The Ghost I Carry

A story of new beginnings when the future is full of uncertainty.

I think that I have a ghost.

Or rather, a ghost is the only explanation for this thing. A shadowy figure in the doorway, a clank in the night, a feeling of eyes on you, all apt comparisons to this thing. The footsteps down the hallway, the ill-timed knock and the wind through narrow alleys. Always there, a reflection and a curse forming in the mirror.

I felt this thing today. I was driving, the summer rain hitting my car. The grey sky created grey roads and clear green grass. It was hard to differentiate the watery windows and the water pooling on my eyelids. The thing was there, like the rain and the summer.

I can't hear or see the thing. I know it and feel it.

Failure is hard. Anybody who has experienced it would agree. Everybody agrees it is important. Failure makes you successful. I would disagree. All great people fail. I do not think I'm very great. After all, failing twice just makes you an idiot. The thing agrees.

Studying is my job, or rather, being a student implies that it is. Attending university somewhat implies that you're okay at it, or rather that you have the necessary prerequisites. Failing a semester twice is quite an accomplishment, the thing would agree.

I wonder if my parents are proud of me. They probably are, but the thing disagrees.

I wonder if I'll be a failure even after I graduate. I probably will, at least the thing thinks so.

I wonder if this period of uncertainty will end.

I wonder if my heart can take another failure. If life is so full of failure, I'll probably die before thirty.

The thing is not kind. It tells me things: everyone thinks you are a failure; you are a disappointment; you will always look lesser than, smaller than. It used to be worse. The thing didn't have words when I was younger. It was a dreary cloud that no one could see, a shadow on days with the bluest sky. No award could make it move, no kind word or firm hug could bring the sun. The thing was there, but I couldn't understand what it was saying. As I've aged, its thoughts are clearer, appearing bright when I close my eyes. The words formed like mist on the rainy freeway.

It was so loud today.

I thought it had disappeared with my fragile youth. But it was loud, even when my favourite song was playing, I could feel the world disappear around it. Cruel and malicious, I could not utter a word of rebuttal. You can't do anything right. Why hope? The future will not change.

The tears flowed now; it was harder to see the road.

I wondered and wondered. So far away from the metal shell of my car, away into the spray of tyres and up into the grey of the sky. Tears, working with the blur of the road, I wondered if I'd survive the pain. The envy of watching your friends move on. The solitude of watching the years pass around you. The pride in watching others succeed, and the inevitable curse of not being able to follow. The uncertainty of what others think, do they see me? Or do they see only what I'd achieved? What am I, if not someone who excels? Can someone be more than their success, or am I imprisoned by it?

The more I fail, the more the thing weaves itself into my mind, into my life. A self-eating snake, a ghost, a memory, my future.

Why can't I do anything right?

What am I missing?

What more can I give?

I can't dig myself out.

"No. Stop it."

A voice, strong.

"You need to stop," the voice said. Firm like a mountain, pained. "You are upset, but this is too much." The voice now sounded like a woman crying, struggling to get words.

"You know it is not true."

The thing had stopped. The tears slowed for a moment.

"You may not feel happy, or even content, that is okay. Today, feel sad, cry and mope. Even maybe tomorrow, maybe a week from now. But you will remember again that there is more."

The words, like a hooting car from behind, broke the veil. As they penetrated my soul, the thing morphed. Rather than a spectre, it took a human form. A girl, small and cute, but with a ferocious glare. The thing thought, and their thoughts were hers. What more is there than success? Accolades and words of praise circled her head like thoughts, eyes clear and determined. What more do you need? The thing, the girl, stared.

I wondered and wondered at this small thing.

"Ah," the voice said. The rounding of the letters and the cadence of speech were as clear as rain hitting the window. The rumble of sound on my neck and echoing in the car.

"I don't know," I said. "But what I do know is memories, true memories. They are not like you."

A small sentence, an action and time like pillars. A friend said they admired me for trying. A friend laughed with me about our struggles, their dad hoping that my confidence had not wavered. My father said he was proud of me, despite knowing I'd failed a second time. My mother, who cooked food for me when the stress was too much. A brother, offering support, stilted.

I remember, for them. I remember for me.

I look at the girl again, the thing is silent. It sees what I see.

"I believe you, but I believe them too."

The thing looked at me. I walked closer. I remember you, I remember your loss, and your triumphs. You are so young, you learn too quickly. You could not answer my questions; you couldn't. You were so young, you took everything without preconceptions. The thing changes again, now blurred but older. They look me in the eye, hair pulled back. Their stare questioning and wavering.

The rain has stopped on the freeway. I've moved into a slower lane; the car in front keeps the pace.

"You knew, it isn't sustainable to be like this. These words, they are not helpful."

The thing disappears, not forever. The voice is equally present, a counterweight. It was never this loud. It never existed close to the surface. It spoke outside, in memory, in words and actions. The love of family, maybe not through sound but through actions. The time with friends, through late nights and early mornings. In lounges and bedrooms, in classrooms and on tables. The voice outside was never loud enough, but it was there. Like a mountain range, hidden behind the shadow. The thing barely cared; the voice was so small and weak. What could it do, fragile, small like an ant hill.

Then, in semester one, the rain came. Then the lighting and thunder. Struck twice, washed away and reformed. Growing with new sand and dirt, breaking, then growing with aid. Slow and steady, a failure is just a failure. It is not an ending; there is only one worth calling an ending. This was not it. Tectonic plates and good soil make for great fortitude; they move faster towards each other. The voice takes the battering; now it will shout into the sky. Even anthills grow when left undisturbed; the voice builds layer by layer towards the sky, hoping to become a mountain. Hoping to be a safe haven.

When the sun comes out, the mountain, once a mound walked upon, faces the sun and the dark, the haunting sits behind for at least the day.