Crooked Pinkies

So scared of what you think of me, I'm scared of even telling you. Sometimes I'm like the only person I feel safe to tell it to.

As a little girl, I would constantly walk on my toes. Because of this tendency, my parents enrolled me in a beginner ballet class at the age of three. I learned how to walk like a ballerina, the art of pointing my toes properly, and how to properly curtsy at the end of class. Throughout the months leading up to the recital, my classmate and I learned a piece to perform, and I practiced in class and at home for my parents and brother. On the day of the recital, I performed the dance perfectly in my green sparkly tutu and the smallest size ballet slippers. However, I was disgruntled with the other baby ballerinas for making mistakes on the stage.

Throughout my youth I would often disguise my shame by saying that I do not like watermelon or that it was nasty. Friends and family would often say that I was strange or that I needed my “black card” taken away. Secretly,

It didn’t even account for a second, my hand was already in the air before my brain could register it. I was without a doubt progressing into insanity.! I rarely ever talked for the reason that my nose was always stuck in a book. I had scarcely any friends, not on behalf of no one liking me instead it was thanks to the fact that I rarely ever talked to anyone, and I didn't care either. It was middle school and it seemed like you were necessitated to either hate the other person or be obsessed with them. I was not like that. I was an introvert, and quite proud of it too. I was so quiet that the teachers never noticed me, therefore they never called on me to answer a question. It wasn’t even mandatory for me to sit in the corner of the room, I would sit in the front row and still be glanced over.

One time last year one of my friends told me a secret, and didn't want me to spill to anyone. And another on of my friends later asked me about it and i told them. My first friend got really upset and it hurt her. In the novel The Giver by Lois Lowry there was a young boy named Jonas who, when turned 12, was chosen to be the new giver. He had to hold all the information from the past lifestyles, and wasn't able to tell anyone. If Jonas tells anyone about the past life he can be punished, also it may change the whole area to a different lifestyle, which could end very bad. All together I can say that sometimes telling the truth is not the right choice.

I am ashamed to have to check yes for this, but I was suspended for four days in the fourth grade. Back then, my parents were still working a lot, so I stayed at my aunt and uncle's house after school and on most weekends since they live across the street. My cousins were much younger and they loved to surprise me by hiding things in my bookbag and with other things I would bring over. One day they had found a pocketknife-- the type with bottle openers, corkscrews, and scissors-- and slipped it into my bookbag, under my books. I had found it one day on the bus when I was going to do my homework and showed it to a new friend, thinking it was an interesting new thing, then forgot about it. I was curious and naive, so I did not once think of it

There was a time in my life where something happened to me and fear prevented me from saying anything about it, or speaking in general. She was very quiet, and rarely spoke because part of her was too afraid to. Not only would I tell her to speak up, but to not be scared to do so. Instead of expecting people to know how you were feeling, or what happened to you, nothing was said; you were silent. If you would have spoke up, your life would have been so much easier, but you were stubborn. The experience that made me come up with what I would say to her was a negative experience. Not only did it affect me, but it also affected many other people. The reason why this experience was so negative was partially my fault because of something I should have said, but did not have enough courage to say it. Just because she kept her mouth shut, she hurt other people. She did not mean

I was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome at the age of fourteen, right at the beginning of high school, in a room with gray walls, a paper-ridden desk, and multiple filing

Brene Brown said, “I’m just so grateful, because to feel this vulnerable means I’m alive” (Brown 9). Don’t settle for less believe you’re worthy and do not stand in the shadows. No one wants to live through not being able to expose yourself even for the good or bad. Because even with all that Steve Jobs says, “Because almost everything - all embarrassment or failure- these things just fall always in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important” (Jobs 18). However, you do know you are living that you can have failure but just keep in mind that it could be for the best be

I was in first grade when my teacher teacher started noticing signs of me being “slower” than other kids. She had a meeting with my parents and they ended up putting

One day in 1st grade, one of my friends, Carson, said three words and that changed a lot. We were playing outside and I started suggesting games we could play. And everyone strated looking at me wierd like I had something in my teeth. Someone finally told me what was happening and and

First grade, just a couple weeks after my permanent teeth had grown in. Lunch was going as normal: we ate, cleaned, and played. We formed a line of competitive little kids, ready to race our scooters. Small mats were stacked on top of them, for added comfort, I suppose. Little did I know the disaster that would make an impact on my life forever, was only seconds away. Luckily, my Aunt Suzanne and Uncle Chad were on lunch duty that day. About half way through the race, the mat on my scooter slid off, catching the front wheels and making the scooter tip forwards. From this point, the story becomes slightly unclear to me. I have memory of

Well there is a story that I usually don’t tell often because it’s personal. But I guess I will tell that story because like the whole school knows anyways. I mean I hear about it all the time so yeah. It is apart of my life forever, it’s never going to go away no matter what. And that really sucks but I guess that’s life right.

It all began when I was about three, and i was playing on a bench in my kitchen.You know the ones that are at the solid oak dinner tables,yeah one of those. And i went to climb up on the bench like a normal baby would.But instead when i got onto the bench it broke “Clomp! Bang!”.There was dust everywhere, it was all gray.My dad picked me up and the tip finger was stuck in the broken bench pieces and was cut off by the beach pieces.

I have always thought what was wrong. People always used to say I was over reacting, taking it too far. But this thing that surrounds me it hides behind laughter. A smiling face who acts strange and weird to make you smile back. It is nothing but a mask worn to shed light on others, in an attempt to keep others from the darkness, the lonely, bitter darkness. It makes your fingertips feel ice cold. As you lay there in the dead of winter. You feel your heart beat slower as you close your eyes and try to erase your thoughts. Yet, they manage to flood out as you battle to contain them.