I sat at the kitchen counter, staring at the green cabinets and bowls of fruit. I wanted to play in tonight’s soccer game, but my mind was still foggy from the drugs I received in the hospital the day before. I didn’t want my teammates to see me like this. My hair was matted from where my head rubbed against the blue hospital pillow, and a wrinkled piece of clear tape secured a nasal feeding tube onto my cheek. I hated what the tube meant: that I was inadequate and that I couldn’t drink by myself. I was someone who insisted on doing everything on my own, and the thin, flexible tube was a physical reminder that I could not. My mom and dad lauded my bravery, but I dismissed them. I didn’t believe bravery was dictated by necessity.
I have always loved to tell stories. When I was six, I would gather all my stuffed animals and recite lavish stories to them. Tales of warrior princesses, ferocious dragons, and handsome knights would pour from my lips as I talked for hours on end. As I grew, I began to write my stories down on the backs of old coloring book pages. Though my penmanship, grammar, and spelling made the stories illegible, there was still something magnetic about manifesting the words onto the page. I wanted to turn the ideas in my head into something tangible. Throughout middle school, I filled dozens of notebooks. My mother was constantly running to the store to grab me yet another set of marble notebooks. Everything from plot outlines to poems were crammed into those lined pages. Though I eventually switched from paper to a keyboard and computer screen, my writing did not stop. As I transitioned into high school, writing became my solstice. I could pour every ounce of stress, happiness, sadness, and exhaustion into a blank word document. The highlight of my day came when I could just sit down and type until my fingers began to protest.
Writing my research philosophy and paper about writing spaces and rituals reflect Laurel Richardson’s words, in WRITING, A Method of Inquiry, “ None of us knows his or her final destination, but all of us can know about the shape and makers of our lives, that we can chose to confront, embrace, or ignore” (p. 967). When I began the writing journey I wasn’t quite sure where I was going, but through assemblage, I was able to produce some type of order.
I was wandering in the mall recently , aimlessly as some of us do, basically waisting time. In my travels I came across a kiosk that sold various cellphones, chargers, and other accessories. The young man behind the counter asked if I needed any help, I answered as most of us do with a "no, I'm just looking."
Growing up with a father in the military, you move around a lot more than you would like to. I was born just east of St. Louis in a city called Shiloh in Illinois. When I was two years old my dad got the assignment to move to Hawaii. We spent seven great years in Hawaii, we had one of the greatest churches I have ever been to name New Hope. New Hope was a lot like Olivet's atmosphere, the people were always friendly and there always something to keep someone busy. I used to dance at church, I did hip-hop and interpretive dance, but you could never tell that from the way I look now.
I feel a sense of calmness wash over me. My thoughts are peaceful and positive. I am confident and capable. I sleep a deep, healing sleep. I wake in the morning refreshed and renewed.
Last summer I wanted to work and earn a little cash and distract myself and not be home all summer. I didn't know where to apply so I applied everywhere I was even open to working in the fields my parents told me that the fields were the last place they ever wanted me to work. My mom and step dad Raul always told me that field work wasn't easy and that it was not for me but I didn't listen.
First there was nothing but darkness. It felt like an endless void for one man. But as quickly as the darkness appeared, it disappeared into the light of day. The man dubbed ‘Hero’ quickly looked around the lush hills consisting of trees, rabbits, birds, squirrels and… slimes? He slowly walked over to one, still not trusting his legs, and as he drew closer the slime jumped at him. The slime impacted Hero and sent him stumbling backwards. Hero looked for something to fend off the attacker and found a copper short sword at his hip. He pulled it out of the sheath and stabbed at the slime. To his surprise the slime exploded into a pile of copper coins and a few balls of slime. Walking toward it he was surprised when the 2 objects started to float
I have been in the Marine Corps for roughly three and a half years and throughout that time I have done many things. Most of the things that I have done were with Combat Logistics Battalion 26. For three years, I worked with that unit through work ups and a deployment and I have seen and done many unique things. However, nothing I did with CLB 26 felt fulfilling, but that all changed when I changed units to CLB 8.
It’s been a year since the incident. Everyone is either gone or is trying to leave but the wealthy who are isolated from the rest of the nation, living large. We all thought it was possible, but no one thought it would actually happen. We didn’t think this country would run itself so far into the ground that it is beyond recovery. No one thought he could do this. Tuesday, November 8, 2016. The day it all started, the day he came to power. Everyone was either watching it happen live or asleep in their beds. Once morning came it was official, he became our president.
I have been in recovery now for about five years because of my drug and alcohol dependency. I started doing drugs in middle school and kept appearances up until my senior year of high school. My senior year of high school I stopped dancing and other positive activities. I believe that being a part of activities kept my drug use at bay until it took over my life. Some positive factors in my life that helped me not use every day were self-control and teacher monitoring. Also, I kept busy so I could stay on track for the most part. The risk factors for me using drugs and alcohol are having a hard time expressing emotions in a healthy way. I was unable to delay gratification and using drugs so young made it hard for me to mature like the rest of
Home is the beginning of one’s book. It is where your story begins, forms its characters, shows its purpose, and reveals its ora. This is how mine is written. Home is on the buzzing highway down a bumpy gravel road. It’s Brandon, Mississippi. It is the only home I’ve ever known. Home is the smell of homemade biscuits and tomato gravy on Saturday mornings. It is “Bless Your Heart” and “Yes Mam” and “No Sir”. The little bedroom in the back of a grey double-wide where Carrie Underwood songs played and where I learned to curl my hair and put on mascara. My cousins and I running around with mason jars, chasing the lightning bugs. Bar-B-q on the back porch and never meeting a stranger. It is the morals learned and the identity
Hope, struggle, and determination are the three words I use to describe my high school career. My parents have always held me to high expectations that most people in my situation would never think about, but their highest goal for me was that I attend college. We grew up poor due to my parent's divorce when I was only eight-years-old, and I struggled with severe depression and anxiety my entire life; conversely, my goal is to continue to still strive to make my parents proud and attend college. Moreover, I keep up my grades and fight to reach the so-close-yet-so-far dream my parents put in motion for me. I am the first person in my entire family to attend college, despite the seemingly daunting task; I am not afraid because I have a had a
'Well there are little incident both me and Dad have been talking to each other now but it was pretty awkward but we had a bond I guess you could say it's a bit cringey,... wait why am I talking to myself, anyways. Vlad has invited me to his house to play games it is about 2:23 PM so I am going to get ready and head on over to his house.