“Five Years of struggle”

This text is the chronicle of a young man who traverses the battlefield of the spirit, repeatedly collapsing and rising again through cycles of destruction and renewal. Though his intellect once earned him distinction, it was this very sharpness of mind that led to the disintegration of his body and will, casting him into the margins of society.

He descends into a labyrinth of substances, solitude, and disillusionment—alcohol, medication, gambling—wandering through the subterranean corridors of the modern city and the psyche alike. Yet each time he nears the abyss, an unseen force intervenes: a teacher’s remark, a friend’s voice, the image of his family home engulfed in flames. These moments strike like lightning, illuminating the contours of reality.

His journey is not merely a deviation from academic life; it is the dismantling and reconstruction of the modern self. It is guerrilla warfare waged within the self, a campaign fought not for victory but for clarity. After five years of academic delay, he finally arrives at what he calls a “starting point.” But this is no defeat. It is a triumph of will—a reorganization of time and being.

The spring haze he once glimpsed through a train window was not a vision of the future, but a premonition of the eternal.

Chapter One: Beyond the Mock Exam

Back in high school, my name was published in a booklet for a mock exam.

Without question, I believed I was destined to attend a top university.

But around that time, my body stopped responding the way I wanted it to.

I couldn’t get out of bed in the morning. Going outside began to feel frightening.

Eventually, I was sent to a psychiatrist.
The intelligence test I took there showed an IQ of 175 (σ = 24).

The doctor was astonished. Hearing that, I felt a strange certainty:

“I really am special. I can go anywhere.”

But reality was different. The medication didn’t suit me, and my emotions spiraled out of control.

I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. The stabilizers made it hard to even do basic calculations.

After switching from science to humanities, I stopped attending school altogether.

Instead, I spent my days endlessly running simulations in Power Pro’s pennant mode, trying to calm my mind.

My grades steadily declined, but I somehow managed to slip into Waseda and Keio.

During this time, I read nothing but novels.

Literature gave language to the storm inside me—it felt like salvation.

That’s probably why I aimed for the Faculty of Letters, specifically Japanese literature.

Or maybe, as someone originally in the sciences, I just wasn’t interested in law or politics.

Looking back, not completing enrollment in the economics faculty—
or rather, not choosing Waseda over Keio—
was a critical mistake.

(Waseda University and Keio University stand as the twin pillars of Japan’s top private universities.
Japanese people have a strong inclination toward ranking things, and universities are no exception. Beneath the top-tier public institutions—namely, the University of Tokyo and Kyoto University—are Keio and Waseda. Below them are Sophia University (which may be more familiar to international students under its English name) and Tokyo University of Science. Further down the hierarchy are five private universities collectively known as “MARCH.”

Gaining admission to universities ranked MARCH or higher is extremely difficult.
Yet, on the internet, people love to boast about their academic credentials, and it’s not uncommon to encounter discourse suggesting that unless one has graduated from a MARCH-level university or above, they are not a “proper” person. Of course, from a global perspective, such distinctions are negligible, but for many Japanese, they carry significant weight.)

Chapter Two: Alcohol, Rumors, and French
Freshman year. I joined a French language class, only to be stunned by the intellectual level of the other students—many had entered through AO admissions, recommendations, or internal advancement.

※The AO entrance examination (Admissions Office entrance exam) is a system in which university admissions are determined through interviews and essays.
Originally introduced in Japan in the 1990s under the ideal of promoting student diversity—rather than admitting only “bookworms”—the system quickly fell prey to the Japanese obsession with cram schools and authority.

Predictably, specialized cram schools for AO exams were established, defeating the original purpose of the system.

Despite its intentions, the AO exam is generally considered easier than traditional entrance exams, and in Japanese, it is often mockingly referred to as “AHO demo OK” (meaning “Even an idiot is OK”), playing on the acronym AO and the word.

Another common system in Japanese private universities is internal admission, where universities own affiliated middle and high schools, and students from these schools can enter the university with relative ease. These students are often stereotyped as “rich fools.”
Such criticisms are partially accurate.

Some couldn’t even do basic division, yet they carried themselves confidently as university students.
I felt this wasn’t where I belonged.
The stress led me to start bringing whiskey in a barley tea bottle to class.
Lectures were held in large halls, and no one noticed—so I was constantly intoxicated.

Eventually, I began skipping lectures altogether, opting instead to “attend” the pachinko parlor near Hiyoshi Station.
My weekly allowance of 50,000 yen disappeared into pachinko machines.
As I sank deeper into medication and addiction, my body began to tremble from alcoholism, and rumors started to spread:
“He’s sick.”
And they were right—I was undeniably mentally ill.

My dependence on psychiatric medication worsened, and even waking up became a struggle.
I stopped going to school.

In the midst of all this, a student from the French literature department, [name redacted], called me out of concern:
“You haven’t been coming lately—are you okay?”
I still remember the kindness in her voice.

Even though I hadn’t attended a single class in the fall semester, she gave me a “C” in French.
All my other grades were “D.”

In the spring semester, I had earned straight A’s.
By fall, I had hit rock bottom.
What sustained me through that collapse was human kindness.

I remember thinking:
Someday, I want to be someone like her.

Chapter Three: A Second Shot at Todai(Tokyo University-best uni of japan) and Kim Il-sung
In an attempt to rebuild myself, I decided to retake the university entrance exams.
But I couldn’t think clearly—my mind was scattered, and I was constantly drinking.
I managed to score 85% on the standardized test, but the secondary exam was a disaster.

On the first day, I was drunk from the stress of the crowds.
On the second day, I was sober and more relaxed—yet strangely, my scores were better when I was intoxicated.
I genuinely thought, “If I had stayed drunk the whole time, I might have passed.”

At the exam site, there was a man dressed as Kim Il-sung.
I was stunned.
This guy is taking the Todai exam?
It made me wonder—What even is a human being?
A philosophical question I couldn’t shake.

After failing, I headed straight back to Hiyoshi.
As the train emerged from the underground section of the Meguro Line, spring haze spread across the window view.
My heart felt lighter.
Maybe I’ll be okay, I thought.

Chapter Four: Knocking on [Redacted]’s Door
When it was confirmed that I had to repeat the year, I was called in for a meeting.
The advisor was [name redacted].
He asked, “Why haven’t you been coming to class?”

I replied, “Because nothing feels interesting anymore.”

He responded, “Well, my field of [redacted] is interesting!”

That one sentence led me to switch from Japanese literature to [redacted].
I even changed my language focus to German.
Looking back, that instinct was absolutely right.

In my second year, the German class was full of students who had entered through the standard entrance exam.
We could actually communicate.
They were serious, and their thinking was quick.
For the first time, I felt like I was standing in a true academic space.

Because I had gained a lot of weight from constant drinking and isolation, I joined a recreational baseball club.
I had developed fatty liver, but slowly began to regain my health.

That year, my grades were good.
Especially in mathematics (analysis), where I consistently earned A’s—
it gave me confidence.
My mind, dulled by medication, was starting to come back.

Finally, I felt like I could rebuild my life from here.

But fate was quietly stirring.
That man in the Kim Il-sung costume—
I never imagined I’d see him again at university.

Chapter Five: Ashes, Chaos,

and the One I Met Again

In my third year, I found myself swept into a strange vortex.

By chance, I encountered him again—the man who had dressed as Kim Il-sung.

Despite his eccentric appearance, his words were laced with calculation and strategy.
He had an uncanny ability to slip into the cracks of people’s minds.
Before I knew it, I was somewhere I couldn’t quite understand.

The intense, turbulent years I spent there are still difficult to put into words.

Honestly, it felt like those years alone made up a decade of university life,
while everything else amounted to just two.

At the time, I was living in a certain district of Osaka—[name redacted].

There, every form of “deviation” swirled around me.

Women labeled as mentally unstable, people lost in religion,
young men staking their lives on politics and activism.

In the midst of that chaos, the boundary between my “normal” and “abnormal” self
began to blur.

A lot happened.

One day, my family home burned to the ground.
I saw it on the news—flames engulfing the house.

It felt like my blood reversed course in my veins.
It didn’t seem real.

But the image was all too real—charred beams,
blackened window frames—and the undeniable fact
that this was my house.

It felt like everything was falling apart.

And yet,
that very loss became the push I needed to move in a new direction.

Chapter Six: A Seventh-Year Student Aspiring to Teach
The fire took many things from me—but it also burned away my sense of indulgence.

My mental state suddenly cleared. It felt like a miracle.
I managed to return to school and began to face reality.

I knew that a typical job path was no longer realistic.
So I started considering a teaching license.
But the teacher training program was demanding.

My body ached from physical labor at part-time jobs, and before I knew it, I was relying on opioid painkillers.

Once again, I fell into dependency—and stopped attending classes.

During that time, [name redacted], the advisor for the education program, came to see me.
With a gentle voice, she said:

“You’re like Ri Chō. Don’t push yourself until you become a tiger. Let’s think it through together.”

Just like with [name redacted] before, I cried.

※Li Chō is a character from the short story The Moon Over the Mountain (Sangetsuki).
Set in the Tang Dynasty, the story tells of a man named Li Chō who, having failed in his ambition to become a poet, transforms into a tiger. He recounts his strange and tragic fate to his old friend Yuan Zhen. The tale is a transformation story based on the Qing Dynasty anecdote collection Tangren Shuohui, specifically the entry titled The Tale of the Man-Tiger, attributed to Li Jingliang.

In Japan, the story is widely known, as it is frequently included in school textbooks.

And once again, I thought: I want to be someone like her.

Somehow, I managed to take just the seminar with [name redacted], and was allowed to advance to the fourth year.

But whether I could graduate smoothly as an eighth-year student—
I had no confidence at all.

Chapter Seven: The Eighth-Year Student Who Argues
It was the year Japan entered the Reiwa era.

With a fresh mindset, I tried job hunting—
but quickly ran aground.

Why?

Because every week, people from [redacted] came to my apartment to recruit me,
and I ended up engaging in serious Zen-style debates with them.

The discussions became so intense that I stopped attending morning classes,
and before I knew it, I had failed my credits.

Losing those required credits meant giving up on job hunting.

But with an extra year now available,
I felt I could finally focus on completing the teacher training program.

The situation was objectively hopeless—
and yet, I felt as if I might be able to reclaim something.

Chapter Eight: Hearing the Sound of Bone — Ninth-Year Student
Just as I was about to begin my teaching practicum, I was hit by a car while crossing the street.

The bones in my face shattered.
For a while, the whiteness of the hospital ceiling was my entire world.

I couldn’t attend the teacher training orientation, and the practicum was postponed.
I would have to obtain my teaching license after graduation.

Lying in bed, I thought: What about becoming a civil servant?
I didn’t feel strongly about it, but I took the exam—and passed.

The phrase “neither good nor bad” had never felt so comforting.

I couldn’t bring myself to start my graduation thesis, even after the new year began.
But on January 4th, my mind suddenly cleared.
From that moment, I wrote furiously.

I barely made the submission deadline on January 7th.

After everything was finished, I set off alone on a trip around the Kansai region.
Several towns, familiar faces, time that had passed.

I walked quietly, as if saying goodbye to it all.

Final Chapter: A Passage Called Repetition
I repeated a year five times.

But it wasn’t as if nothing happened.

There were people who spoke to me when I was collapsed on the roadside.

There were professors who gave me credits out of compassion.
There were friends who believed in me unconditionally.

In society, repeating a year is seen as a “failure.”
But for me, it was a “reorganization of time.”

Through scholarship, solitude, destruction, and renewal,
I finally feel like I’ve reached the starting line.

The view I saw that day, through the spring haze—
it still remains within me.

"Cheerful people are wonderful.
Those who struggle are noble."

Editor's Note – From the Founder
I usually refrain from writing editor’s notes.
That’s because I want repeat-year students to write freely, without interference.
If I were to edit or comment unnecessarily, it would ruin their words.
(For the English translation, I’ve made some adjustments and added context for readers unfamiliar with the Japanese situation—please forgive me for that.)

So why am I writing a comment here?

Because he was one of the founding members of the All-Campus Repeater Support Association,
and while other members were finishing their essays, he never showed up to any activities.

He scoffed at my insistence that “even with help from ChatGPT, we should at least get something written.”

He finally opened up after reading the Law Faculty Repeater Memoir (link).
He said, “Finally, a repeater has appeared.”

And then: “Cheerful people are wonderful. Those who struggle are noble.”
That might be his motto.

I probably won’t meet him face-to-face—he strongly dislikes showing himself.
But we’ll likely continue this strange relationship through social media for decades to come.

A strange repeater, and a strange friendship.
Maybe one day, he’ll suddenly decide to meet in person.

I’m looking forward to whatever comes next.