Introduction: My goals for this essay were to show how music has affected me in my life. This was a very difficult piece for me to write because of how personal it is to me. I am proud of the details that I incorporated throughout my piece and how descriptive I think it is. I would like to improve on analysis and reflection because these were things that I struggled with while writing this.

My baby blue walls surround me I sit in my room, bored out of my mind. I just finished my kindergarten homework. It was rewriting letters and words. As I lay on my bed, I hear a faint sound coming from the room next door. It was smooth and blaring. I’m used to this noise. It’s the sound of my father practicing his trumpet. This usually bothers me, but today, it intrigues me. The music of the horn captivated me and drew me to my father’s studio.

I slithered into the room and stood near the entrance, admiring what seemed to be perfect technique. Soon, he spotted me from the corner of his eye.

“Do you want to try?” he asked me. I nodded enthusiastically and scurried over to his side. He guided my hand onto the cold yellow brass. The smell of pennies penetrated my nose as I got closer to the trumpet. He placed his lips onto the mouthpiece and started to blow. The same sound from before began to fill the small room. For a second, I stood there, still. I had no idea what to do. How could I even compare to the maestro that was my father? But, with a few encouraging looks, I lightly pressed on the first valve and the sound shifted to something higher. I was making that sound. That beautiful, rich sound.

I pressed a few more valves to change the pitch more. My dad’s blank wall seemed to fill with brightness and color with each note played.

I soon went through every note three times and decided to stop. My dad smiled kindly at me and went to face his music again. It was much too complicated for me to comprehend. I went back to my bed with wonder in my ears and mind.

I wish I could say that this was the moment that I decided that I wanted to be a musician. That ever since that day all I’ve dreamt about was performing on stage with only me and an instrument. But twelve years later, I haven’t a single musical bone in my body. I attempted to play the violin for several years, but I found it to be a liability rather than a creative outlet. The rest of my family, however, is completely different.

Both of my parents are professional musicians and my two brothers are pursuing careers in music. I am the odd one out in my family, the black sheep. I find algebra and solving equations much more stimulating and interesting than reading notes off a staff. My parents tried to console me that I’m still artistic and I’m just like them, but I’ve accepted that I’m different.

That doesn’t mean that music isn’t important to me. Even though I’m not as involved in it as the rest of my family, music is a huge part of my life. Music is the reason I’m alive. Both metaphorically and literally.

I’m a complicated human being. Most of the time, I don’t like talking to people about how I feel or the things that are going on in my life. There are a million reasons why I don’t open up: I don’t want to feel pitied, they wouldn’t understand, I don’t want to burden them, etc. But those don’t matter. Music is how I allow myself to release the emotions I so often engulf myself in. Music is the way I feel. It’s the way I speak to others. It’s how I listen to myself.

After finding out that my mom was sick, I didn’t know how to feel. I had only ever known my mom as healthy and athletic. She walked ten miles a day sometimes, and then she suddenly has cancer of the leg bone. I couldn’t look at her and see a person with cancer. It was my mother, not some frail bald woman you feel bad for in the supermarket line.

kept silent about the news I had just heard. If I couldn’t comprehend what I had just learned, how could anyone else? So, I layed on my bed and stared at the ceiling, in silence for a while. But my mind was blank. The information was in my mind, but I couldn’t process it or formulate any new thoughts. So I turned on my music. I don’t even remember what I was listening to, probably the Beatles or a random playlist I had made, but I immediately started to break down. The fear and sadness that had been building in me for days had finally been allowed out. Everything came rushing out and I couldn’t control myself. I layed there, with tears and snot streaming down my face.

Some people think emotion shows weakness and that crying is worrisome. I don’t think that’s true. Letting all of my emotions out was the most therapeutic thing I could do at that moment, and the music was the key to that. If I had held it in, who knows what would’ve happened. I would have erupted at some random, inappropriate time as if I was a volcano only instead of scalding hot lava it was misery and fear.

The singer’s soft, melodic voice was able to reach into my soul with a key and unlock where I was holding it all in. It’s difficult to explain why music is able to help me open up. It would be easy to say that the way the lyrics are written in a way that feels personal to me and my situation, but I think it’s more than that. Of course, words help. Lyrics are poetry and they mean much more to me than anything a friend or an adult could say. But, there’s something about the melody and instrumentation too. Music is like an entirely different language to me. At first, it’s hard to understand. But as you study it and start listening to it more and more, you discover the beauty of it and what it really means.

That moment wasn’t the first and definitely not the last of my adventures in exploring my emotions with music. Pretty often after a tough day, I just need to come home, put on my favorite Sufjan Stevens song and let it all out. If I didn’t have music, I’m not sure there would be a time where I was able to open up like I do.

Music is life. Music is my life. I was born because of music, and I’m still alive because of music.

“The cops are outside.” I whisper. She doesn’t believe me. That is until I open her blinds of course. Blue and white lights fill up the room, and I quickly close the blinds. On a dark deserted street in Cobbs Creek, lays 8 squad cars with their bright siren lights on. However, the sirens themselves are turned off. I tell her to take a look at the security camera system in the dining room. We make our way downstairs. The dog is letting out a low deterring growl. Followed by a series of ear piercing irattic barking. I let mom take a look at the cameras, and sure enough there’s a tall caucaisan man with a police uniform pacing up and down my driveway. Then he bends down and looks under the familys’ gray nissan. I am not scared, but wary. In the back of my mind I am concerned that they might have a warrant and will kick down the door at any moment. The thought of my brother being arrested also crosses my mind, as this would not be his first time on the wrong side of the law. There is thick tension in the air as we don’t know why our home is surrounded by police officers. Not a word is said between my mother and I. But, it is understood that we must not get involved. We understand that police cooperation is frowned upon in the community. She hesitantly walks up the creaking hardwood stairs and returns to bed. I refuse to sleep though; I don’t know why they are looking for someone. Or if that someone might still be hiding among us? I proceed to stare at the living room wall for the next 4 hours in the darkness with a rapid heart beat. Just waiting for something to happen. When the sun finally goes up, my guard goes down and my eyes close. Why had I stayed up all night? It was due to a variety of reasons. Growing up without a father in the house led to me being very overprotective of my mother, she is my everything. She fills the role of both parents so I have to protect her, she’s all I have. But that isn’t the only reason why I acted so vigilant that night. The summer before this ordeal. An armed home invasion was attempted on my family. Which scared the hell out of my mother but just made myself hypervigilant. We no longer feel safe in our home. Which is why we even installed security cameras in the first place. There are nights where I can’t sleep, because I want to be awake if something bad were to occur. So if anything provoking happens, I stay up in the living room just to be there if someone were to bust through the front door. This is precisely what happened when our surveillance camera was stolen a year prior. When I got into a heated argument with a neighbor over blocking my driveway. And countless other times. I understand that this is not normal for teenagers living in first world countries. But, this is a part of who I am now. In a world full of violence how do we live normal lives? The truth is, statistically speaking, as Americans there is a low probability that you will be the victim of a violent crime. But there are certain parameters that rise the probability. Your zip code, having loved ones who’ve been incarcerated, living in a single parent household, etc. And I meet plenty of those parameters. The vast majority of Americans will go through their lives not being a victim of any heinous crime. What we must understand is that seeing crime after crime being broadcasted on the news makes us worry that it might happen to us. That worry is even worse when something like that happens in your neighborhood or to someone close to you. There is not a single solution to this problem. You have to think about it from both sides. From a logos perspective you can’t be too paranoid, but also have to use some pathos and just always be aware of your surroundings. You have to think about this from a third person point of view. If you use the first person you’re prone to react purely on emotion because you’re taking this personally. Looking at the big picture shows that even in bad neighborhoods the likelihood of being the victim of a violent crime is low. But that likelihood is still noticeably higher than for the average resident in PA. So you understand that caution is needed; whilst paranoia is not.

Intro:

My goals of this essay were to explore and try to make the reader understand how sexuality, puberty, identity, and image all interact. I’m proud of the fact that for the first time in a while, I was able to write about these topics with a flow that coincided with my feelings. The random flow and revisiting of memories recent and distant was intentionally sporadic, as to capture my pace of thinking and it’s overlap with what I wanted to write about. I think if I made more time for myself to work on the actual consistency and focus of this piece I’d have put more thought into some of the subtopics I visit. Nonetheless, I’m proud of this piece and hope you can enjoy.

Essay:

I joined social media when I was in middle school, probably 7th grade. I was about 12 when I started looking at my body differently. Resentment towards a prepubescent blocky shape. Fussing with hair, pinching at hips and thighs. Reassured that my body would stretch into a sleeker shape. Reassured I would be handsome, less feminine.

In 7th grade, I wanted an undercut. My mom shaved away the back and sides of my hair with old clippers, frequently asking that I sit up straight and hold still. Afterward, I must’ve burst into tears not moments after peering at my reflection in the mirror. It didn’t matter the cut or color, nothing would take attention away from my round face. Washing the freshly cut hair off my shoulders and back weeping quietly, “I don’t want to be a girl.”

The frustration I had toward my image peaked around the same time I got comfortable with my gay identity. Most media tends to portray homosexual identity in a damaging way. Though the nature of its representation should be empowering, it just creates a false idea of homosexuality. Emphasis on sex, body, clothes, speech, etc. There’s less discussion about bullying, prejudice, guilt, embarrassment, shame.

The shame can kill you. You sit in class, paranoid that someone knows or that someone could find out and tell. You survive the same way everyone else does. Jokes disparaging homosexuality. Slurs with delicious vowels rolling off your tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste. It’s subconscious and trained. You ́re a sleeper agent, equipped with the perfect comedy to mask your identity. After all, no one knows it better than you.

Being directly asked about your sexuality during this time is the worst. You don’t want to fib, but it’s easier. Maybe you’re being asked encouragingly by male friends, wanting reassurance that you all feel the same affliction to a girl in your class. It could be asked in a mocking tone, by a bully or a group thereof. Until you accept the part of yourself fighting its way out, your answer will remain an untruth, buried beneath shame, guilt, and a false sense of wrongdoing.

My first crush was a boy that likely faced some sort of confusion like I had, but was raised in an environment that lacked tools necessary to understand such feelings. Prolonged hugs in the dark, spooning at sleepovers, confused hormones, unnecessary I-love-yous, and so much shame. He had girlfriends he didn’t have feelings for. I had girlfriends I didn’t have feelings for.

Bargaining is very common, especially while exploring other identities. Yearning for some sort of flexibility, a wider variety of options. Bisexual, pansexual, demi, poly, etcetera. The lies you tell yourself might feel easier when pondering your identity. Lies are moldable, soft, and easy. The truth can be hard to accept. It is inconsiderate and uncaring to what you want, it simply is.

You might consider others with a sort of opulence around their sexuality. Others not like you have more options, lavishly exploring sensuality and feeding their sexual appetite. This isolation can make you grow desperate, yearning for comradery and understanding. A community can be found, whether that be via web forums, clubs, or amongst other outcasts you find yourself crossing paths with.

Early in my life, I found myself with other queer youth in an Instagram group chat, dedicated to some sort of online fantasy roleplay. I didn’t have much interaction with other LGBT folk up until that point, so being surrounded by it was highly liberating. Hours were spent nearly every day, typing, locked into conversation with people much like me. This didn’t wash away my guilt or shame completely, it just made it feel less alien or strange.

I still held a scowl as often as I could, shrouding my rather soft look. After being told by another student that I “walked gay,” my strut became more intrepid, heedless of what was around me. I dragged my uniform shoes, left buttons undone, tried my best to carry a dauntless and uncaring image. Could the way I dress now, (spikes and all) be influenced or a direct causality of this? Yes.

I was constantly focused on my image when I was younger— still am really. My body, my face, my hair. The persona I created was cunning, deviant, sexual. This, in hindsight, was mainly influenced by the queer representation we’ve had and still had. Rebelliousness, disobedience, insubordination. We’re subliminally taught that our very existence, our queerness, is an act of defiance against society, and more often than not, godliness. As if we had any say in the matter of our creation.

Introduction

What my goals were for the essay was to get people to never think of giving up as an option. Always think that you can do anything you put your mind to. Also to know how important it is to always give something a second chance. I’m proud of me telling these two stories to the class because these two stories were very emotional stories for me to talk about and for me to put it out there for people to see it makes me feel happy about myself. One thing I would improve is to make myself write the story as if I am speaking to someone else so that when they read it still feel like they’re right there with me.

Never giving up

All my life I went through it with people giving up on me, never having faith in me, and never trusting me. I’m getting tired of that so there was this teacher who came outside to look at my creation he decided he was going to put all 12 of the batteries on the battery cart that I made for the robotics club the battery cart collapse. At that moment I felt like I was a failure and everybody gave up on me but I wasn’t going to let that determine who I was. they said that someone else should make the battery cart Instead of me and I wouldn’t let them. When I mean that I wouldn’t let them. I wouldn’t give up on myself even though they’re giving up on me.

If you give up on yourself who else is going to believe in you in that moment of time. when no one wants you to do anything for them and they think you’re a failure. I would always say to myself “if you’re not good enough for yourself you’re not good enough for anyone else.” What I mean by this is If you don’t think you’re good enough to do something or to accomplish something who is going to think you can. So there was another incident where someone didn’t believe in me and guess what it was my friend.

So I laid on the ground and counted to 30 after 30 Seconds I was for sure going to do it. So I started 1, 2, 3, I licked my lips wipe the sweat off my face. But all I heard was Dylan screaming at me say ̈are you scared bro are you really scared You’re a wussy.¨ So I got up excitement rushing through my body, I said to myself you ain’t no wussy you can do this. So when I said to myself you ain’t no wussy I meant that I can do anything when I focus.

But at that time I couldn’t focus because Dylan was putting me down he was making me double think everything. I think that was the reason I fell when I was doing the trick. So what I realized after these two events happened, So know whenever I’m getting doubted or someone saying that I’m a failure. I just will not let that get to me and just focus on myself and what I’m doing at that because that can affect what I’m doing at the time. So what I realized after these two events happened, is that people are always going to have people doubt them and It’s not what you do back to them that makes a difference, it’s what you do back to yourself to not let it get to you that’s what makes the bigger difference.

The bigger picture of never giving up to me is that you are going to finish or accomplish the task or challenge at the time no matter how long it takes me to do it. I will work until the blood drips down my fingers and I can’t even stand to pick up my hand for another second. Then I still get up after like 30 because I can’t be happy with myself unless I finish what I started.

The heat of battle, of the pounding sun, was like a cannonball inside my aching skull. dizzy, nauseous. Everything hurt…Was this really happening? Intense pain shot through my forearm. I found myself releasing low moans of pain. There’s no possible way this could be happening. Commotion arose around me and I began to get bombarded with questions from my mom, as usual, she was yelling. I hate it here. I blinked, I’m pretty sure my arm was now ruptured. It happened all so quick. There I was, attempting to ride a skateboard, no clue how to balance myself or anything. None at all. “Be safe on that thing.” my mother repeatedly bellowed at me to the point where it got annoying. There’s no possible way a skateboard could do more than a scratch. I shrugged her off, continuing to fool around on the wooden skateboard. What was supposed to be 30 minutes turned into an hour and I knew because the sun began to set and the sky began to turn crimson. I began to feel down, I couldn’t achieve the trick I was trying so hard to do. After numerous attempts, I finally built of the undying courage and I placed one on my clothed feet on the edge of the skateboard. I twisted my body and pushed my other foot on the other edge of the skateboard, or at least I tried to, because before I knew it, I was flying. I landed harshly on my arm, hearing a snap. I let out an ear-piercing scream and my neighbors’ dog began to bark. My head began to feel dizzy as the pain in my arm increased. Was this really happening? Here I am, laying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. It was blue. I was blue. It was a very blue day for me as I clutched my cast that protected my now broken arm.

Scene #2

Click. Click. Click. The rain padded the window. The tv sounded low. I was going crazy and some days I ask myself why do I put myself in these pitiful situations. Just 3 hours ago, I was heading to sleep and here I am in a hospital bed with an eye patch over my eye. Why do I let my infatuations get the best of me? The burning sensation began and I knew I was on the verge of tears. At least It’ll be half the tears than on a regular day. “You’re so clumsy.” “You need to stay away... You’re just too clumsy that you might destroy it.” Do you know that terrifying feeling of knowing that you’re about to fall right before you fall? The short distance between the realization and the fall is just a few seconds so there’s no point in attempting to prevent yourself from falling. The feeling of the fall, for me, isn’t as bad as the horror of the knowledge that I’m about to fall. There’s nothing I can do about it. Too tired of blaming myself, I began to blame the universe. It all made sense. I’m not clumsy. It’s just that the floors hate me, the tables and chairs are bullies. The walls are just in the way.  I used to want to be a Physical Therapist but my mom told me that I would break my neck and that I couldn’t go up a flight of stairs without tripping. Now, here I am, 16 years old and I never learned how to do a backflip. Now I’m 16 years old and I want to be a writer but I’ve got a clumsy tongue and sometimes it trips over air, sometimes. This time, I’ll stick my neck out. 

Introduction: In this essay, I chose to focus on my emotions and how I really thing. I didn’t want to sugar coat any of my feelings. My goal was to use the skills we focused on in class to compose two stories that mesh and form a single overall theme. I’m very proud of my openness when writing this essay. I feel like I left everything on the table. Many things I’ve never told anyone other than my parents. Not even my closest friends. I don’t like a lot of the words I used and I believe that I could do better if I wasn’t so focused on my emotions.

I didn’t know that I wasn’t the only one who hid their emotions. I thought I was alone. In 7th grade, hours after the last night of Hanukkah, my Dad called my brother and me into our parent’s room. Usually, we don’t have serious talks. Things come out as they happen, good or bad, but this time they’d been hiding something. My mom had a gloomy look in her eyes. She looked worried. My Dad looked weak. His shoulders were folded in. He always corrected my posture, so something instantly felt off. He started slow and soft, “So.. for about a month now, we’ve been waiting to tell you about something.” I continued to look him in the eyes. I glanced at my brother who didn’t realize what was going on. “Aunt Mindy is very sick… She has a rare type of lung cancer and unfortunately, she discovered it pretty late”. He exhaled quickly. I don’t think I took it in at first. I sort of thought it would all be okay. I just kept staring at his eyes. He could tell that he needed to say more. At the time I didn’t understand that he was choosing his words carefully. “It’s not curable”, he said gingerly. It hit me and hit me hard. I just felt a pull from my liver up to my throat. I squinted like I was looking at a fresh bed of snow with the sun shining on it. It never hit my brother. I left the room within seconds. I stormed up the steps, into my room, and onto my bed. I don’t remember how long I laid there and I don’t recall what I thought about. All I know is that my Dad called me back downstairs some time later. I washed my face off before opening the door to my parent’s room. He had a sort of smirk on his face. I was very confused. He pulled out two boxes stacked on top of each other. They were both wrapped in a Jewish Star filled wrapping paper. I gently unwrapped it as I tried to seem as excited as possible. Eventually, I got all of the paper off of it. They were new iPhones for my brother and me. For months, I had been wishing for a new phone and I couldn’t even feel grateful. My emotions were muffled. I smiled and thanked my parents. I couldn’t be happy. There was nothing to be happy about. It wasn’t feasible for me to take my mind off my Aunt. I went to sleep that night with mixed emotions. I was upset, but there’s always another road. There’s always another opportunity. Life surely will go on even if someone is missing. For the next few months, I didn’t worry. My family told me that my aunt was still living at home and still enduring chemo. I still went to school. We performed A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare. I was happy. I was in the All-Star game for baseball that year. My aunt and grandmother came to watch the game. Bases were loaded, tie game, and I was at third base. Problem is, there were two outs. The third-base coach reminded me that I had to run as soon as the ball was hit, which I knew already. The first pitch was in the dirt…. There went my opportunity. The pitcher fell asleep after the pitch; I could have run home. All eyes were on me. I could feel the glare on my back. Chills raced down through my toes. The pitcher hurled a fastball home. I got a good jump, but the batter whiffed low. As I trotted back to third before the next pitch, I notice the coach looking at me from the bench. He reminded me that it’s my chance. He also happened to be the coach of the Little League World Series team from Philadelphia just a year later. The pitcher whipped his arm around just like the pitch before. This time, the batter slammed on into the top half of the ball just a bit late. The ball is pounded into the dirt with a tall hop in between the pitcher and the third baseman. I dash down the line. I’m not particularly fast, but I could feel myself flying. The world rapidly lagged in my mind. I could hear the ball deflect up off of the third baseman’s glove as he lunged for it. I instantly felt my knee. The same knee that I messed up a few years before. I had been afraid of sliding since, but the third-base coach hollered, “DOWN DOWN DOWN” as I got close. I slid on my hip instead of my hamstring at the last minute. All I remember is getting mobbed by my teammates. I don’t remember scoring. I don’t remember seeing the ball. I guess the third baseman didn’t have a chance. I could see the coach talking to my dad through the dugout fence. He wanted me to join a higher level team. I didn’t care about that. I was glad that my family got to watch me play. Primarily because I played well. I went home unsure of how to feel. She had been sick for 9 months. She was only expected to live for 8. I texted each of my grandparents before I went to sleep. Asking the same question, “How is Aunt Mindy doing?”. They all gave me the same answer. Something similar to, “I don’t want you to worry about her. She’s doing alright. But remember that in the end, no matter what happens, we will all be okay. Including you.”

My goal was to come face-to-face with myself and my indecisiveness. Although I know that I can’t help myself choose just by writing it down, it’s a good way to voice it out privately. I’m proud of my reflection, as I felt like I could be truthful to myself. It made me more self-aware of my feelings towards specific things, and hopefully being able to assess that normally can help me in the future.

Another day, another awful drawing. One by one, another page is flipped, or thrown away depending on my mood. I tell myself to just give up, but my ambition says otherwise. Despite my negative thoughts, I chose not to put my pencil down. My hand was cramping and as much as I wanted to continue, I had to put the pencil down. After stretching my hand for a good three minutes, I picked up my pencil once more. Once I started to write, my hand cramped again.

I had a good two weeks before school started, but that was the least of my worries. I wanted to get this drawing done. After erasing many times, I thought the image was done for. So as a way to hide my embarrassment, I called it a “draft”. Four trapezoids, two of them facing towards each other and the other two facing away. Each had a different sketch inside of them. The day before, my cousin had asked me to just draw a logo of our favorite boy group, but I decided to add onto it.

I was somewhat proud of the first trapezoid, which had four different circles, each one representing a different story. One looked like it was melting, another looked like a feather. One was covered in stripes, but each line was never a match to the other. The final circle was simply black, as the original album cover had, I tried my best to recreate it, and I believe that I did it to the best of my ability. I was finished that part, but I never got to finish the other three trapezoids. I had done the rough sketches, but I never got to shading them in.

I knew sketching wasn’t something I wanted to pursue as a career…do I? I truly am not sure at this point. I do prefer to stick with the art department, I just never knew which category I wanted to stick to. Everyone has their own paths chosen, why can’t I choose mine? Of course everyone has a specific talent, everyone but me. I try to do anything I can but I feel as though I fail miserably. I have the greatest ideas in mind, but it seems like time has other plans for me. I can never get them done, and most times I barely get to start them.

Although all of these mishaps, I am determined to figure out what I want to do, and how to get them under control. I am the only one who knows what I want, but do I really? I know what I can and cannot do, but how can I use that knowledge to benefit me? Does anyone know what they want, honestly? I am like a tangled pair of earbuds, once I get things back on track, they somehow get jumbled up once more as soon as I turn my back away,

The main goal of my essay was to be able to be open and share something that is very important to me. I wanted to be able to make people step back and become aware of everything and everyone that they have. One thing that I am very proud of in the essay is how I was able to be very transparent and write about a time in my life that was really hard. One way I would like to improve my writing technique is by expanding my vocabulary and figuring out how to not repeat the same words over and over again.

My mom had just left the house not even two minutes ago, yet there she was, banging on our front door. I peered out of our front window, remembering all the things my parents had told me about opening the door for strangers. Pressing my nose up on the glass, as my warm breath began to fog it, I saw my mom, standing on our front steps with her hand in her hair, tears dripping down her face, shaking ever so slightly. I watched her struggle with her keys, hearing the faint jingle through the window. I leaped up and ran to open the door, confused as to what had happened. As I unlatched our lock and opened the door, watching as the light from outside flooded the living room, I saw the flashing ambulance lights across the street. Time felt like it was moving in slow motion. A million thoughts went through my mind, one after the other; my mind racing so intensely that I could barely breathe. My mom, still trembling, walked into the house, and as she tried to pull herself together, uttered, “he had a heart attack.” Not sure how to respond, I asked if he would be alright. That’s when she told me the ambulance didn’t make it in time. He was gone before the paramedics got there. He was breathing one minute, and the next, he was gone. We had just had dinner with him a few nights ago. How could he be gone in such a short amount of time? He was just here. Alive. Healthy. Breathing. Within minutes, his life was taken. His voice never to be heard again, and the sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floor was only a faint memory.

I never realized something like this could happen so close to home. You hear about these stories on T.V., but you never expect them to happen to you, and when they do, they are heart-wrenching. Seeing my brother’s friend lose a dad at such a young age is an image that is planted in my mind that I will never be able to get rid of. I can’t even begin to imagine the pain and heartache they felt and still feel. A whole piece of their family puzzle has been taken away, never to be returned. A family is not complete when such an important figure is taken from a family. My brother’s friend went to bed the night before, expecting to wake up and live another typical day, but instead, he lost his father. The father who raised him, cared for him, and loved him. Not only did their family lose someone very important, but our community did as well. He was one of the most influential and active members of our community and losing him impacted us all. I’ll never forget everything he did for my family, and I wish more than anything that he didn’t have to go. I don’t even remember the last thing I said to him, because I didn’t think it’d be the last time I’d speak with him. You never expect the last time to be the last time. I can’t remember what his voice sounded like or how he laughed. It’s the little things that seem so small when someone’s alive, that are most important when they’re dead.

I think of all the times I fight with my parents or don’t fully appreciate everything they do for me, and sometimes I think of what would happen if they died a few minutes later? What would happen if we fought and then my mom went to the store and got into a car accident? I would be crushed and I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself. It’s normal to fight and bicker, but it’s also so important to never leave angry, or go to bed mad because you never know when it’s going to be someone’s last day. Too often, people fail to appreciate certain things in their life; whether it’s family or food, there is a lack of gratitude. When someone is given so much, they often take many things for granted and if they suddenly lose the people and things they once took for granted, then they live with that burden for the rest of their life. Life is constantly busy and stressful, however, it’s important to sometimes take a step back to realize and appreciate everything that you have, because there are so many amazing things in life that you don’t realize you have until their gone.

Introduction: When drafting this essay, I wanted to portray my sickness using detail that was true to my personal experience. I’m proud of the way that I described how automatic eating tendencies become after you begin dieting. On my next paper, I want to make more of an effort to get good peer revision. I got two people to look over my paper, but I could have gotten a better paper if I reached out to more people.

I rarely visit my grandparents in West Virginia. The grueling eight-hour car drive made it difficult to reach them, but in the summer before sophomore year my family decided to drive out and stay with them for a few days. I was thrilled! I would be staying somewhere quite different than Philadelphia with family that I rarely see. Although, part of me also dreaded this visit. It had been a few months since I began my diet; and I remember shoving down any excitement I had with calculation - how would I avoid too excess calories in West Virginia? Before leaving, I had to promise myself I would not overeat and surely damage the progress I had been making. I had internalized information from the health accounts of social media and created a mental manifesto on which foods I would avoid, but truly, how I would avoid eating altogether.

It was always very quiet in West Virginia. In the gloaming hours, I would lie in bed and try to fall asleep. Distantly, I heard crickets as they spent those halcyon hours in reverie. I would eventually drift off into sleep, mildly uneasy in the fact that I was not falling asleep in my bed; I was surrounded by the sprawling Blue Ridge Mountains, and I was sleeping in a guest bedroom that was twice the size of my own, and it was very quiet. In the morning I would drink coffee with my grandparents; They would offer many sweet and tempting items for breakfast, but I would always cry indigestion and stick with the coffee.

When we returned from West Virginia, the habits that I picked up over the summer became automatic, a sort of body memory that occurred when my health tendencies took over my life. I continued downing black coffee even though it tasted like death. I took up doing sit-ups in my room.

I had almost forgotten that school was imminent by the time August was ending. I went into school on the first day with dread that was mildly pacified by how exhausted I felt, and as friends greeted me with such vibrant energy, I realized how different I must be acting compared to everyone else. I didn’t know whether or not people would comment on my weight loss and was surprised to have had many people walk up to me to make comments.

“You got so skinny! Congratulations!” Is how most people reacted if they chose to verbalize their thoughts about the change.

“Something’s different about you, did you lose weight?” One teacher said, in a manner that surely wasn’t meant to be intrusive.

I reacted to all of the comments with humility; I told most people that I had naturally shed ‘a few pounds’ from biking all around the city. It was a lie, but it felt like the easiest way to explain the change. Even though people were confronting me on my weight loss, none of their observations affected me. I was the only one who could feed into my body image. I had become immune to whatever anyone could have said about my body; I had become the mule.