potentials in a neuron. Sodium and potassium channels opened and closed down the length of the axon, in a mere nanosecond. "This can only happen because of the slight negativity in the interior of the cell," I repeated to myself, nodding, fascinated by the specificity of life, and how everything danced together in perfect, harmonious synchrony.

As I closed my books, I pulled out my laptop to write the words that brought my characters to life, which had become a cathartic ritual during this period of nonstop headaches. Instilled in my characters was ferocity and determination to deal with their hamartias. Although flawed, these characters maintained grit, persistent on achieving greatness and righting their wrongs. They didn't wait for an opportunity to come knocking — they got up, built themselves an entire mansion with thousands of doors of opportunities, and proceeded to open each one to reach higher skies. They didn't check the other side for greener grasses — instead, they fertilized their own lands, planting each seed by hand, and proceeded to nurture the forest that they grew.

The glowing red of the alarm clock that sat atop my dresser read 3:21AM. The headaches had already fallen asleep, snoring quietly at the back of my mind. Once again, I had defeated the enemy, and had come out strong.

The remainder of my high school career was tainted by these headaches, but near graduation, they had been worn out. Much like I had learned in American History class, I suffocated the army of headaches like General Winfield Scott had suffocated the Confederacy by devising the Anaconda Plan. I had stripped the headaches of their weapons, and diminished their food supply, and came out victorious in the end.

Now, in college, I reminisce over the constant struggle I dealt with in high school, and my one woman army against the innumerable headaches. At first, it seemed impossible, like these very headaches were my tragic flaw, my hamartia, but refusing to give in to the enemy had shown me the value of struggle for success. In the next years at my university, I plan to be the commander of my own army once again, but this time, I'm not going to be on the defense. I will take on my classes with vigor and fierce, fire-hot determination. No academic in my path will be left unscathed — I want it all. I want use all of the resources provided to us students, and build and open my own doors of opportunity, just like the characters I created had done. I want to be encompassed by the fascinating field of human biology, so that in a few years I can continue achieving something I had become impassioned with due to this experience — medicine. As a once-frustrated patient with no answers as to why I'd lost an unhealthy amount of weight in a short period of time, alongside unexplained excruciating headaches, I intend to provide quality health care to individuals who are misunderstood and not treated seriously by other health care professionals. Because of my experience, I am not only able to sympathize with my patients, but I will also be capable of reaching a necessary level of empathy to provide them with proper care. To those who have abandoned hope, I plan to be the beacon of light that helps them navigate the terrifying storm waters of health problems. When all else seems to fail, I'll be the one running into a building set afire to take their hand and drag them out. I'll explain to them the sweetness of perseverance and courage when it comes to dealing with not only their struggle with health, but with every aspect of their life.

In a sense, these headaches had come as a blessing in disguise. During the lengthy seven month period in which I suffered with them daily, I had come to fully appreciate the meaning of struggle. It was as if there was no more light, and my head was under water, on the verge of calling it quits and letting my situation suffocate me. Instead, I kicked my legs, pushing myself upwards to keep myself from drowning, dragged myself across the angry river, and pulled myself up and out onto the bank, bruised and cut, coughing up the water in my lungs — but I was still alive.

Since then, I see every struggle like a being thrown into an angry river, each part of the struggle classified by its own stage. When I pull myself out of it, I'm exhausted, drained, scattered with metaphorical bruises and cuts that are sure to scar, but in that moment, all of that seems miniscule. Unimportant. Trivial.

An overwhelming sense of pride floods my vessels like adrenaline, bathing every single cell in my body, and the beat of my heart and the pulse of my blood seem to sing together in victory. The birds outside seem to match the rhythm of my singing heartbeat, and the sun shines just a little brighter. Because when the struggle is harder, the victory is just a bit sweeter. ✦

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This story is originally published here: https://www.wattpad.com/story/45535638-headache-hamartia-scholarship2015