Griff's Life: A Personal Narrative

It’s a struggle to get out of bed sometimes, I often just sit there struggling to comprehend the sequence of events which have taken place over the past year. I mean, I’m used to this now, its normal to me, but the fact that this has happened and that I am now ‘disabled’ as people would put it is hard to get my head around. And every time I look down I’m reminded of the pain and the struggle I faced, it’s a physical scar which links me to my grueling past, a physical and emotional journey.

Depression placed a dark brooding shadow over my mind. I was weighed down, oppressed by the burden of having to carry on with life. In my mind, there was a crushing sense of hopelessness that I have never felt before. The only therapy I found was taking that beautiful, freshly sharpened razor to my left arm. A sigh of relief departed me as I watched the bright red blood drip from my vein. The only burden I had was going to school and hiding my war scars. Each day, the darkness spread through me like cancer. My body withering away, I needed an escape route from this crucial disease. This all continued until the day I saw a light and the darkness began to fade

As we go through life, we experience countless losses. Those losses include loved ones such as family members, friends, or both--pets. Some individuals covet their furry friends as family, and when that family pet dies people exhibit the same feelings of loss as they would for a human. However, some individuals are not as involved with their pets, and do not experience the same emotional response to their passing. Nonetheless, the loss of a pet is a memorable experience for most people. In John Updike’s Dog’s Death and Jane Kenyon’s The Blue Bowl, the speakers have just lost a pet; and although their experiences are similar, their attitudes towards their pets departure do not completely align. This essay will outline the similarities in these poems, as well distinguish their differences.

I hold the paper in my hands. It’s crumpling under my grip, but in it I get to live in the footsteps of others. My old dress is wrinkled and torn much like the paper, but I can’t spare the money on a new one. As much as I try to focus on the crinkled piece of paper with scrawly handwriting, I can’t. I just can’t. Tears run down my face and I wipe them away. It has been awhile since I have cried, so long in fact that I was afraid that there was something wrong with me. I push myself up from the old oak I sit at the base of. There’s no use in dwelling in what I can’t change. I fold the paper back in my dress pocket and walk into the field. I used to think there was beauty in the way that the grass grows in the street; standing low next to the

The sky and all its beautiful colors are all that were running through my mind. I didn't notice it then, but that was the last day we ever had those moments not only there but back home too. I never expect for him to leave, which was foolish. He found happiness in the bottom of a drink, how couldn't alcohol take him? I realize we're all trying to kill that pain somehow. I didn't imagine his death would take a hold of my life, but in a way it did. You see he was the only close death, I experienced in my 17 years, before him I didn't think death would ever influence me, for it was just a life check everyone check off eventually. I took his death as unexplained for so long, all I had angry and unresolved feelings and they controlled a part of my life. I know that pain will always be there, but my life couldn’t stop, I couldn’t let this unresolved grief influence me as my uncles did. Although death is a sad thing, you have must choose whether to let it destroy oneself or sharpen it. I’m still on the path of understanding how life is after the death, still I remember he loved us and he isn’t sadden anymore, and that gives me joy and keeps on

I stood in front of my vanity mirror as I did every morning, a bad but an ineluctable habit of mine. I traced my scar from my eyebrow to my cheekbone with my finger. I suppose most people see scars as a sign of survivor, but all I ever saw was my weakness. I don’t mean to be querulous, I was grateful to be alive, I just seemed to constantly be reminded of my mistakes. I shook my head, wishing I could pinion myself so I could stop obsessing over it. As I was leaving that morning, my cocker spaniel sat like a portier at the front door, his big brown eyes pleading me to stay. I felt bad for having to leave him, so I went to go give him a treat. He knew what was happening as soon as I started walking towards the kitchen and started to jump around

I was confused on how to face my adversities without having someone to guide me along the way. If there were any ill intentions of the people around me, I would not have noticed. My heart turned cold and I disregarded the feelings of my friends and family. My friends were only there in hopes that they would be there to lift me up if I’d ever be to fall into a ditch. Chelsea was the one friend that gave me an understanding to what succeeding my goals in life would bring me. I felt genuine happiness in her company, in fact she taught me what genuine happiness meant. The ineffable effort I put in for myself to try and get over her passing away just seemed so effortless at the end of the day. I would try to get through a day without crying, and I would; but I felt as if everything I held in during the day would just fall apart in the night. I cried until there were no more tears to shed. When my bedroom lights would turn off it would feel darker than usual. I would stop myself from falling asleep at night because it would just be some time away from thinking of the memories we had spent together; and not spending a night thinking of the memories I had with her would just feel like a waste of a night. It was difficult for me to move on from thinking of her. The continuous thoughts of her made me feel imprisoned in the past, and barred from my

Seemed to provide me with a private context for exploring my own grief at the loss of my father” (Stanford). She informs her readers that while writing these poems, she was going through a terrible time for her and her family, so it's understandable why the theme of grief is very

As the evening fell, the dark blue night rose up across the sky. I laid under the stars in my back yard, as I do every night with my dog Mabel. Mabel was approaching her old ages but she was a great listener. Usually I tell her about my day or fairy tales, tonight I told her about my mom. My mother passed away in a car accident when I was only a baby, she was the most loving person I knew and I miss her everyday, and sometimes it helps to talk about her. As I lay talking curled up next to mabel I could feel my eyes getting heavier and heavier as the warm summer breeze brushed past my face.

July 31 Midnight—It is always hard to bury your best friend, which is why I have begun this journal entry. The year is 2016; my best friend of 10 years is gone, and my depression has overtaken me. Unfortunately, we have to make hard choices about letting go of a close friend, and although it may hurt us, it is the right thing to do. I still remember the day that I had to lower his body down in to that 6-foot-deep hole; somehow, I feel as if he is still here, right beside me. Oh how I wish he was here, siting right beside me while I drink my nightly glass of red wine. It has now been two weeks since he has been gone, and I have had little rest, but I have slept more than usual

When I was a little girl, I used to love to draw in the dust on the back of car windows. One day, I drew “I <3 you Me Me” while waiting for the bus. My mom drove to the gas station and when she got out of her car, a woman came up to her and said: “I saw what was written on the back of your car, and I was wondering how it got there.” My mother explained that I had written it earlier that morning waiting for the bus. The woman teared up and said, “My grandson used to call me ‘Me Me’, and he recently passed away. I felt like that was written for me.” To this day I still feel chills when I think about it, and I’ve come to understand that I was put here to comfort others and brighten their day. I don’t really fancy the word “empath” because

The poem that I have selected for this essay is “Talking to Grief” by Denise Levertov. I chose this poem because it talks about grief. It also talks about the place that grief should have in a person’s life. The poem describes grief, and compares it to a “homeless dog.” It also describes how a dog deserves its own place in the house, instead of living under a porch or being homeless. This poem talks about how a person can be aware that grief is present, but that it is not always acknowledged and accepted. We all experience grief in different ways, and for different reasons. Everyone deals with grief in their own personal way. This poem describes a point in a person’s life when they are ready to accept grief as a part of their life

I can’t stop, I can’t turn my mind off. I have letters stashed under my mattress, texts from friends in the trash folder of my phone. They tell me how brave I’ve been, witnessing the death of my best-friend. They tell me “I’m here for you”.

Every day people experience unpredictable tragedies. Tragedies impact emotions and perspectives on many subjects, whether it's due to the death of a friend or a diagnosis of a loved one. In the poems “Spring” by Matt Robinson and “After His Diagnosis” by Margaret Hasse, tragedies are learnt to be accepted. The dark reality of life lives unnoticed until finally encountered.

When I feel the pain, the shame, the hurt, I would go up to my room with my dog named butterfly Sappho. Butterfly Sappho knew how to comfort me, she would fly around the room and sit on my head. She and I had a secret that I couldn’t tell anyone, because