My Childhood - Original Writing

My mom – a strong woman, who knew everything that my dad was, was my beacon of hope. Growing up with those two side by side, I learned that love means knowing the other one: inside and out, and accepting the whole that that person is.

From reading “True Notebooks”, I chose to write about Kevin Jackson, while reading I was able to observe his personality. He is calm, likeable, and easy going once he opens up. At juvenile hall he minds his own business and is a messenger. Also he wants become a chef once he is out and likes to help out in the kitchen at juvenile hall. Kevin is well liked by authority figures such as Mark, Janet, and Mr. Sill. Growing up, Kevin did not have a positive childhood. In fact, his childhood was shocking and most likely this has affected his behavior. When Kevin was nine years old he experienced traumatizing event, both of his parents dying in a car accident. When he was in elementary school he had a hard time coping with his event. After experiencing

My mother was out of town, so I knew it was not her. I grew afraid of the strange woman in my house, the maroon-colored walls in my bedroom was giving me an ominous feeling, making my room look stained with blood. I went quietly out of my door and down the hallway, knowing that they were arguing in the kitchen by the volume of their voices. I paused in the middle of the hall, unsure whether to continue or to go back to my bedroom. I only decided on the former after I heard a muffled shout and the woman’s voice laughing. This decision was the biggest mistake of my life.

My mother’s childhood environment was hugely dissimilar to my own. While my grandparents were largely removed in her life as a child, my mother and father were extremely supportive and present throughout my childhood. My aunt and mother described their home environment as chaotic and full of marital tension. In light of this, my mother’s response was to leave her home as often as she could. Being deemed the quiet child that rarely stood up for herself, my mother expressed how she felt during daily occasions like dinnertime:

The walls shut in and my world felt smaller as my problems felt bigger. My mental stability stood on pillars of salt and pillars of sand; I was only five when I was diagnosed with separation anxiety. I couldn’t cope when my mother left the house. I always held onto the doorknob or her leg, trying to stop her from leaving. I would even watch the street or call her continuously asking how long until she would get home. There was never a calm moment without her.

He meandered up the creaky, wooden stairway to my parents’ bedroom, which at the time was only enclosed on three sides and open towards the stairway, where the fourth wall should have been. I followed closely behind him, my siblings after me. My mom was at the end of her bed, folding clothes. My dad, dirty from his construction job, had begun to change his clothes. Trying to lighten his mood, my mom jokingly took some of his change and tried to start “a game of tag” per se. My dad’s Blood Alcohol Concentration (BAC) was too high to focus on a petty game like this, it just pissed him off. You could see the alcoholic rage in his eyes, as my mom ran down the stairs with his change and keys. My older sister Susie, my younger brother Jacob, and I were pushed into my room and he locked the door, he shouted “Stay here!” as he took of stumbling down the steps after my mom.

A mother’s love is the kind of love that gives meaning to life, when everything seems to have your back against the wall, somehow the reassurance of a mother’s presence and support takes away all of the pain. A bond created from early on inside your mother’s womb, is the same bond that is cherished for a lifetime. From mother’s day cards every year, to special surprises for her birthday, a mother’s love can never be replaced. This kind of love is truly indescribable. But what happens when you’re only left with the memories and vivid imagination of what life would have been like if you had more time to spend with your mother. Imagine not knowing anything about who your mother was, or what kind of woman she turned out to be, the only thing

In a red brick house, on 13 Ebenwin Avenue, California, there lived a father, a mother and a daughter, by the name, Leah. This, however, was not just an ordinary family. In fact, let’s just leave it at that there was constant arguing and fighting between the parents, and the police were after Leah’s father, a master thief, Adam Heman. One day, in late April, Adam’s and Leah’s mother, Charlita Zchynz’s arguing got way out of hand. Leah was reading her book silently, when she heard banging and shouts.

“Where is your money for this month’s bills?”, my mother asks as she stumbles out of her room and into the kitchen. It was nine in the morning and judging by the look on her face, I could tell she had slept off the drunken beast from the night before. “It’s bill time, baby. You know the drill...”, she murmured. Waking up to mother’s financial concerns and the lurking smell of alcohol masking her body scent, I realize it is a new month but the same old thing. I was seventeen years old, working to help pay the bills; it was just my mother and myself. My family split apart in a span of about six months due to my mother’s history with alcohol. All that was visible to me was the pain and agony left behind for my mother and me to soak in. I dedicated myself to helping my mom in every way possible. While working a 35-hour work

The same hands that left my mom with several black eyes were tight around my neck, seconds away from putting me in a grave. A mix of flashbacks and police reports help me recall the day my abusive father nearly choked me to death. After protection orders were signed and my parents' divorce became official, I assumed life would be better. Instead, my mother's mental illness grew more severe. Following their divorce, she has been unable to work, balance a checkbook, or even get out of bed most days.

The next day, I see my mom, my favorite person in the house, and get some breakfast from her. She’s a decently sized woman who takes decent steps, as if she could come after you, at any time, and suffocate you in her arms. In her sleep clothes, she looks like a cross between a tired grandparent and a raging bull. She has sparkling

As I stepped into the house from the cold winter day, I noticed a shaking, seemingly horrified Aunt Kit sitting at the table before my mother. She was loudly crying and muttering muffled sounds. The only words I could make out were, “Room 101, don’t go!” When mother noticed my presence, she scolds me. “Tiffany Rose Garcia! Get to your bed at once!”

Feature stories from siblings, seeking psychiatrist, psychologist, counseling sessions on account of humiliation, intimidation, physical and mental abuse, chronic depression; it’s all very real. Eventually, mother reached out, damaged and too elderly when she made that decision, however, it did not go well, unable to accept fault for her actions and ongoing hate displayed toward us; She could not forgive us, ‘in her mind’, for being her children. It’s been thirty some years, I have no desire to commutate with mother, the feeling was mutual, it would be useless today, she cannot remember from day to day, although I send Christmas gifts, however, there is no compassion existing towards her, what I feel is sorrow that her, life was miserable, refusing to change before it was too late. As a child growing up I knew there was

Decapitated baby dolls and rated R movies shaped my childhood. Now, before you throw my essay in the round file and write me off as a potential serial killer, hear me out. I was not raised like many of my peers. Obviously, most of their parents made sure that the movies they viewed were age appropriate and I am pretty sure they would not have been so passive if the found dismembered baby dolls in their daughter’s playroom. However, my parents were different… very different. Instead of watching the typical family movies such as Matilda and Toy Story, my family spent our weekends watching The Matrix Series and The Godfather Trilogy. While most may not agree with these customs, my seven-year-old mind was far more thrilled at hearing Marlon Brando saying “kiss the ring” rather than Woody talk about snakes and boots. Besides, I closed my eyes during the intimate scenes so that makes everything okay, right?

When growing up, I recall having a decent childhood before entering elementary school, I was a joyful child. I never really cared much about others or what they said about me, all I ever wanted was to have fun. My parents would describe me as a very hyper child who was always laughing. It seemed that even in the worst situations my hyper activity and laughter could never stop. One time at the airport, I was running around way too much and playing with other people’s luggage. My mother chased me all around the airport until she caught me. She ended up tying me to a chair. Even after being tied up, I was still squirming in my seat until our flight was called. It wasn’t until I entered elementary school, things began to change and, sadly, this wasn't for the better.