Childhood
Trapped In My Own World
My early childhood: I have spent my life never feeling like I am enough. I am not placing blame on any one person, because I know a lot of my feelings stem from some very deep-rooted internal issues; caused, admittedly, by many people, but to place the blame on one person would be a great injustice to the rest. I was born to parents who weren’t ready for such a title, a young woman who simply wanted to exist, and a young man who was only human. Just a few months after being born, my mother left my father in Colorado, to go home to her parents in Arkansas, and she took me with her. I grew up hearing stories of my mother leaving because she caught my father cheating on her with a woman who was in the same squadron as my Air-Force dad, a woman who had babysat me, gone to clubs with my mother, and seven years later, became my stepmother. My father, naturally, denies it, and claims my mom just wasn’t happy there anymore, and wanted to be back home. I don’t really believe either of them. I believe there’s elements of truth to both of their stories–my father became exclusive with my stepmother before the divorce was even finalized, and my mother has never liked to stay somewhere too long–but there was one thing that my father did not deny. He was noticeably happier when my mom and I had left.
By Abbigale Davis4 years ago in Confessions
I’ve contemplated suicide every day of my life since the age of eleven
I’ve contemplated suicide every day of my life, since the age of eleven. My ability to procrastinate knows no bounds. Eleven is when I first said out loud that I hated myself, that I shouldn’t have been born, and that I wanted to die.
By James Garside4 years ago in Confessions
Nam
Nam Summer of 1982, Jerseyville, Ontario. Prosser's Pond. My brother Jason and I, being the same age and all, had also been best friends from as far back as when we were only four years old. This meant too, that throughout school we shared the same friends and certainly the ones in Jerseyville, where we were ALL friends...for the most part. The core of Jerseyville friends was a solid one and there's nothing I STILL wouldn't do for ANY of my friends from the village... 'cept maybe one person. We did plenty of things, all of us together, but Jason and I also did things together as brothers. We fished together, hiked together, adventured together... We did a LOT of fishing together. Ever since we'd moved to Jerseyville from Burris street in Hamilton, we'd been steadily finding new places to try our luck. Our favorite 'go to', would have been 'Prosser's Pond'...'Prosser's Pond' was a Bass hole Deluxe. Full of Sunfish, Large mouth Bass and a handful of other fishy friends...the odd killer Catfish, a few Perch. The Bass in the pond were so greedy by midsummer, that Jason and I could pop a Dandelion head on our hook, flick it out 10ft and land a Largemouth almost every time...digging up a container of worms from the garden just made it silly. We had a riot, fishing at Prosser's, for many years. Prosser himself, was one John Prosser Robinson. A very old farmer who owned some fields in Jerseyville and brought produce down to Hamilton market. He grew lots of green beans, cucumbers, peas I think...He hired only girls from Jerseyville to work his fields . Just teenagers, "Stupid girls." He'd call them. Right to their face. I just remember some of these girls from the area, washing bushel after bushel full of green beans every summer evening, at the head of the tractor path back to the pond. They'd have metal tubs full of water, that they pumped from the hand well situated beside the low lying barn. Hand washing the sandy soil from the beans. That hand pump would pour with cold well water if you pumped it hard enough and long enough to flush the rust from it's pipes. One person would pump it, while the other leaned on the spout, drinking fresh, cold water directly from the flow.
By Jim E. Beer - Story writer of fact and fiction. 4 years ago in Confessions
Just a Doll
When we think of giving back, we tend to think of donating outrageous amounts of money to charities, running long races to raise awareness for a cause, or attending fundraiser events alongside hundreds of other people. Not everyone has the means to contribute in one of those ways, and for those who don’t, giving back can seem daunting. But giving back doesn’t have to involve some grand, dramatic gesture, as I’ve recently learned firsthand. Sometimes giving back is as simple as a kind smile or a passing compliment. It can even be something as seemingly trivial as just a doll.
By Morgan Rhianna Bland4 years ago in Confessions
Baggage of fears
I have always preferred to be alone when it comes to family. I was raised in church, my parents both worked full time, my brother and sister were 2-3 years older. I knew from a young age I was different. I saw things differently, I felt things deeply and yet I played my part. I was involved in church, I tried very hard to understand christianity, faith and God yet somehow I only ever had questions with no answers which left me feeling lost in my own head.
By Marley Garcia4 years ago in Confessions
Emergency Room Visit To Have My Stomach Pumped At Such A Young Age
I lived a very traumatic childhood, parts of which I can never forget. For those of you that have read my story titled, Nine Years Of Age And Too Terrified Too Sleep, you will have read about a small portion of my trauma. This story is a result of the rules that were put in place for me during that period.
By Colleen Millsteed 4 years ago in Confessions
Childhood Part II
I was born in Kentucky. Even though I have lived various places, it will always be home. It has gorgeous scenery, and I feel peaceful here in Kentucky. I used to dream that I would one day live in New York City, but I see now that all I really need is here. I spent sixth grade until graduation in Southern Indiana. I guess you can say I am a Kentuckiana girl, and I wouldn't ever change that.
By Christy 4 years ago in Confessions
The Fine China Must Never Crack
The sound of sirens blaring into the night sky, while multiple colors of burning orange, firetruck red, and blue police officer uniforms blur together in my tears. Two cars lay smashed to pieces in the ditch, as my lungs choke on engine smoke. My heartrate feels sporadic while my feet remain immovable in the middle of the two-lane road. There’s panicked screaming fading in the background, as my memory replays the chaos of what just ensued around us.
By Jasmin McCardell4 years ago in Confessions
