My Memories - Original Writing

It was a normal occurrence for me to be constantly yelled at for things that I did not do and would suffer from my father becoming very angry at me for things that weren’t a concern. Constantly being slapped in the face, being pushed to the ground, and getting attacked senselessly were memories that

The environment that I grew up in at home was very hostile. When I was growing up, I was always surrounded by domestic violence, and verbal abuse. Both my family and my home were always filled with so much sadness, pain, and fear. My home was no longer a safe haven where I could escape distress, but instead a place that I had dreaded and feared. Since I had constantly lived with domestic violence, my mother would always walk around the house with gashes on her face and bruises all over her body, but she would somehow manage to get through the excruciating pain. Until one day, when I got the most horrific news that I have ever received in my entire life. Both my mother and my stepfather were both victims of a fatal car accident. Although, always

I really liked that time of my life and even though my dad was not with us, I felt safe and loved. When my father came back from Iraq (he worked there as a builder for two years), we moved to his parents’ apartment and lived with father’s mother for some time, before she went to live with her sisters. Years between I was 7 and 19 years old were a sort of unpleasant dream. My father used to get drunk every day and he often stroke my mom, he even stroke her when he was sober. He never respected her, never talked to her nicely, he was always distant, always angry and almost always drunk. I remember one night when my parents began arguing, I entered the kitchen and wanted to separate them (I was about 7 or 8 years old) and saw my father holding an axe in the air; now I know I came just in time, because when he saw me, he dropped it on the floor and mom immediately took it away. From that moment I

I couldn 't believe what had just happened. I kept running, breathing out of control. My feet were sore and my lungs were aching. Tree branches were scraping my arms as I ran past them. Urging myself to keep on going. It was too late to look back now. I was running for my freedom and nothing was going to stop me. Not the sharp twigs stabbing at my feet as I ran or the misty fog blocking my clear path ahead. Nothing. It was really going to happen. All I needed to do was make it through the trees and onto a road. I couldn 't give up no matter what.

The start of third grade had begun it all. My parents had been divorced for about a year or two now, and it still was an unhealthy environment at my dad’s. At the time we were staying with my grandparents because my dad was unemployed and didn’t have interest in looking for a job. My dad is an alcoholic and smokes marijuana, and since he is an addict without them he gets cranky. One day he hadn’t had his “medicine’’ yet as he calls it and that’s when it all started. He locked me and my older sister in the room for two hours and yelled and screamed at us saying everything was our fault and that we couldn’t trust our mom only him. After this one time, it became a daily thing or at least once every weekend. He tried to turn me against my mom when the reason we were all in this state was because of him and his ability of not being able to commit to my mom and our family. At the age of eight, I was being mentally and emotionally abused by my

I had to grow up on September 15, 2004, shortly after I turned five. My parents split when I was very young, and all I’ve ever remembered about it was spending weekdays with Mom and weekends with Dad. My mother was very kind, the type of person who brought cinnamon rolls to work on Fridays and hatched butterflies with her daughter in her free time. My father was quite the opposite. He drank, yelled, and got in fights. I spent most of those weekends in the basement playing with my bouncy ball and Lite Bright while the adults upstairs played cards loudly. One night, my father got into an altercation with a high school boy while driving home from a bar. The high schooler cut him off, angering my dad so much that he followed the boy home and

Every night I’m haunted by my worst memory/memories. I’ve been haunted by them for a year and six months.

Every day starts the same… seemingly insignificant. You wake up and you follow a certain routine, preparing for the day ahead. Just like any other day I woke up or should I say was woken up by my dad, for I was only seven years old. Looking back at this point in my life it all is very unclear and fuzzy, still young and naïve, all the days morph into one. This day however, was unlike any other day. This day is burned into my memory. My dad, like every single other morning, walked into me and my sister’s bedroom and pulled off the covers from our bed because nothing wakes you up faster than sudden rush of cool air on a November morning. My sister and I trudged to the kitchen where our dinosaur egg hot cereal was awaiting our arrival. Something about that moment, sitting there in my house, a very typical morning stays clear and bold in my mind. It seemed so normal, but at the same time so distant. A moment so typical, but how long does normal remain normal? Breakfast was followed by getting changed for school and then the trip to school. The school day sped by, no different than any other, but the knowledge of a playdate with my best friend after school took up the majority of my thoughts. The bell rang and we lined up, ready to head home. We walked down the hill to my mother, ready to pick us up and bring us back to my house. The excitement could not be contained and the car was filled with innocent and unaware giggles, for the worst thing that could ever happen would be the

I wake up to the smell of grass, the rustling leaves and the sound of nature. As I open my eyes I can see the clouds moving through the sky while I lay on the ground.

When I think back to my childhood, I can remember moving with my parents and siblings to Topeka Ks, back in 2006. I started in a new school and was rather fascinated, in a special way, by a particular boy in class. Even though my thoughts at that point in time were not particularly sexual (I was nine at the time), I often thought about how handsome this boy was I had quite a problem setting the issue in my mind. I looked at him ever so often, and in doing so I felt pleasure.

One of my earliest memories, as a young child growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, was the visits to my Nan’s home in south Ealing, west London.

I woke up with my curly blonde hair covering my face. I quickly swept my hair away from my face into a ponytail and stood up. It 's too early, I thought as I looked over to my clock. It was 7:13 a.m and I was already done with today. I knew the bus must 've been close, because my sister wasn 't in our room sleeping. Guess I better get ready, I realized. I quickly rummaged through my small closet, filled halfway with little frilly dresses owned by my sister. Finding a nice shirt and pair of pants was harder than I thought. Finally, I had found a tie dye shirt with the saying "good vibes" on the front and a pair of white jean shorts. I changed into them quickly before my sister burst into our room.

Now, lemme tell you about this one thing I experienced...three years ago. Still haunts my memory. I used to work as a mortician. A person whom works to dissect bodies to either prepare the bodies for an autopsy, or for a burial. Of course, I was only a helper, passing tools. To of which begins my story.

I finished rubbing my battered foot and then bent down, picking up the boulder. It was heavier than imagined it would be, but I had managed to lift it to my waist after struggling to break it free from the earth. As I heaved it ever higher, I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it, and I knew that the mud that clung to the bottom of the rock had smeared itself deep within the fabric of my dress as I battled to bring it up to my chest. The thought of what my once beautiful dress must have looked like now depressed me for a moment, but then I quickly dismissed the thought thinking, let’s just get this over with, so I can get the hell out of here.

I’m about 13 years old, married to a 35 year old man, and pregnant with the son of God while I’m still a virgin. Yes, my life’s going great. I was a Jewish girl getting ready to marry a well-established carpenter, then a man came to me in my house and told me I was pregnant. I was shocked, because I’m only 13 and was still a virgin. Well, it happened. I conceived when the angel told me I would, went into labor on the way to Bethlehem, and gave birth in a stable because the innkeeper didn’t have any room.