I was quite a rambunctious child, always getting myself into precarious situations; whether it was climbing trees, playing with matches, or running with scissors. My actions did not reflect my parenting; my parents tried to teach me to be careful, unfortunately it took an unpleasant, but humorous experience to teach me that lesson. I was three years old at the time and that day I decided to run through the house like a superhero. I pulled an Atlanta Braves hat over my head for some odd reason and proceeded to start my mission. As I ran into the kitchen I felt something grab the corner of my mouth and it completely stopped my momentum. It just so happens that a few minutes before my run, my mother opened the kitchen cabinet and forgot to close
Romance novels are typically based in a set pattern and Karen van der Zee’s A Secret Sorrow is no exception. Meanwhile, in Gail Godwin’s “A Sorrowful Woman”, the romance aspect is not nearly as focused on. While A Secret Sorrow is a nice, easy romance novel, the short story “A Sorrowful Woman” is a much better example of literature, and portrays a much more unique message. The two stories differ greatly when compared by their theme, by the role of motherhood and children, and by how they are written.
Water rolled down my face as I took the last bite of my Cheetos and I supposed of getting something to drink. I ran back to my aunt and got some water, I also told her about what we were doing and she warned me to conclude this nonsense. I went back thinking about it as I hit the ground instantly. I got back up and went back to them, even with me holding my right hand over my left. I finally got to the top, all 3 of them were waiting since it was my turn. I went, but all I felt was blood dripping from my middle finger after some friction. I got back up and gave them the deadly, dirty, and destroyed piece of cardboard, at this moment I knew I had been an unwise little 6-year-old male
When I was four years old, I wasn’t paying attention to my parents and as they were walking into a store, they left me behind. I remember really wanting a Barbie bicycle and I had been distracted. I was then left alone inside of Rockingham Mall and since I was only four, I didn’t know what to do. At first, I started panicking and looking around the mall. I remember seeing a lot of people walking by and it was a really busy day. So then I started to cry and I walked around the mall all by myself. I was on the second floor at that time so I went down the stairs, which I tripped on. I had hit my hand badly and it was bleeding. That’s when I started to cry. I then walked around the mall crying until I reached one of the exits.
When I was six years old on a foggy day in june 2010 I was in a dark and upset mood. Not only was I frustrated that I had a cast on my leg and couldn’t do anything fun, I was in a gloomy mood. I had spent the morning inside on my couch playing video games like ratchet and clank, and arguing with my parents over my attitude. Around noon my Dad Owen and my Mom Tracy called me and my younger brother Reese out to our front deck. We were curious because we didn’t know what they had wanted us for after all, I was playing video games and my brother who loves lego was playing with lego. When we were out the front door and
Even though I was smart at school, outside of that I was clumsy, messy, and always getting hurt. When I was about 6, I dropped a ball behind a large floor TV, and while trying to retrieve it, got stuck between it and the wall. I was stuck for almost an hour and still bare an indention on my forehead to this day. In the summer of the next year, I was playing outside on a mini race car and lost control of it, and ended up being dragged up the driveway until I finally let go. I don’t have much feeling left in my knees still
Mishibi was a man who loved to write poems. He always had his tattered notebook with him, and his eyes twinkled when he had an idea. I always loved the way he would nibble on his pencil, and I would play with his long hair to help him relax.
Who would have thought that an innocent trip to the mall would cause me to have such a traumatizing experience, getting lost! It began on a sunny day, my mother decided that she would take my siblings and I to the mall to look around. As we strolled around the crowded mall, we advanced to the toy store. Rummaging through the toy filled Isles, a brand new toy caught my eye. As I began to examine it, I noticed my mom had vanished! I frantically looked for her, sprinting down the mall. A woman just so happened to spot me alone and grabbed my hand, heading towards the exit door! Not long after she took my hand, my mom saw me a started shouting my name. I ran to her as quick as my legs could carry me and leaped into her arms! After that day I never
When I fell, I fell on the same big scrape on my knee that had just scabbed over. The cut broke open again and it took even more layers off of my knee. Blood started running down my leg, but I did not notice, so I just kept skimming. When the salty, ocean water splashed on the open cut, I knew that it was way worse than It had been before. I looked down to see how bad it was, and the whole front of my leg was red. I ran up to my mom and she freaked out. “What happened? Are you okay? You need to go wash that off! I’ll go get the lifeguard.” I went up to the shower, where you wash the sand off your feet, to wash off all of the blood. Then I went to the lifeguard to get a bandage. The lifeguard was really nice, but he did not speak very good English. He was from Poland. My mom was sitting next to me and my grandma was on the other side of my mom. My mom was leaning toward taking pictures as usual. My grandma was trying to see him but my mom was in the way. “Down in front woman!” my grandma whispered angrily at my mom. This was the closest my grandma had been to the lifeguard, so she was really happy. After he cleaned my knee, I went back up to the hotel room. I could not shower because my knee was so bad, so I had to use a hotel cup to get the seawater out of my hair. I put my pajamas on and went to the lobby to watch television. My family came to the lobby when it got dark, and we ordered pizza for the seventh
Once we headed out, I noticed my mom’s car. I started running towards her car and my brother trips me, but I didn't fall immediately. It was the slowest fall ever, I kept running but I was slowly losing balance and then I just hit the floor, I scraped my hands, I had tiny gravel embedded in my hands, my knees
It didn’t hurt the day they died. Not the way that people thought it did. There wasn’t the feeling of utter dispair, or the raw grief that generally came with the death of loved ones. No, that came later. It was just numbness. Numbness and the slight feeling of longing – longing to be taken with them. Longing to have them back. Longing to not have to suddenly face life alone.
I wish I was told what I was going through physically and emotionally throughout my childhood. This is a paper about my life and I will incorporate the course material throughout this assignment. I remember when I was around 5 years old when my brother accidentally cut off his finger with a small saw. We were doing yard work and were all helping and I turn around to see my little brother with a small saw. He pressed the button which turned on the machine and there his finger was on the grass. I was so shocked to see what had happened and I screamed for mom and dad. He was in so much shock that he didn’t even move. It was so bloody that I almost passed out because I felt so queasy. Sigmund Freud would say that was a traumatic experience for
I was 9 years-old, in 3rd grade, and it had only been a few days after my birthday. I continued to scream, bleeding through my pajamas, when I then felt a sudden, stabbing pain in my lower stomach. I collapsed onto my knees on the floor, clutching my stomach in pain. My mom had woken up, and she had heard me screaming all the way from the living room. She came into my room after she had rushed down the hallway, and she knelt down next to me. “Shh….I understand that this is all very scary to you, but please stay calm. Mama will help you,” she whispered to me.
Out of all the doctors I saw, there’s only one I will never forget. For three years he continued to feed my amphetamine addiction, Adderall. I hate him for that. As an addict, I played the “I don’t notice any difference in my attention span” card and it actually worked. He was being paid three-hundred dollars an hour to support my addiction. It was all about money to him. “Will you be paying cash or credit card?” If he had cared about me as a patient, he would have realized that prescribing me excessive amounts of Adderall was only going to set me up for failure. After three years of being prescribed four times the average amount, I got smart, and it ruined my life. It all started in my senior year of high school. Everybody I hung out with was either smoking pot or cigarettes. Not me, I was snorting Adderall daily, and smoking cigarettes like a chimney. People started to figure out why I was so skinny, ninety-six pounds and five-foot-five-inches tall. My secret was out, and here was the perfect chance to see who liked to do what I did in the bathroom every day. By the end of week one, I had three people to sell whatever was left of my Adderall prescription. Within a month, I was making over one-thousand dollars a month. I was a naïve seventeen-year-old girl, who got money hungry. The psychiatrist I was seeing was making so much money just by supplying my bad habit, and I figured why not make the money he took from my family back by selling what he was prescribing me. It