Abuse At Homework

From the ages of 8- 14, I lived in a very volatile home. Coming home from school, I never knew if it was going to be a quiet day in my house or if the entire house would be engulfed in screaming. I dreaded the weekends, that meant that everyone was going to be home. Everyone home meant that things could easily go up to flames in just a millisecond. I tried my best to never be home, I would spend the days with my friends. I knew that when I got home there was a 90% chance of everyone fighting. One day in the summer of 2012, things got too heated, and my mom finally decided to move. We packed up everything in a few hours while my stepfather was at work. We moved into my best friend’s home for a few days until we found an apartment within the school district to move into.

As an individual who’s been drawing and painting since before she could even hold a pen – apparently, I used to spill my grandma’s tea and make shapes with it – art has always been my favorite pastime. It’s tranquil and relaxing, and mixing paints is the most satisfying experience. Thus, it’s no wonder that the activity that I’m most invested in is art.

Throughout my early teen years, I was exposed to different mediums of art and discovered that I could express myself through more channels than just paper. Although Barry found comfort in her 11 x 17 newsprint and some paint, I was able to focus my energy on making music and taking photographs. Without my art teachers, I wouldn’t have the expressive outlet I do today. My childhood was not filled with unhappiness as Lynda Barry’s was, but from both backgrounds, we found a warmth from the exposure of art that the educational system gave to us.

The more I observe, the more I understand who I am. I come from a small town in a very cold part of the world, where very few exciting events occur. This means, I have to work extra hard to become an artist. I remember having my neighbor say, “You aren’t an artist until I buy a painting from you,” and she did. I never wanted the money, but I did enjoy the satisfaction of knowing that what I create makes others happy. So many people in town encourage me and support me with my dreams, and all I do in return is help them back in return. When people need a little sunshine on gray, winter days, I am there to lend them my happiness. That is why I am able to succeed. When failure strikes his wrath upon me, I learn from the mistakes rather be held back –being optimistic allows me to grow much quicker than if I were to be

Although I had an older brother and sister, I felt alone a great deal of the time I was growing up. I never "acted out" my need for attention. I did not get bad grades in school. On the contrary, I was a quiet child who made the honor roll. I was always given my sisters hand-me-downs which I resented. My grandmother was very strict and often cold. There were never hugs or kisses and not once do I remember an I love you. My father still came to visit, but remarried when I was eight. His new wife was like something out of a horror novel. The mental torture that I endured was a million times worse than what Cinderella went through. My grandmother along with my brother and sister came up with a nickname for me. They called me dog and taunted me every time we passed the pet supplies in the grocery store. At the age of ten my beloved paternal grandmother Memo, the only light in my otherwise dark world, died in her sleep while I was in the next room. I sat and watched as the paramedics tried to revive her with no success. On the car ride back home, my stepmother screamed at my father to "shut me up and stop my crying," as if what I had just been through should not have affected me at all. She left my father a few years later. At fifteen I ran away from my grandmothers house and went to live with my dad. I was receiving survivors support which I never saw once I moved in with my father. Although I did not know it

I remember having to sit down with my mother and father at the age of six and they asked me “Where did he touch you?”. Do you know how hard that is? Do you know how hard it is to explain to your parents how you were sexually abused by a family member? I was so embarrassed and ashamed. I remember them telling me that it was not my fault but I could not help but believe that it was all my fault. Could I have stopped this? Surely I could have told somebody what was happening but why didn't I? I think I was scared. I did not know what my parents would think of me if I told them. I did not want anyone in my family finding out, and I knew if I told my parents, everybody would find out. Everybody did find out but nobody talked about it. It was just something that was known. When I was younger, I thought maybe nobody knew but as I grew up and wasn’t allowed alone with this family member, I just assumed everybody knew. I do not know whether I am mad or glad that this is not talked about within my family. I almost feel like the whole situation was swept under the rug because maybe my parents did not want to believe how serious the abuse actually was. I guess nobody will understand how bad it was besides me. It is still really hard to see this person and family get togethers. It makes me dread the holidays when we all get

As the only child, of my mother, I often faced the problem of not having someone to play with forcing more creativity. I often did various arts and crafts projects, but I found that I enjoyed drawing the most. With each drawing I become completely engrossed partially because it is a self-taught skill that requires focus, but also because I must be patient with myself as I work towards what I envision and learn new techniques. The Art of Drawing is a skill that I can continuously develop and perfect. The patience that my artwork teaches goes beyond the work itself. It demonstrates the importance of accepting my weaknesses and working towards bettering them. I am able to properly release the struggles I encounter and not be consumed because of my artwork. Creating my drawings is more than expression, but also self-discovery because I can be more honest with myself, embracing who I am and what I feel. However, from time to time I do encounter “artist block” and the exhibitions held at the museum of fine arts at Florida State University could provide inspiration much like my environment here at Spelman

It felt as if I was surrounded by freezing water while on the inside being burned alive. I let my grades drop I did not care, all that mattered was being an adult and supporting my sister. My teachers did not care, I was invisible. Easy to lose in the crowd.The kids in my grade avoided me because I was “ abnormal” because I did not speak. The people who were supposed to be my guardians did not have enough money to feed both my sister and me. So I did not eat except for what was left over from dinner. I became pale and skinny. I looked like sick all the time. The only time I ate good was every other weekend when I went to my great aunt and uncle's house. This was the very best that life was going to get from me. I believed I was going to end up like my mother a drug user, and have no life. A few years later, my sister and I moved in with my aunt and uncle. They took my sister and me and gave us a great home. We both started to do a lot better. I got healthy and not so sickly looking, I started to talk a lot more, and I got my grades up. Unfortunately, my little sister did not like the fact that she wasn't entitled to anything anymore, and moved back in with our old Guardians.

I keep going to school to get a education but my sister Rebecca stayed home to help my mom because she is the oldest of us all. The 7 of us are still alive. I have 3 brothers who are Brian, Andrew, and Alex and I am the fourth one Miguel. I have 3 sisters Kylie, Natalie, and Jaydyn. The bullying got worse but I don’t care. We had no school this weekend so I went to help my mom in doing stuff. One day a tractor came and destroyed our shack because it was on private property. Then, I rebuild it somewhere not far from school rather close to it like 3 blocks away. Finally, I started earning money and bought a

I have been recently diagnosed with depression, over the course of eight grade year, my life gradually got worse. From getting my phone taken away, to attempting suicide, and planning on running, to drug use, abusing prescription drugs, day drinking, getting into fights with peers, prostitution. Anything that could distract me from my pain. I would do anything to escape reality. I started getting bullied towards the middle of my eighth-grade year, that was also around the time I began cutting and doing drugs. After that I planned on running away with one of my friends, then my dad found out, about everything. He gave my phone to the police and had me institutionalized, I stayed in the

In my life I have failed at many things, but I have always been able to recover. When I was in the sixth grade I had convinced myself that I was the most accomplished artist in my entire school; I thought I could challenge an eighth grader in the school’s bi-annual art competition

Art has been my passion since childhood. Spending three years within the teaching environment was where I thought I belonged. Before receiving my Bachelor of Fine Art in painting from Metropolitan State University of Denver a personal experience that connects to my reservation and adoption into the Clinical Mental Health program was one of tragic loss. On January 9, 2002, my son’s life abruptly ended and during the grieving process I started expressing myself through painting. In searching for serenity, individual counseling became enhance. Finding a therapist with a background in marriage and family/art therapy became a visual depiction, a self-portrait symbolizing my external realities and internal emotions immediately following his suicide. Driven to face an extremely irritating and stressful paradox to the best of my ability while trying to keep the constitutional need to endure my life as fully as possible.

When I was in 7th and 8th grade, I was verbally and emotionally abused by a school staff member. It all began because I started having panic attacks in 7th grade so I was sent to the school counselor. Without my parent’s permission she began to see me weekly. I was already being abused verbally at home and neglected emotionally so I was vulnerable and looking for help. Those junior high (now called middle school) years are when a kid’s self identity and self esteem really develops and being abused in the ways I was really messed me up.

I understand your situation is very serious and I just need you to stay calm and take my advice. I think you need to approach a trusted adult at school and describe in detail your situation, just as you did here. Tell the adult everything you have experienced over the past years. Also, make sure the adult does not let you go back to your house one more day and does not talk with your mother until you're in safety. Nobody wants you to be hurt one more day. If the adult you approach does not do anything of the things I mentioned above try another trusted adult until they listen to you. You are too young to handle this situation all by yourself, don't be afraid to push for help until you get it.

Coming from an art background, I felt most comfortable expressing myself through sketch. Therefore, I chose to convey my internal struggles through a drawing of a ballerina who is surrounded by my inner thoughts. The