Before one is to proclaim that, well, the silver medalist is indeed a winner, one must pause…ponder. One must walk upon a metaphorical red carpet, wait behind the bronze medalist to climb that metaphorical podium, and waste away as every member of this accursed metaphorical arena announces you the first loser.
I am not an athlete, nor am I ever inclined to be one. My physical prowess is limited to running after buses and away from the rain; however, I can proudly admit that I have been a silver medalist on many occasions in my life. As a matter of fact, so has every person I have ever met. In truth, we have all carried that mantle. So allow me to paint you a picture.
You are ten when you are diagnosed: gifted. That’s what they call you, that’s what they are going to continuously whisper behind your back before you inevitably plummet, an Icarus who burned out too close to the overachieving sun. But I digress, you are gifted, and whether it is true or whether you are simply a hardworking person, you will suddenly have to prove your worth every single time you walk into a room. You will be put in a class with other gifted children, and you will realise that you are a fraud; you are simply a winner among winners now. It is imperative that you stop here, that you don’t find something else to make you more gifted, that you don’t pick an instrument, a pen, a paintbrush…It is most important that you don't pick yourself. There is not much room for improvement within a mirror.
Alas, I know you have not heeded my warnings; we are both here after all. I assume you have picked your poison. Well, let us begin.
To grow up that beautiful?
With your hair falling into place like dominoes
My mind turns your life into folklore”- Taylor Swift, Gold Rush
Let us create a character, and let us not grant him a name; we will allow him the dignity of a nickname, let him be not-Narcissus. If Narcissus drowned in a reflection of himself, our not-Narcissus wastes away next to his own. Not-Narcissus is often found sitting next to his pond. He pokes at his distorted reflection. He tilts his head, checking his angles. He laughs: too gummy. He closes his mouth: too insincere. He attempts at a smile: does his nose look odd? He pokes the pond again. Perhaps this time it will offer him the fairest of them all. It does not.
Our not-narcissus, vain and vapid, stalks his pond. He grazes the water lilies, should they wither upon his touch, then he will accept that he truly is as rotten on the inside as the outside. They do not. He moves to the frogs, and he gently palms one, a tiny green thing. He pats its head, but it does not die.
He glances at the heron. Tomorrow, he shall approach it. This day, he shall content himself with his own wilting image. Perhaps it’ll look better today, but it does not. It is merely the same.The heron is waiting the next day. Not-narcissus grants it a bow, and the bird allows him a moment before it flies once again. He shall visit it the next day.
The heron is still there, and so is our not-narcissus. Today, it acknowledges him, allows him a full touch before it flees. Is it finally the day? He decides to put on his gloriest chiton. He ties the leather straps of his sandals around his shins. Are they too wide? He adjusts the wreath upon his head and approaches the nymphs lingering by his pond. They all scatter. He is once again left alone, upon his pond and his miserable sight. He does not marvel at the lilies. He does not cradle the frogs. And when the heron visits him the next day, he does not bow. It does not come again.
A tear makes its way down his cheek, lands on the water, and he catches a glimpse of a blemish on his face that had not been there earlier. Maybe a dab of concealer… Should he lose weight? Or gain some?
“So I told them the truth: the hours are terrible, the pay is terrible, the conditions are terrible; you’re underappreciated, unsupported, disrespected and frequently physically endangered. But there’s no better job in the world.”
― Adam Kay, This is Going to Hurt: Secret Diaries of a Junior Doctor
God forbid you woke one day and decided that feeling inadequate is what you desire to feel for the rest of your life, so you applied for medical school. Granted, it's a classic ‘gifted kid burned out’ move. The pull of healthcare is a strong one. The prestige doesn’t hurt– the patient may. Either way, the back of the semiology amphitheatre is where gifted minds go to perish.
Medical school is where everyone shines in their silver undertones. Not one person is satisfied; we are all experts in self-flagellation. We are all seated behind our laptops, wondering when the next strike of genius might land. Those died with your baccalaureate degree. Don’t wait up, you might miss on the five hundred people who are better than you, and for our not-Narcissuses out there, much better looking.
You must stand until your knees scream, until you sway. You must be careful not to faint. If you are too comfortable and rested, you are useless. If you study too hard, you are rigid. You are meant to be good, agreeable and studious. You must find a twenty-fifth hour in your day, an eight day in your week. You most certainly are not allowed to yawn. You should have rested, between one shift and the other. Do not forget to catch up on your studies, otherwise you’ll fail, otherwise you’ll fail your patient.
The only way to survive medical studies is to compartmentalise. The only way to compartmentalise is to distance yourself, but not too much, otherwise you’ll drown downstream. You won't catch up. One must drown in the headwaters with the rest of your betters.
We all carry the misery begotten upon us by the flailing healthcare system.
No literature, no arts. We are bred, we are rounded, and every day we walk a dark tunnel with no light on the other side. The lamps have long gone out. No one bothered to fix them, but we will call someone, don’t worry. If you feel uninspired, you must find the wrong within you and right it. The system has been up for 40 years, it is only your weak character that fails to bring you to heel.
“From a scale of Hitler bombing his way through Europe to Monet slashing his paintings with a knife, how bad are you at taking criticism?” -someone, somewhere
I never dabbled in drawing. I doodle on occasion, but I know I have no talent for it. I am familiar with the art of the quill, not proficient. I am told I might be good. I do not believe it, but I digress. The lady doth protest too much.
It is not my flogging that we are here to witness, it is yours. Thus, we shall proceed, and if I am grazed by friendly fire, I do not see it.
I have not known a writer not to be humble. Perhaps our humility is our fatal flaw. Perhaps the religious fanatics are right. Perhaps we are cursed for attempting to create when only God ought to.
Greed cripples the author, who sits a book in their lap, and halfway through reading it, wonders if they would ever be good enough. The author who tends a graveyard, who waters a dream without its seed. They write book reviews with loose enough tongues. They complain that one is not a writer if all they do is follow a checklist, or if they leave a book unfinished. They hide beneath caustic commentary that they direct towards themselves before any other. At the end of the day, they pause before the unfilled spot in their library, one that could be theirs, but they still do not write.
The author climbs the podium, stands on the left side, and stares at the higher pedestal while their own flag is being raised, as their anthem is being sung. They do not consider that they are up there at all. But they are. Through the gold biting on their medal, and the bronze bathed in their champagne, they stand. They have won. If one can’t bear to look upwards, one might bother to look downwards. If not, one might look around to watch those desirous of their spot.
As I write this, I strive to do better. I write not for the sake of writing; I do it because I feel shamed by my lack of doing. I look at others' work, and I realize I have messed up my lines and scribbled further down, so I decide to turn my gaze to my own page. Forever insatiable, I still turn it in. I'm both the silver and the gold medalist.
Lamyae Laaroui
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