My Love : The Love Of My Life

It was another average school night and the red letters on my alarm clock read midnight. My tired eyes stared at the blank word document on the laptop, my mind devoid of ideas. The prompt for this week’s creative writing essay was about bizarre situations. Usually, my mind would be overflowing with ideas like a river, and I would get the assignment done on the first day. Three days passed, and I still had no ideas. I was officially afflicted with the notorious writer’s block I had heard so much of. There was this feeling of having an empty void in my mind, and having uncertainty over what to write next, whether it is over the prompt or the next words. Closing the laptop in defeat and accepting the reality that I would receive a failing grade for the paper, I shut the laptop and trudged over to my bed and dove under the covers. At least I would not suffer the consequences of my actions in the temporary

I remember the first day I walked into my kindergarten class, I clenched my mother’s hand with all my might to prevent her from letting go. The kids around me, whom I supposed were my classmates, had long let go of their mother’s had and were playing together, and even as a five year old, at that point I felt like an outsider. I pleaded my mom to not leave but my attempts failed as I found myself alone yet surrounded by complete strangers. As I stood in the center of the room while pushing back my tears and eyeing my mother make her way out the door, I heard the teacher call my name. I timidly walked towards the spot on the yellow carpet she was signaling at for me to sit on. I heard Mrs. Ross’s soothing voice but no matter how much I concentrated

It was a beautiful summer day.The sweet smell of sunflowers blooming through our backyard was similar to the smell of honey. There were so many different types of birds and insects flying around me that I never even knew existed. With water balloons flying around my sister and I, we heard a holler from my mom, “Let’s go, we need to go to Costco!” at the sound of my mom’s voice mentioning Costco my sister and I dropped our water balloons, cleaned the mess as fast as we could. We ran inside, as fast as a race car driver, gulping down the glass of milk my mom neatly placed on the table. With white mustaches we stood next my mom’s silver toyota camry, ready to go. As my mom finished the last of the dishes, we strapped on our seat belts over the booster seat and went to our favorite store.

However, my mom never let me lose hope. Whenever, I would get down my mother would simply say, “Don’t give up take your time, don't get frustrated, it will happen.”

I walk into my bright, and decorative bedroom after a long, and tiring day of school. Turning on the lights, I steer towards my dresser set to retrieve my previously sharpened pencil and partially filled notebook. I find myself sitting on my fuschia papasan chair. With my notebook in my hand, I slowly open it to reveal a fresh clean sheet of paper. With peace and inspiration filling my mind, body, and soul, I begin to fill its pages with tried attempts of poetry and eventful situations of my day. A smile forms onto my lips as I stare at it. Writing about myself and experiences was all I knew.

“Jimmy, Susannah your great grandmother passed away yesterday. We're leaving tomorrow to go to her funeral.” My father said. At the time I did not understand what death was all I knew is that someone I knew was gone forever.

My house wasn’t far from the bus stop I got off at; however with the biting cold, I’d wished I had taken my dad up on the offer to pick me up. I heard my mom shout a muffled greeting from the kitchen as my dad, tall and stocky (the complete opposite of me), greeted me at the door with a hug and welcoming smile. My mom, with her petit and frail frame I inherited from her, came rushing into the room as she dried her hands on a paper towel. “Sweetheart, you’re back! How’s school going? How were your exams?” How was I going to tell them?

My feet dangled below me as I sat on the stepping stool that constituted as my dining room chair. I banged my little fists on the red plastic tablecloth while I impatiently waited for dinner. My mom was still on her way home from work so it had been my grandma who picked me up from pre-school and brought me home to help make dinner. I liked my school because it had a fence that imitated giant crayola crayons and a yellow brick road leading up to the door just like in the Wizard of Oz. The place was magical, but I didn’t mind leaving because I loved spending time with my mom and grandma. It was just the three of us. My mom and I had recently moved back in with my grandma, who I call Memere. I was lucky to have two women taking care of me because

It was a cold winter morning in the middle of october, 2009. It was around 6:00 when i heard my mom come into my room . She was wearing bright red pajama pants and a plain black t-shirt. When she opened my door, she turned on my light switch, and said, “Get up, it’s time to get ready for school.” When she ended that last word with “school” i rolled out of bed, slowly and got ready. Once I was finished getting ready, my mom came into the living room and said “ It’s time to go down to the bus stop.” So, I put my small bookbag on both of my shoulders and headed out the door with my mom lagging behind.

“Wake up Sharry or you’ll be late for school!” my mom yelled. I slowly forced myself to get up and made my way to the washroom. It was hard but I did it. I felt like I had accomplished something big, like winning a gold medal at the olympics. I then got dressed and in a satisfied, proud voice I told my mom, “Lets go”. She held my hand and slowly walked me to school. When we finally got to my elementary

“I haven’t had any nightmares or panic attacks, but I’m still. . . I don’t know, tense. I feel like I can be hurt at any given time if someone has the desire,” I wanted her to make me feel better.

I was upset, I was sad, most of all I was confused. I can't even

I grew up on a steady diet of Hallmark and fairy tales, and like most little girls I hung onto every last word. From the couple fighting, to them desperately confessing their love for one another, I just could not tear myself away. More times than not I would replay every moment of the story in my head, that is until a new love story caught my attention. We all know the storyline. The beautiful young lady meets a handsome stranger, and as much as they try to deny it, they have a special connection. As their relationship grows they suddenly can not stop themselves from confessing their feelings, until something tragic happens and they both ended up heartbroken. Most importantly, all of these events lead to their fairytale ending, where they live happily ever after. These stories are great, and watching them is a rite of passage for most young girls. However, these romances are not real, and love in this life will never look the way it does in movies. Naturally, as I grew older my love for these movies only grew, but I could see the effect they were having on me by the age of 10 when I had already decided that being a wife, and having a family was one of my biggest life priorities. Having a family is still so important to me, but that's not the problem.

When usually I’d be writing dozens of pages worth of research papers and document outlines, I wrote short-stories and novels that relaxed me as much as they gave me intrigue. Gradually writing became very therapeutic for me, succeeding in disarming my anxiety in ways I never thought possible. Never before had I been exposed to such limitless possibilities, and I grew to appreciate how writing let me dictate conditions which in the real world I had little to no control over. What’s more, I strongly feel that my writing is a great extension of myself, and the perfect representation of who I am as a person. Although it never ceases to amaze me, as I once thought it impossible, my writing has often succeeded in perfectly capturing every one of my individual qualities, everything ranging from my ADHD to my dark humor. At first, my writing was born purely out of necessity, as I strived to reach higher grades on my writing assignments and essays. And yet, even for this, writing was a source of joy and relief for me, a much needed escape for my opinions and

Lisa is a person that I cannot live without. I have been married to Lisa for seven happy years and we always get along with each other. During tough times in our marriage, she is always thoughtful, sincere and joyful. Therefore she is funny, understanding and a very loving wife. In addition from being beautiful, she is very patient and kind to me despite all my shortcomings. My life is a lot better being with her. Despite our age difference, different religious outlook in life and different personalities, I have a happy marriage with my wife.