Personal Narrative: Loss Of Personal Identity

At the age of nine, I watched my uncles lowering my father into the ground and what took his life was addiction. All my life I have watched addiction take over the lives of people, I love. My father's side of the family, besides my grandparents, has always faced addiction. Although, addiction runs through my blood, I will not take the same path I have watched people take all my life. I will be the one to end the cycle. Watching the majority of my family waste their life has motivated me to change the direction and better myself from living a life of addiction and misery.

I grew up in rural Indiana with three brothers. Our family was a little different than most because all of us children had been adopted. The oldest of us, Andy, was two years older and had cystic fibrosis which meant he probably wouldn’t live to be 30 or more. The remaining three of us were biologically brothers. Triplets in fact. Our parents adopted all three of us together for some brave reason. I used to joke that there was a buy one get two free sale at the adoption agency and that I was the only one they actually wanted. It was never hidden from us that we were adopted, but it always left me feeling that I didn’t quite belong in certain family functions. I wanted to feel like I belonged in my environment. The military

“ It’s not to your concern, anyways. As me and Deen do the job, you will stay put here atop this mountain-side, inside the mountain cave. All you are to do is merely wait and give us input to the positions of guards and cameras,you will gain

I quickly swallowed my homemade authentic Indian food leftovers and gulped down my chocolate milk. Looking down at my watch that read 11:28am, I knew that I only had two minutes until my most favorite part of the day: recess. This particular day in 5th grade, I had run a lap around the playground before getting the rest of recess to myself. As I started walking for my warmup, another student ran up and said, “My parents said that your people caused 9/11.” Completely caught off guard, I held back the tears in my eyes and tried to shake off his comment. I had never encountered something like this.

My is name Kyra Alexandra Avila Kepfer. Kyra is my mom’s name and Alexandra comes from my dad’s middle name “Alexander”. My Dad’s last name, Avila, is from Spain and Guatemala. My mom 's last name, Kepfer, is German. My mom was originally going to call me Katherine Andrea. My names meaning is light, throne, and sun. Since my mom’s name is also Kyra my family calls me Kyrita which is my name in spanish. At times my mom will call me “Alex” which is short for Alexandra. My mom has always called me that and my family has called me Kyrita for as long as I can remember. Many strangers pronounce my name Kira which kinda gets annoying after a while but it 's understandable. To my family my name means a fun, lovable, and active 15 year old girl who loves to spend time with family and friends. I like my name because its original and not common. The fact that my name means the sun is interesting because it 's so unique and bright, which is how I want my future to be. If i had the chance to change my name i wouldn 't because i 'm used to it and i feel like it defines me as a person. I’m grateful that my mom named me Kyra and i 'll always embrace it.

Days pass until I see him make an appearance while I’m fully conscious. By counting the meals he’s left on the nightstand, I’ve determined that I’ve been in here for at least a week.

“One step closer and you lose the hand,” she warned the imposter. “Gideon,” she started, “let the crew know we have a stowaway.” She glared at the man standing before her, hating every ounce of his being for dishonoring the memory of the man he looked to be.

How does one define their identity? What are the most important things in life to you? Many cannot answer this question. It’s a problem many people face and try to find a solution to. Everyone is born into different cultures, families and even communities, but how we define our identity is from our personal attributes, our skills and abilities that we possess and even our interests and hobbies. If there’s something about you that you believe defines you in a big way, this could be considered your identity. Our identities are a complex interworking of genetics, our cultural and familial upbringing, spirituality, social circles, personal choice and taste, our community, as well as many other traits. I have an identity that specifically pertains to me. It’s been forming ever since the day I’ve been born and

The blaring whistle that signaled the guards to capture him would have been the only thing that I would have heard if not for my brother's last words. I looked back and saw green eyes looking back at me. In the wind, I heard his voice. “I’m sorry, Elizabeth.” With that he was off into the night.

When I immigrated to the US, I struggled with my identity, unsure of my place in my new home. This feeling was further intensified with sense of loneliness I experienced when I began community college. For a while, I tried my hardest to fit in but my accent and dress were an indication that I was not from here. In order to avoid the awkward bigoted questions and remarks that would make me feel that I did not belong here, I spoke less and shortened my interactions with others.

Strolling into my last hour of the day like any other, only to find that there was a substitute, another day of busy work instead of reviewing for the test. I sat in my assigned seat in the back of the class as usual, while the sub introduced himself.

More people would understand if I was in a wheelchair. Everything would be clear if I had a terminal illness or something wrong on the outside. The problem is that my wounds aren't discernible to most people. My scars aren't tangible. Instead of receiving sympathy from those I first let in, I was told to get over it. I was told that I wasn’t depressed because I have a loving family. I was told I wasn’t sad because I’m well off, because I do well in school, because I’m a guy. Despite that, I learned to find strength in my brokenness so I could make myself whole again.

“I would if I could, but all your numbers are cut off. I sent you and e-mail, but I guess you’ve been busy.”

“Siitae?” I turned around to face my cousin, “ Are you leaving the house like that?”

A person’s identity can be portrayed as a composer and his musical compositions, as in that the types of pieces created throughout their life, come to represent them. Sometimes ideas for new music comes from existing or recent pieces of music, and could be opportunity for imitating it or changing it up in some way, such as a jazz improviser soloing over a tune or a composer using a borrowed musical theme. However, the beauty of this is that, no two improvised solos or themes will be exactly the same, even if they were influenced by the same source, because the composer will have added a personal touch or trait.