1. The Weight of Gold

I was Richa, the girl who wore success like a uniform. From nursery right up through Xth standard, I was the heartthrob of the school, the undisputed topper in every class. My name was synonymous with achievement. The teachers, especially, looked at me as more than just a student; they saw me as a promise. They had so much hope that I would be very successful in life, that I would one day help in improving the infrastructure of the school. I felt the weight of that expectation, and I carried it proudly.

My identity was built on this academic perfection. I wasn’t just good at studies; I was disciplined and intense. The book was everything for me. I would meticulously go through each and every line of every lesson, ensuring I understood it thoroughly, then writing it out perfectly in the exams. Scoring good marks and maintaining that top position wasn't just an aim; it was my entire self-definition.

My talents extended beyond textbooks, too. I was good at debate, painting, poetry writing, and craft. Yet, this high-flying academic life came with a trade-off: profound social isolation. I didn't have many friends. I was mostly silent in class, not because I disliked talking, but because I found it incredibly difficult to connect. Most of my peers weren't "my type," or perhaps, more accurately, I didn’t know how to stretch a conversation, how to navigate the complex, unwritten rules of teenage socializing. My self-worth was anchored exclusively in external validation, my scores and my awards. Because my validation was external, I was fundamentally unprepared for the internal emotional crises that were coming, making me dangerously vulnerable when my social world inevitably collapsed.

2. The Shifting Benches: A Lesson in Peer Betrayal

The initial crack in my carefully constructed world happened when I was around ten years old, in 5th class. Up until then, Monika and I had been inseparable, best friends since nursery. Everyone knew it. Then came the change in seat arrangement, a mundane decree based on height, which separated us. Monika was moved to sit with Puja, and what started as a seating arrangement quickly became the blueprint for my betrayal.

I watched the slow, agonising transformation of my closest bond. At first, the three of us formed a trio, but soon, that trio turned into a duo, leaving me entirely out. They would talk and laugh together, and I, sitting right on the bench behind them, became invisible. It hurt, a deep, visceral pain that only a 10-year-old’s heart can feel. I was no longer in their priority list, and the most painful moment was the cold, hard evidence: seeing my best friend write another girl’s name in the "letter from a friend" section on an exam paper. That simple action was a stark violation of trust.

Monika, who used to share every secret with me, now avoided me, talking and laughing happily with Puja, sharing secrets that felt so personal and secret, not willing to share with me. During game periods, if Nivedita was absent, I would be sitting on the veranda of the school ground, completely lonely, while Monika, Puja, and all the boys would have their

conversation and their shared laughter. The 10-year-old me tried desperately to be strong enough, but the tears were always there, invisible to everyone else, fueled by all the words she couldn’t say to her bestie. This prolonged peer isolation created a profound emotional void, an environment of unmet need that acted as a major catalyst for the subsequent chaotic years, setting me up to seek connection in any form, no matter how damaging.

This pain was amplified by my own past guilt. I recalled the year prior, in 4th grade, when height-wise arrangement had separated Monika from me, and I was seated with Shefhali. Shefhali was a cheerful girl, but she would narrate family troubles, her mother’s operation, complaints about her father and relatives. I found I wasn’t interested and would cruelly ignore her, driven by my childish resentment that I couldn’t sit with Monika. I was so blinded by my own loss that I failed to offer the friendship Shefhali needed. The guilt stayed with me until I reconnected with her years later in 10th grade. While she had forgiven me, the memory serves as a stark reminder: when I needed acceptance most, I had failed to give it to someone else.

The loneliness intensified when a new girl, Aparajita, arrived in 5th grade. She was like me, healthy and tall. Tired of the body shaming I received from family members and teachers who constantly told Monika and me to exercise, I actively asked the teacher for a height-wise arrangement so I could sit with Aparajita. I trusted Monika implicitly, believing that sitting with Puja wouldn't change our bond. I believed she would never betray me. But perhaps that action pushed her further away. Soon after, I teamed up with Aparajita for the science exhibition, instead of Monika. This slight, combined with Puja’s influence, may have solidified the duo. Aparajita soon left, but Monika and Puja became inseparable best friends until 10th grade, leaving me firmly on the outside.

3. The Battle for Merit: Institutional and Social Warfare

The social isolation was soon compounded by a crushing institutional betrayal, confirming to me that the world was unfair, and merit was often secondary to politics. Our school ran its own coaching classes (school tuition), and a clear division arose between "the team" (those attending tuition) and those, like me, who preferred home tutoring because I disliked the noisy, non-sense environment.

I was the class topper and the highest scorer in the whole school, having received the Best Student award five times. I deserved it three times more, as the criteria was based on both high scores and excellence in extracurriculars like painting, debate, and anchoring, all areas where I excelled, despite being weak in sports. Yet, the principal denied me those three awards. I truly believe she did it by conspiracy, simply wanting to promote the school coaching and suggesting that they taught so well that only their students could top. The principal even advised her favorite students, Monika, Sai, Anish, Nikhil, Devraj, and Jay, not to share notes or important question papers with those outside their circle. This institutional action eroded my faith in the system. If objective academic achievement could be denied due to politics, where could I possibly derive my self-worth?

This divide extended to morality. The tuition team, Sai, Nikhil, Anish, Puja, Monika, Akash. engaged in behavior that felt inherently cruel. They would make unnecessary noise in class, laugh hysterically during lectures, make comments about teachers, and bully new students. I remember Soroj, a boy who was poor in study and scored very little. They would ceaselessly torment him, putting paper in his shirt and marking his clothes with pens, laughing at his expense. They harassed him so much.

I could never do such things. I couldn’t make someone feel hurt or embarrassed for my own pleasure. Such behavior felt genuinely disturbing, almost psychopathic. It was clear that here we differed; our natures weren't the same. I was the exception, and I would scold them if it happened in front of me. This moral disconnect, where I consciously rejected their cruel social norms, deepened the separation.

The isolation culminated dramatically when I was 12, in 7th grade. After Puja joined the school tuition, their efforts to isolate me intensified. They had teamed up and would laugh, talk, and pointedly avoid me.

One day, we conducted a practical in the science lab on reflection, setting up mirrors and pins. I was the one arranging everything to show the infinite images. When I called others to look, Monika and Puja flatly denied seeing the result. I sensed it was jealousy, and the day after, they stopped talking to me completely. I tried to initiate conversation, but they ignored me, so I defensively withdrew, doing the same. For two months, we exchanged no words. 

My mother, sensing the pain, intervened and asked the class teacher to seat Monika and me together again. But even side-by-side, Monika would not talk to me, passing letters and secret whispers to Puja. I ignored it and minded my own business. 

Then, a boy named Sambeet informed the Principal about the ongoing silence. We were called into the office. Puja, the manipulator, spun an outright lie, claiming they weren’t talking to me because I was talking with boys. This was a calculated attempt to defame me. Puja was, in reality, the one who revolved around the boys, receiving jokes and attention, yet she shamelessly tried to label me. I was so shocked and speechless that I couldn't strongly argue against her words. I could only manage to say that they weren't talking because they denied my practical demonstration. Monika stood silent, a shadow agreeing with Puja’s narrative. I still don't understand Monika’s character; she seemed to lack her own opinion, agreeing and laughing only when Puja did. The experience in the Principal’s office, where my honesty left me vulnerable to calculated attacks, taught me that defending myself could lead to greater humiliation, contributing to the stage fear and social withdrawal that plagued me later.

4. The Screen: Seeking Love in 1G

The pain of peer rejection, institutional betrayal, and public shaming led to a profound, acute loneliness. I was a single child; at home, I had no one to share and talk to like a friend. I desperately longed for a friend with whom I could share everything, someone who would be there in every aspect of my life. I was searching for connection, and when the real world failed me, I sought escapism online.

I had carried a crush on a senior guy named Gautam since UKG, 11 long years. That summer, after my annual exams, I decided to find a way to talk to him. I opened a secret Facebook account using my faulty, old Spice phone, which barely supported 1G internet. You can imagine the speed; it was agonizingly slow. I got his number from Facebook and messaged him by recharging tiny ₹10 talk-time packs, which cut ₹10 for every ten messages. My determination was immense. I would run to my phone at every notification sound, feeling a next-level smile spread across my face. He reciprocated, sharing many things, and we developed a good bond.

But then my old phone died, the battery swollen. Even as my mother scolded me and my uncle warned it could burst, I held onto it, desperate to see his messages. Finally, I switched it on one last time, saved his number to a keypad phone, and then, in a moment of insecurity, messaged him from a different number, pretending to be a stranger boy. I asked if he had a girlfriend. His answer broke my heart: "Mikita."

He had told me before that Nikita was his favorite sister, and I was his second favorite sister. My tears flowed when I realized he had lied, using the term "sister" to mask his relationship while maintaining closeness with me. I was devastated. I am very possessive—what is mine, is mine. He wasn’t mine, yet the loss of the illusion was crushing.

My longing for connection was rooted in deep insecurity. Monika and I had been relentlessly body-shamed by family members and teachers, constantly advised to lose weight. This constant criticism had convinced me, "No boys gonna like me." I had become "too filmy," inspired by movies, longing for a romantic hero who would be my unconditional best friend. This low self-worth made me extremely vulnerable to attachment. I desperately sought validation, confusing any perceived acceptance with intrinsic worth.

A few days later, after I got my phone repaired, Gautam’s old text appeared: "What do you mean by love?" I didn't reply, choosing instead to talk casually as a friend. Shortly after, I received a friend request from Shiva, a boy from their class. Knowing that Monika had a connection with him, I decided to accept and talk to him. My main motive was toxic: I wanted intel on Gautam. Should I trust him? But soon, Shiva and I talked more and more, and Gautam faded into the background.

5. Obsession and the Toxic Relationship

Shiva quickly filled the void left by peer and institutional betrayal. He literally became my best friend from June to December. He teased me, we laughed a lot, and everything felt so good. In December, I proposed, and we became a couple.

However, the secrecy and the high-stakes emotional environment quickly led to disaster. Just three months later, in February, my mother found out I was talking to him late at night. I had seen Shiva at a fair with Mom, and he had called me afterward. I called him back, talking in a very low voice while Mom was making roti. She is an overprotective mother, and she easily figured it out, crying and creating drama, feeling I had broken her trust. This reaction was understandable given the Indian social context, where society is not yet modernized enough to openly accept a girl’s relationship with a boy.

I knew my limits; I was in love, but I wasn't blind. I would not compromise my family’s honor. Yet, her distress led me to break up with him. I blocked him, but the bond we had shared was intense, and I was consumed by longing. Ten days later, I messaged him again.

The relationship quickly spiraled into a toxic cycle of control and betrayal I had bought a new 4G phone, a Samsung On 5 Pro, ostensibly for studies. Mom found his Facebook message notifications on the lock screen, further fueling her fear that the Principal was intentionally running a conspiracy to divert my mind from studies and involve me in love matters, a theory based on the Principal's visible favoritism toward Gautam.

When I logged into Shiva’s Facebook account, I found messages of him talking to other girls romantically, exchanging "I love yous" and kissing emojis with many. I was heartbroken. I cried, I scolded him, but soon, I was back with him. I had become completely obsessed.

This obsession stemmed from a deep-seated fear of abandonment, amplified by the earlier body shaming. He was the first one who had told me he loved me and hadn't bothered about my weight. I desperately clung to him because I didn’t realize my self-worth; I thought he was the only boy who would ever accept me. The relationship provided intermittent validation—a few kind words, an edited video of our pictures, mixed with constant cruelty. This inconsistent behavior created a classic trauma bond, making me chase him harder whenever he pulled away.

The cost was astronomical. The girl who prided herself on self-respect was now begging and crying for a boy who continually accused her of cheating and forced her to block all her male friends on WhatsApp. I did everything he wished for. I went on a trip to ISRO, an incredible opportunity, but he chose to pick a fight with me beforehand. I, the foolish girl, spent the entire trip crying silently, texting him sorry hundreds of times, and neglecting the friends I was with, consumed entirely by the phone. The obsession robbed me of valuable experiences and consumed my ability to live in the present.

The relationship systematically targeted my strengths. Before every exam, the pre-test, the annual 9th-grade exams, he would pick a fight. Before the pre-test, I got 11 questions wrong, leading to scolding from my mother and teachers. I knew it was all because of the stress and distraction of the relationship. The girl who loved math and science since childhood became weak in math.

During my 10th board preparation, he quarreled again, claiming he liked another girl, Kajal. He even mentioned seeing Gautam and a junior girl sitting together with her mom, a simple family frame I desperately wished to be part of, if only as a brother and sister relationship. I cried so much I got a fever just four days before the board exam. Even so, I scored 91 percent, which was good. But I wasn't the district topper, or even in the top 20 scorers of Odisha, where I knew I could have been had I prioritized myself and not given a shit to others.

6. Rock Bottom: The Ghost of Richa Past

I enrolled in a prestigious college for a summer course and joined NEET coaching, determined to move on. Initially, I was attentive, managing the intense schedule (7 am to 5 pm college) and the 1000x jump in chapter intensity from 10th to 11th grade. But I wasn't serious enough. The past followed me, and soon, my curiosity got the best of me.

I guessed his Facebook password, logged in, and found him talking to yet another girl, proposing and starting a relationship with her. This final, absolute betrayal sent me spiraling. I begged him not to do this, but he was cruel, blocking me almost everywhere. My self-respect, already fractured, shattered completely. I messaged his brother's girlfriend, Padmini Didi, telling her how much I loved him, a humiliating act for a girl who once held self-respect as everything. I felt terrible, but in love, I had been taught that ego shouldn't exist—though it should be gone on both sides. If he had loved me truly, he wouldn't have done such things, yet I still begged him to stay.

Padmini Didi intervened, and he came back, but the damage was done. Those five days of relentless crying and emotional distress ruined my health and forced me to miss college exams and classes, creating a huge backlog in my studies. I would sit in class, nodding my head, pretending to solve problems and understand topics I couldn't grasp. Teachers didn't doubt me much; they remembered the old Richa who was initially good, who won third prize in the foundation course, who could recite all 118 elements of the periodic table, and who confidently solved problems on the whiteboard.

But that Richa was gone. I had lost interest in studies, staying up late to talk to him instead of writing notes. My career was being ruined by my obsession. This pattern continued: fighting, blocking, and me calling him repeatedly, sending hundreds of desperate sorry messages. This was exhausting, draining my energy and diverting me from my dream career. My mind was constantly anxious, desperate for his reply.

During the COVID lockdown, he blocked me for nearly two months. I finally started to move on, talking to one of his friends. He immediately came back and guilt-tripped me, saying he believed I would never leave him. When I pointed out he talked to other girls, his misogynistic reply was chilling: "Boys can do, but girls can't." And yet, I chose him again, trapping us both in a cycle of trust issues.

This pattern persisted right up to the NEET exam itself. Twice, for two consecutive years, he fought with me the day before the exam. I was crying, begging him not to ruin my future, texting him to talk, but he ignored me. I qualified NEET both times, but my score was never enough to secure a government medical college seat—the ultimate quantified cost of the obsession.

I was finding escapism in every possible way: watching web series, stand-up comedy, movie explanations, and roasting videos. My screen time soared to 10-11 hours a day, a world away from the girl who barely touched her phone. The debate champion now had stage fear. The girl who loved painting and writing hadn't touched her canvas, brush, or journal for years. My sleep cycle was reversed; I couldn't sleep until late, regretting the mistake of ever accepting that friend request.

I avoided all social gatherings. I couldn't face the teachers who believed I would be an inspiration to others. The shame of not meeting their expectations and the deep sense of failure made me retreat further. I was pretending to everyone that I was studying and working hard, but I couldn't lie to myself. I knew I was wasting time, sometimes playing study videos on split screen while using a dating app, desperately trying to replace the emotional security he offered. I was battling myself, trying to find my old version, trying to balance my emotions.

7. Rebirth: The Path of Expressive Writing and Healing

The journey of personal transformation often begins with a critical catalyst or realization that prompts an individual to embark on a journey of change.3 For me, the ultimate, undeniable turning point came when he forgot to wish me Happy Birthday. After all the chasing, all the tears, all the humiliation, he simply forgot. That moment provided the clarity I needed to sever the trauma bond permanently. I have maintained that distance for more than one and a half years now.

I had been so reliant on external validation, first scores, then friends, then him, that I had forgotten how to exist solely for myself. My healing journey began with spirituality and a practice of radical self-reliance. I realized that when facing such pain, you truly don’t need anyone else to hear you; you just need to be there for yourself.

I developed my own method of healing: expressive writing. When anything bothered me or a bad memory surfaced, I would write it down and burn it. This physical act of writing down all my feelings and then destroying the record helped tremendously. It felt like someone had heard me, and I felt much lighter afterward. This practice, often recommended in therapeutic settings for processing past traumatic experiences, helped me create meaning and understanding out of the stressful upheavals I had experienced.4 By externalizing the negative emotion and closing the chapter symbolically, I stopped the cycle of rumination and begging.

This self-directed healing allowed me to redirect the intense emotional energy I once spent texting and chasing him into productive energy. I systematically began to rebuild my life, piece by piece. I focused intently on my studies and myself. I worked to balance my sleepwake cycle and started going to the gym, symbolizing the reintegration of my physical wellbeing. I allowed myself to reconnect with my true loves: nature, painting, and writing poems.

The focus returned, and the results followed: I secured a seat in a government medical college for MBBS. This was the ultimate redemption, the tangible proof that prioritizing my goals over the noise had succeeded.

8. The Girl Who Knows Her Lines

Today, I am regaining myself. The 20-year-old Richa is cheerful, talkative, and studious, just like the topper I once was, but with an internal fortitude the young girl lacked. I spend my free time writing, painting, and enjoying nature, and I have healthy outings with my mother, having repaired the trust and relationship that was damaged during my obsession.

I look back at the journey and realize that while devouring difficult situations can be exhausting, they show you your true capability.6 The painful experiences, the betrayals, and the deep loneliness were harsh lessons that led to profound strength. They transformed me from someone who sought external approval into someone who found power in self acceptance.

I learned that the essence of a personal journey lies not only in the destination but in the transformative experiences encountered along the path. As the psychologist Carl Rogers noted, the only truly educated person is the one who has learned how to learn and change. If you are facing such a situation, please remember this: If you overcome such situations, you will become stronger. The tears and the battles are not failures; they are the foundations of your future resilience. Be there for yourself. Write your pain, release it, and then look forward. The girl who used to know every line in the book now knows every line of her own narrative, and for the first time, she is writing the ending she deserves.

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