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My High School Life

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My High School career was challenging in many ways. When I was a junior, my entire life had been spent in one school, Ambassadors for Christ Academy. Now I have learned of its notoriety as a failure of an institution, but at the time my ignorant caregivers chose to overlook the obvious negatives and hold fast to their overconfidence in their own decisions. All this in mind, I knew everyone in my freshman class, most of them on a rather intimate level. I would be lying if I said I held much else but the rancid hatred of familiarity for them. My middle school years had been plagued with depression and bad times, so I was not thrilled to still be in school. Knowing things would be bad, and that even the best situations would rapidly deteriorate, I held the kind of optimism an abuse survivor has. You know, somewhere in the limited views I had been able to shamble together, I held the hope that the serially repugnant institution would stumble over some reprieve for its tortured students. This hope was fostered by those close to me. There were few people more supportive and loving to me than my grandmother, Ruby. She and my mother were the closest relatives I had, and they fostered this tiny spark of hope in me, for better or worse. To hope for such luck was foolish, and like hopes were punished. Nonetheless, they carried on fostering that hope in me in my darkest hours, as if to say there was some hope to be found in even the direst of situations. What they failed to understand
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