Personal Narrative: Journal Entry

My writing experience started in high school. I was part of the high school yearbook. I was business editor as a freshman up to being the editor my senior year. I also participated on the newspaper staff. I had some experience in college, but I did not finish college. I then did not have any more experience until I started work as a leader at Nisco. I finally started college classes again.

My earliest memories of being read to was when I was about four or five years old, my mom had read me princess books along with cat in the hat ones. She knew that in order for me to fall asleep, she had to read me a couple pages of the book I wanted. The earliest memory I have of writing was when I started Pre-K, there I began to learn how to write my name. Like most little kids, my handwriting wasn’t the best but It improved over time. I only remember the teacher would give us a worksheet full of colors and we had to learn how to write them out. In Pre-K the students were basically forced to take a nap, before that nap the teacher that I had read us maybe ten pages of a book. All of my memories were

I had always assumed that my legs were strong and that I had decent muscle control, however, this thought was proven wrong at the beginning of my junior year in high school due to a detrimental injury. It was the first game of fall league for basketball, and within the first five minutes I had succumbed to an injury. Tearing my ACL and Meniscus has taught me to continue improving on my strength, not let this one injury keep me down, and to keep a positive mindset.

We were all set up on the field ready for the game, I remember closing my eyes forabout a minute before the game started, that minute felt like 10 years, I froze and thought aboutmyself when I was 3 years old and how I first fell in love with the game and how my ultimatedream was to become pro, I remember the hours of pain and suffering I put myself through tobecome the player I was today, I remembered waking up at 4 a.m. on school mornings to go forruns so that I could run longer in games,I remember skipping parties and hanging with friendsso that I could train, I remembered everything, but one thing truly hit me was how much soccerwas there for me growing up my parents argued a lot and when I was feeling sad and lonely Iwould go train at the fields and it would hell my sorrow. Growing up in a household when yourparents are constantly fighting is difficult, but soccer was my out lit it was my therapist. Duringthe time of their divorce I felt like I had no one but soccer so I decided I need to give back to thegame. Soccer did so much for me, so I wanted to prove to it that it wasn't a waste of time andthat I would make something out of the game. I opened my eyes and didn't feel human anymore Ididn't feel in control of my own body the sport had taken over me for the better. I remembermoments when I was running and it didn't even feel like my feet were touching the floor

I had always loved soccer and it had been my favorite sport since age four. When I turned eleven years old I joined a club named Indiana Elite which was very competitive and “hardcore” persay. We had practice three days a week on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. I was very nervous to attend my first practice on my team

    It all started when I was about six years old. I was playing YMCA soccer in my small town of about 9,000 people, also referred to as Boonville. Back then I never realized how much of an impact soccer was going to make in my life. As the years went on, I never played another sport simply because I had no desire to. Once I finished with YMCA soccer, I moved onto a local team that did not last but a year. After that door closed another one soon opened. A man from St. Louis who had just recently moved to Boonville became close friends with our high school soccer coach. As their friendship developed, they decided to compose a league, which was soon named Boonville Soccer Academy (BSA). I went to the tryouts when I was about 10 years old. After making the team, I realized that joining this league was the best decision I had ever made. Although we lost almost every game for our first two years, we finally started getting the hang of things. We eventually started winning more and more games. Not only were we just winning games, but we were also winning tournaments. My league coach, Jimi, even decided to conjure up his own annual tournaments and leagues. I played soccer for BSA all year round for eight years and I still continue to play for them to this day. I played outdoor 5v5 soccer in the fall, indoor 5v5 soccer in the winter, 3v3 soccer in the summer and fall, and also 11v11 high school in the spring. I played varsity soccer for all four years of high school as a starter and our team achieved district champs for all of my four years as well. Playing for BSA and my high school team was by

Mostly everyone’s first experience with language is similar. The first words that a newborn will hear are usually very simple. Almost every time someone new enters the world and first sucks oxygen into their lungs, they hear something along the line of “congratulations! It’s a boy (or girl)”. A child’s first look at written language however, can be a completely different experience. What I share with you today is my writing experience throughout my childhood and how my family, friends and my education have played roles in the growth of my writing ability, as well as how I engage in the act of writing.

I was next up. I was freaking out, trying to calm down and stay warm. I was taking deep breaths. One of my coaches gave me a pep talk and some encouragement. I moved up to the starting gate, putting my poles in the holders and getting ready. I could see the other racer in front of me quickly getting down the hill like a bullet. In my mind, I was saying, “Don't think about anything else, just clear your mind. You got this. Go hard. Go strong.” I was standing at the top of the hill looking down at the icy slope, getting ready to blast off.

What is wrong with my head?? I feel like I’m losing my mind. I had finally gotten over the mirror incident and called myself down so I had simply decided to go into the living room, lie down, and try to keep my mind off of it. Well I had fallen asleep, this isn’t what I wanted. It didn’t take me long to have my internal clock wake me up, but honestly I wish I could’ve remained unconscious. My eyes slowly opened, it felt like someone pulling open large heavy iron gates, why was it so difficult? Looking around the living room, and the couch I was lying down on, I felt uncomfortable, so I tried to move at least a little, to make myself more comfortable.

I couldn’t move, not even a muscle. I was frozen in place, because I knew if I even flinched, things would not turn out well. In this moment I realized I might actually die and this is how it all ends. It was a hot summer day in Maine we were on vacation at the Grand Lake Stream. My family and I were staying at a little cabin right on the lake. My dad and I were sitting on the old, run down dock. I was sitting on the edge of the scratchy wood, dipping my feet in the chilly water to cool off from the hot sun. I was deep in my thoughts looking out to the fourteen thousand acre lake. The warm sunrays beating down on my face felt so relaxing.

My experience with literature begin in kindergarten when reading the Magic Treehouse books. These books were the first in my life that I would actually read willingly cover to cover. Before I would begin to read a book just to quit after I deemed it boring or dull, but these books were different I actually liked them. This would continue until the 3rd grade where I would read different books like don’t you know there’s a war going on, it was a World War II book that was centered on an elementary kid like myself. After that, I read historical fiction consistently mainly involving wars Civil War, WWI, WWII, Vietnam, etc. I also felt like if I had to read for an any assignment it was forced and I would skim or do little actually

It’s easier to be heard when you don’t actually speak. I have never considered myself a writer. I don’t ever recall a time when I wanted to be a writer, but ever since I could hold a pencil, I’ve been writing things down. They started out as scribbles on construction paper when I wasn’t too busy taste testing my crayons. Then they evolved into repeated letters, backwards, forwards, what have you, dancing up and down across lines three times the necessary width. Once I learned the proper forms I could write these letters in different orders. I could jumble them across the page putting a ‘D’ next to an ‘O’ or a ‘C’ next to an ‘A.’ My notebooks started to look like word search novels. It was then I was taught to make words with meanings that could be used to make sentences with complete thoughts. Suddenly, the random flicks of my wrist started to form words and I had the power to communicate in a whole new way.

My love for writing started when I was around ten years old. I was extremely shy growing up. I had friends but only a handful, I would rather be alone with a book or be working on a story. My writing was my escape from whatever was going on in my life whether it was my grandma being sick or getting in a fight with my older sister, all I needed was a notebook and a pen to write whatever I was feeling out. This lead to notebook upon notebook being filled with stories of the handsome prince saving the princess, or hopeful tales of a shy girl meeting her true love. I was in charge of my own little world and I could make anything and everything happen. As I grew older I kept writing, even though I had outgrown my shyness. I kept writing because

I received a call from Ms Mullen, she stated she has received a call from Bruce Janice and Juan Basope (?) she was not sure about Juan's last name.

Lets be honest here, I had no freaking clue what to write about. I can’t remember how many times this essay has changed. In the end, I thought I was happy with it, however, I am here editing it again. I can never tell it in a way that I am happy with it. Death is no happy subject though, and the events leading up to it is particularly dark. Let’s try this again, from the top!