Personal Essay: Influenced My Writing

Lacking experience in writing and reading, English is my most feared subject. It is the one and only vulnerable spot in my otherwise invincible academic armor. I hate writing and I despise reading. Other than magazines, I cannot recall reading anything since "The Crucible" which was a teacher assigned book in my sophomore high school English class. Not that I read a lot before that, I don't remember reading any books in my middle school years neither. Now, with this writing assignment since a long time, my brain feels like an old rusty engine of an 81 Porsche cranking up for the first time in years, readying to compete in the English 1A heat.<br><br>My parents and my favorite math teacher always told me that I'm a very bright individual

It is unexpected but soft and the feeling of his lips lingers when he pulls back to see your reaction. He stands up after he senses you can't look him in the eye. Your arm automatically jerks and grabs his pants' leg. Instead of putting his shoes back on, he takes his jacket off. He sits on the bed and simply begins to lay kisses from your forehead to your lips. The mind that was racing all day seems to be on pause. He hesitates to kiss your neck at first but ends up leaving hickeys.

I've been stumbling across some thoughts the past couple days and this is just going to be a stream of unfiltered angry consciousnesses. I'm done sugar coating shit for you so this is going to be brutally honest and very harsh it will probably make you feel like shit and I'm sorry but some self reflecting must be done if this relationship is going to have any chance. And just for the record If you ever lie to me or mess up like this again we're done I really can't take anymore. Mistakes happen but mistakes like this shouldn't, and you can no longer claim in experience. We've been dating for over a year now, we know each other way too well for problems like this to continually occur. I'm tired of the "I'm sorry's, and I'm disgusted every time

I want to so bad, I want to push. My thumbs ache with tension, and anticipation. They know what is to come, they want it to come. My chest is heaving now, like a mad man’s. Am I mad? I am pushing now. Pushing my dirt clustered thumbs into the sockets of her eyes. She is awake now. The pain she must be feeling is unfathomable. The juices of her eyes are watering out now, dripping ever so closer to the rust dusted floor. I push deeper, harder, with more purpose now. I know what I am doing, but never have I done it before. The outcries of her’s are masked by the deep, monotone, grunting of my own. I haven’t stopped screaming since I began, and I fear now that I never will. I can see the tendons in my thumbs, flexed, and alert. My long uncut

I did not want too ask for to much; I felt like anything would stress her out too much. She still always tried her best to make sure I got everything I wanted and make everything perfect for me, but I could tell over time she became more and more tired. Her body was weak; the chemo was really taking over her body. She would never admit it, but we could tell she was tired, and she was hurting. On her bad days she would even stay home from work. We knew this was bad because she never, ever miss work. She was always there, and she hated letting people down. The next couple of months were hard for her and for our family. She had several surgeries and she endured many treatments of chemotherapy and radiation to get rid of the cancer. It was hard to watch our mom who was so strong become so weak and helpless. As the treatments came to an end, signs of improvement were appearing. The lump she had removed had not come back due to the chemotherapy and radiation she received. We still had one test to run, and this test was very important to my mom because it would effect my life and future. She had a test run to determine if her cancer was genetic. She got the test back, and it turned out it was genetic. I now had breast cancer on both sides of my family. My meme had breast cancer twice in her life and now my mom. This terrified my mom; she hated to think about the possibility of me having this in the future. I told her there was

What would the world come to if people did not strive to help themselves? Would more be accomplished or nothing at all? When is helping oneself self-interest, and when is it rude and selfish? How far does one have to go to not be selfish? In order to be not selfish, must a person spent all their time giving to others? Is in a way giving to others even show selfishness? If that is true is it possible to end selfishness? These questions do not have straight answers, and probably never will. Yet, to understand the importance of self-interest it is important to understand my opinion of the answers to these questions.

My sweaty body stuck to the plastic chair as I eyed the forbidden glass of ice water. Slowly, my fingertips inched across the table, brushing against the cool surface, before they were brusquely swatted away by my mother.

Half of my life I 've always loathed the man that for the other half of my life I would owe my mental growth to. This man goes by the name of Kanye West and now I live by his quote "You can 't look at a glass half full or empty if it 's overflowing". My parents have always cultivated me to shun things that have constantly intrigued my curiosity. Things like music and movies always had to be boring and traditional. Even when I was younger my peers would often question my likes and standards when the truth of the matter was that they really questioning my parents likes and dislikes.

Change happens in everyone’s lives. The unforeseen changes like an illness of a loved one can grab one’s heart and tear it to pieces. The day I found out my mother had lung cancer knocked the wind out of me. This really could not be happening; at least I wanted to believe it was not happening. My mother lived in New Mexico while I was 600 plus miles away in Las Vegas, Nevada. I knew I needed to see her as soon as possible. On the road, making the drive home, memories began to flood my mind. I knew that once I stepped into the house, smelled my mom’s perfume, and gazed at all her crafts and decorations that her house would not be the same again.

As I was sitting in my car parked in front of my house, watching my tears fall drop for drop while the rain pelted against my windshield, I asked myself why did this have to happen? Why did my mother have to pass away? I felt like the world came crashing down on me, but I had to be the strong one and hold my family together. In the end, I found that the bravery I was trying to display was only hurting me. I stepped out of the car and peered over my shoes and as the water came streaming down to the muddy ground beneath me I felt a peculiar beat in my stomach. For years I had walked into my house and seen her face as I opened the door, but on that night it all came to an end. As I walked upstairs to her bedroom, there she was, lying on the floor breathless. Clinging to my brother, I took a few steps forward and sat on the floor next to her. As I sat there next to her, with tears running down my face, I forgot the pain I felt inside and remembered that everything in life happens according to God’s will. So I stilled the pain I felt inside, wiped my tears and accepted the fact that she would no longer be on this earth with me.

“You need to get up right now! All you want to do is sleep, eat and stay on the road,” yelled my mom. As I laid comfortably in my bed with my head buried under the cover I can hear my mom footsteps stomping down the hallway. I roll over to get my phone to see what time it is, 11:47!!?? I cannot believe my mom wants me to get out of bed to wash the dishes that she and my brother used. Even though I’m sleepy I furiously get out of my bed, stomp to the kitchen to see both sides of the sink full of dishes. While standing in front of the sink, letting the water run I decided to let my mom have a piece of my mind. “I am not even here half of the time. I am sick and tired of having to clean up after grown people who are able to clean up behind themselves,” I shouted. No matter who does what my mom always look to me to clean it up. I am angry, but I know I better get these dishes washed. As I laid back in my bed, I decided to text my best friend Brittany and tell her how my mom just flipped on me. Brittany gave me the best response I have heard all night. Brittany says, “Girl you know you are always welcome at my house. My momma loves you and plus you know you want to come stay with your best friend.” Reflecting back on what happened 45 minutes ago. I was so mad, so I took Brittany’s offer.

I am truly amazed at how this book came along in my life right when I needed it the most. For two and a half years since my late husband passed away I have literally been in a fog. I didn’t realize that it was an attack from the enemy. I thought it was me just going through a grieving process that just seem to keep prolonging itself or either somehow there was some unresolved issues in my life that needed to be dealt with. For the life of me I couldn’t seem to figure out what it was that I needed to deal with. I was exhausted mentally and emotionally knowing that this couldn’t be of God, but was just too numb to even try to do anything about it. I would try to pray my way out and even would go to church thinking maybe someone could pray this off of me, but then again, I can’t even say I was desperate to get rid of whatever this was. I was simply lulled to sleep with no fight left in me. Oh, of course I prayed the cover all prayer over my family, but could see by the way my children were handling everyday life that they needed more prayer than just pleading the blood of Jesus over them every day. They needed that warrior woman to pick her sword back up and get her armor in check and go to war on their behalves. We needed restoration and healing so badly in our lives. I felt like that when God got tired of me being in this place that He would come to my rescue and without any help on my part and rescuing me is exactly what He did by sending me this book.

Out of all the manifestations I ever had in my life, I never expected to see myself running away to survive. I never dreamed I had to run from my country to save my life. As I peered through my window, looking down from the butterscotch-hue sky. I could see clouds of damp smoke and dust rising up from the ground. Bombings in Managua took place almost immediately. I had a flashback moment; Grandpa Luna once shared his family stories. The one that really stick out the most was about his grandfather who emigrated from Italy. His grandmother also emigrated from Germany. They came to America in the 1840s. His grandfather Angelo F. Cagliero was a nineteen-year-old, who, like me, also survived a war. The difference was that he fought to defend his country from the French. Cagliero eventually graduated as a lawyer at one of the most prestigious university of the world in Rome. However, when he shared his convictions in the open; his own people just like Nicaragua persecuted him. The Italian government was not-yet-unified. He was a political philosopher and freethinker regarding religion; his qualities made him a dangerous man. He was forced to emigrate, seeking freedom and religious liberty. He sailed to New York and arrived on a ship in the mid 1850s like most Europeans immigrants. My great grandfather Angelo fled his beloved country because he ran out of choices. I was reliving the same ordeal. I was a target just for being a young man, not because I differ with anyone’s

Oh, my God, my Heavenly Father, here I stand a broken daughter. Lord, hear my plea and lend Your ear. You knit me together in my mother’s womb, knowing what mistakes Your daughter would make . You made me who I am, and knew me before the world even began, your scriptures say that even before the world knew me, you knew each strand on my golden head . You knew me, and yet I have stumbled bruised and bloodied into Your throne room. I am unfit, to even been in Your presence, but even in the darkest, sin induced coma, you have spoken my name with tender love, and yet here my story is in ink.

I wake up and think I am in our old house in the in the farm lands. The sun is beaming through the window from rolling, green hills outside, and I can smell my mom’s cooking of watery beans and potatoes wafting through the house. Soon the day will begin, a long day, of weaving and mending cloth. When the machines came, we were no longer fast enough for the demands of cloth. We were forced to move to the city and work in a factory, where we tend machines all day long until the day is over, and with our very bones crying , we hurry to bed. Then, dinging the bells ring at 4:00 AM to wake up the working class of the city.I can hear the bells now and I must get up. I’m so sorry for not introducing myself properly, my name is Edward. I am almost fifteen and work at a factory in the city. They call me the man of the house because my father is very ill. Next to me, on the pile of straw we share, are my younger brother, Tommy, my other younger sister, Jeanette, and my mother, Elizabeth. My mother works in a factory that makes parts for cars with my sister, Jeanette. She is only 30, but already her hair is patched with grey. Rumor says that she is soon to be widowed just like many others in this haunted place , I nearly hurl at the thought. Last week, my father came down with the spotted fever. I can see him from here; he is sweating, his body aching from the fever. I pray that someone will take care of him today, we don’t have the time or money to take him to a hospital. Next