Personal Narrative: Loss Of My Heart

I have lost my grandpa and have not gotten over the idea of it. When I was in the sixth grade, my grandfather was very sick; he could barely walk. While my grandmother and some other family members went uptown for some household things, food, and medication, I was told to take care of him. Yet, I wanted to play with my friends outside. He told me to go ahead and play, but for some reason I just got mad and slammed the door and left. Around nighttime, I seen an ambulance pull up to my grandparents’ house.

Reaching across the center console of my car, I imagined the commute that I had into school. My 1992 Jeep Cherokee courageously braved the snowstorm of the year, with only one functional windshield wiper and a forlorn four wheel drive system. As I turned onto the Merritt Parkway, a Honda Civic swerved past me and proceeded to weave in and out of the afternoon traffic. Fast-forward sixty seconds and that Honda was now engulfed by the powder white trees which bound the highway. Instinctively, I pulled up behind the crash site, dialing 911 as I ran over to the mangled wreck. I peered into the car, my pupils the size of marbles, and the driver seemed uninjured; regardless, I proceeded to reassure the driver that Emergency Medical Technician’s/Paramedic’s

Watching the men eat the meat they hunted yesterday, I wonder what would have happened if they were in my place. My mother and I barely have an entire meal compared to what the men are eating. As the day went by, I had to say something, I had to speak up, but not for me, for my mother and father’s legacy. When all the men that were on the council were together, I gathered up the courage and walked into their igloo. I told them my point of view and my problems, but not as Keesh, I spoke as the son of the greatest hunter to ever walk on the rim of the polar sea, Bok. My father died trying to save this entire village and everyone seems to forget that I am his son and that my mother is his wife. I have dealt with a lot of hardships since

My G.P.R. is 3.328 the G.P.R. is high enough to get into the colleges of my choice. I feel that it is not a very competitive score though. I have talked to my consoler and she was telling me that every tiny grade matters to move my G.P.R. up. I plan to try to get the best grade possible this semester in order to move my G.P.R. up. My guidance consoler informed me that I can move up tremendously in my class rank just by moving my G.P.R. up by decimals.

In American Culture its commonplace for someone to promise they “won’t tell a soul”,after hearing another person’s secret. This phrase is often uttered when the secret is negative. In cases of child abuse these words may not be uttered, but the child is left with the understanding that the incident isn’t to be discussed. The abuser may threaten to do further harm to the victim, if they tell anyone about what happened. In other instances the child may not want anyone else to know because they feel ashamed about the abuse; guilt, and betrayal are also common emotions experienced by victims of abuse. I know because over the past twenty-six years, I’ve experienced all of them. Although, my need to experience the unconditional

Overall, Trimester 1 has really shed a new light on ELA. Throughout elementary school, I had always despised ELA. I struggled with writing and finishing stories. I had plenty of ideas, but I just wasn’t able to get them onto paper in the form of a story. I knew little of what else ELA class had to offer other than writing stories. This trimester I learned many new things that made me appreciate ELA class a little bit more. I learned that ELA is not just writing stories, it is also finding the theme, reading, and many others.

I remember when I started my recovery I was discharged from the detox program into a six month transitional program. Transitional living that deal with people recovering from addiction are often referred to as recovery residences. The Transitional Living Center provided me a place where I could re-establish my own self-worth. When I was at the transitional housing I felt safe from the possibility of a relapse. My recovery plan was individualized according to the determination of my needs. They taught me what my triggers were and how deal with them in positive ways. I remember when my six months were up and I was getting ready to be transferred into the supportive housing program to be integrated back into the community. Supportive housing allowed

It's hard to stay out of it when you already in it. Enduring the pain you feel for others, while they don't know it yet. I see through the lies around me and through their fake smiles. I wish I could ask them why they are smiling when they're not happy. What made me stronger was a friend who tried to change my mind to their side of the story. While we both know, you were in the wrong, but still trying to make me think the same way as she does.The lies they told me when I know the truth, and for her to still try to convince me otherwise. When I know my friend is in pain, but hide it with a smile, showing me her real self to me, but for me to do nothing to help her. Knowing that if I said something to the source of her pain, I could just make

His hand was covered in blood, as he put it under his wife’s head. On the other hand was a phone, already dialed to call the hospital. In the back, the sound of a woman screaming; crying in pain. Brandon is calm, taking deep breaths in and out. He never thought it would happen like this because he had thought of this day over and over again making the new one more perfect from the last. He recites what he will eventually say to the nurse, “My wife is bleeding out, and the murderer is in my house get two ambulances here right away” Brandon told the people at the hospital where he lives, and there were two ambulances on their way to the house. Brandon looked over at the murderer, sitting on the cold hardwood floor looking braindead with blood

This story refers to those who find curiosity addictive. Usually entails an interest in Death or physical or emotional pain and torment of another person.

The major loss that I think of that I have suffered in the past is when my dad died when I was three. Now I don’t really remember much from when he died but I know from what people have told me that I really wasn’t sure as to what was going on and really didn’t understand that my dad wasn’t going to be coming back home. I do remember from what I was told that I would cry a lot and say where’s daddy and why isn’t he coming home. Now that it is 16 years later I feel that I have changed from the person I was then to the person I am now. I know it’s easy to say I have changed because I was three when my dad’s death happened, but I do truly believe I have. I feel that I have changed because I am now able to fully understand what death is and what

My heart pumped as if it was victimized in a heart attack. The pulse seemed to be rising higher and faster as time shortened. I glanced back, sought out for clarity. You could see my shivering body stranded at the middle of the hall during the afternoon. All eyes on the overwhelmed kid, wondering to see what she has to say in the event. Was this really happening? I closed my eyes for a second, taking me back to early morning where this event took place.

It all started around the time of early October of 2013. I had been getting hives on my face and upper chest, making me itchy. As time progressed, I was becoming worse. Around the time of November 13, 2013, my face was very swollen. My face was swollen because this was my bodies way of telling me that their is a foreign object that was not satisfying my system. On that day, I had stayed home because my mom and dad had decided to keep me home because of my face.

The year was 2001 and I had suffered a tragic accident that left me near the loss of my life. I was four at the time and had been playing in the neighborhood with some friends when all a sudden, BAM! I was thrown to the bottom of a sewer and left unconscious. Not knowing what to do, a couple of friends who saw the act take place rushed to get my dad across the street to help retrieve me. Once my dad got to the scene he plunged down into the filth of the sewer and pulled me out of it. While I was semi-conscious from being pulled out of the hole, I had blood coming profusely out of my mouth as I began to violently throw up, little did I know, I was having seizures and did not even know what was going on around me, where I was, or if I was going to live. I had to nearly be life flighted out of the scene of I had a high chance of extreme brain damage or even death because of the high amount of blood swelling in the frontal lobe of my head. Once the paramedics finally arrived my eyes were swollen shut

When I was growing up my parents allowed me to make money by bringing home good grades. I received money for A and Bs on my report card! My mother use to always say "save your money". However, as a kid the first thing I wanted to do was spend my money. Saving wasn't even a meaning to me as a kid. I always knew how much I made from my school your report card always reflected the last nine weeks. I would compare how much I made the last nine weeks to how much I made hat following nine weeks. That allowed me to know how much I earned. Even if I never had any money to show for the last nine weeks. As a child that was the only way I kept track of how much money I made.