Personal Narrative: My Personal Story

It was 3 am in the morning. I woke up to a chilling phone call. I grabbed my phone and it was from Veronica. I was so confused, so I answered it. “Hello... “ I said as I heard screaming and crying coming out of her voice.

"Maybe she isn't like us, maybe she is j-Ow Jules don't hit me there!" a unfamiliar male voice groaned in pain

I’ve always thought of myself as a decent writer until I got prompts like this. I usually do well on writing assignments when I’m tasked to analyze two varying texts or record the development of some fictional character, but when it came to analyzing my life I’ve always had a difficult time. It's like everything becomes cluttered in my mind and I feel that I have so much that I need to say, yet so much that I shouldn’t. I remember just last year we had a memoir project with a rubric that stated that "the goal of a memoir is to describe the subject’s personal experiences, not to make the reader feel bad for the subject". I found that project especially difficult due to me always thinking that some of the best memoirs had to invoke some powerful

I really had trouble finding a topic that I thought would inspire readers or keep their attention. I reviewed the information from unit one several times before picking my topic. The topic that I chose was a scary situation for me that took place this year and felt that readers needed to know how these types of incidents can happen and how often they happen around the world. I felt like my story alone could not make the paper requirements and may need to revise several areas where I stated outside information even though I felt it to be very important information and relevant to my personal story. As I was writing my story I felt like I did a good job and had a successful paper, until I reviewed unit three’s lecture and lecture review, where

I felt like nothing. Everything was numb. Two in the morning hit, and I knew I would regret staying up so late. At that moment though, nothing mattered. Tears stained my face and my eyes were more swollen than a broken foot. Everything was hurting. It hurt so badly I could physically feel the pain aching in my chest. I knew it wouldn’t be the end. Last time was never the last time. I knew I was lying when I said I’d never do it again. I promised myself, but any promise you make to yourself is a lie, life or death if you ask me. No one knew. Not a soul. And I intended to keep it that way. I was only fourteen. I was just a kid, hardly in the world as a teenager let alone this person with all these real feelings. As a girl, if I had

I’m sure I am the “ole guy” in the group at the age of 57 years old. I can hear what you are thinking, this guy is older than my parents. I first started college in 1977. It was fairly short lived and un-eventful, my priorities were not in place and as a result I dropped out. Contrary to what you have just read, I have always been a positive, goal oriented person, college just wasn’t that goal at the time.

So there I was a fifteen year old, one ear pressed to the ice cold artificial wood of my bedroom door listening to my mother’s angry, drunken rant. “I just don’t understand why all he ever wants to do is play on his stupid little satan box upstairs. Why can’t he be like a normal boy and want to do something manly like football!!!” I sat there and continued to listen, like an assassin in night waiting to strike, to every disgusted word that erupted from my mother’s alcohol engorged mouth as she explained to my aunt over the phone how she thought of me as a pitiful disgrace. After the longest thirty minutes of my life, I had finally had enough, I kicked open my bedroom door with such force that it came off its hinges and hit the ground with a loud thud. My mother instantly turned to face me, a look of undeniable terror on her face. She knew that I heard every single poisonous word that oozed from her mouth. She knew what

Of the three essays I wrote this term my favorite was my personal narrative. I had never put much thought into my relationship with literacy. It was a topic I thoroughly enjoyed and I think it shows. That essay was the strongest paper I wrote. I think the strength came from writing about something I know so well, myself. The other essays I had trouble connecting with the topics and it made it difficult to come up with expanded thoughts and ideas write about. I think the biggest strength I have is being able to move through each idea and connect everything together. I am a very simple and straight forward writer. My greatest weakness is my inability to put words onto paper. I have the hardest time trying to sort my ideas out and create comprehensive concepts. I can usually get the big ideas down but have trouble explaining further and breaking it down. This is most obvious in my Modern Times analysis. I did a very good job retelling the film but my own opinions were few and not as developed as they could have been. I think it could have helped if the topic was something I found more interesting because I can talk about movies all the time.

It all began with a simple phone call one night after dinner. “Joe,” my father hollered up the stairs, “it’s for you” It is Jackie and she sounds really upset.” I walked downstairs to pick up the phone to see what was wrong with Jackie. “Hello Jackie, what is wrong?” as I was listening to her on the phone I was becoming very upset. I was not happy with Jackie. I was very tired and had looked forward to a nice quiet evening at home, not another stupid adventure with Jackie. After talking to Jackie for about five minutes she said “ I will be over in a few to pick you up because we really need to talk in person.” Hanging up the phone very upset because I did not want to be bother with any adventures.

We were in Laredo, having just finished our first day at a Habitat for Humanity work site. The

When I was younger me and my brother loved playing superhero games with blankets. We would tie them around our waist or neck. I would do both because it made the cape look longer. My brother Kohen would have his on his neck because he would step on his if it was on his waist. So one night we were playing and it was time for Kohen to go to bed. And I didn't want to play by myself, so I went to my room for the night. The thing is that i forgot to take the cape off. When I had my bed on the ground I had to stand on the edge of it to turn off my lights.

It is too many times to count that I find my mind wandering far, far away from my most apparent struggles. My calm and cool composure is one that I uphold with pride. But little do they know, dear reader, is that I often find myself sinking, in the complexity of what are my thoughts and experiences. I am currently much too deep in the water, it almost seems easier to swim down. Drowning in your own head is not pleasant, my friend, not at all.

"Who's is it" I said excitedly with a glowing expression on my face "where did it come from" "Did you buy it" I hurriedly asked my dad 1 million questions waiting on an response. He just stood there with a smile on his face barely biting his lip with happiness in his eyes. I don't think I ever seen this kind of expression on his face. I think that day his excitement was matching mine.

My heart was pounding in my chest feeling like it would burst out any minute, “why is this happening I sobbed. I couldn’t even think my head was racing so fast, “how is this possible how….how….HOW!” I shrieked, But that was my biggest mistake.

Having to talk about myself and tell my story is as nerve wracking as jumping off of a cliff, and I hate heights so that says a lot. I love to listen to people's problems and stories. However, I do not enjoy sharing mine. Explaining to someone why you are the way you are can be an emotional subject and it can also be very intimidating. At least for me it is.