Childhood
The Misfortune of the Twelve Maidens
We all know that when we were kids, we had some stories that we used to sing and to use when playing the rubber band game or jump rope. But we never thought about the lyrics when singing them. Most of them are so dark and deep that I don’t even know how come didn’t notice what we were saying. Worst! We even find them funny because of the dark and disturbing parts! Oh, that’s called innocence. We did know the words; therefore, we did know what they meant. But did we ever take the time to reflect on those disturbing actions?
By Sofia Duarte5 years ago in Confessions
Hobble Gobble Gumpling Land
‘Hobble Gobble Gumpling Land. You can go there if you are lucky enough to have been chosen by the fairies – but, only if you are one of the best kids in existence. You see, only one girl and one boy get to go each year and they are selected because they are smart, courageous and strong.’ I pause, relishing the look of delight on the faces of my third-grade students as I retell the story my dad created.
By Jay Bird5 years ago in Confessions
social shocks in social shocks
Picture an eight-year-old African boy who didn't know how fortunate he was. We had a mud hut in the countryside, a house in the city and my father's university gave him the use of a wonderful house by Mombasa beach. I still remember walking up and down these marble steps onto a veranda. On the left, there were a set of glass doors which you'd walk through and then down a few steps into the living room. I spent very little time in that living room. The kitchen was opposite (open plan fashion) and I spent very little time in there too. There were bedrooms upstairs I reluctantly slept in because my real home was outside.
By Cellestine Aggrey5 years ago in Confessions
I Slept Through A Murder in My Childhood Home
A couple of nights ago, while trying to fall asleep at 2 AM, my mind wandered. Coffee at 9 PM was a bad idea. My thoughts shifted and twisted, running through situations that I thought had been all but buried deep within my psyche. Do you remember when you farted loudly at the library, and that cute guy and his friends turned around and stared at you? Yes, I remember. Or when you were giving your valedictorian speech in primary school and almost threw up on the podium? I’ll never forget.
By Laquesha Bailey5 years ago in Confessions
The Fir Tree, Revisited
I don’t have too many memories of my paternal grandfather. He wasn’t around as often as my other grandparents were and I didn’t know much about him until after he passed in 2002. However, there are two things about Grandpa that remain forever vivid in my mind.
By Palmarosa5 years ago in Confessions
some notions of travel
I was five. I had already started school which was only two roads away. I went with my sister everyday yet I have no actual recollection of any part of the journey except once when I found a St Christopher medal stamped by accident into the fresh tarmacking of the road. I retrieved it with eager anticipation, joy even. Having a St Christopher- which all the Italian and Polish Catholic kids at my school did- was something I most dearly wanted. And now I had my own. The patron Saint of travellers had bewitched me before I even knew it. But the medal belonged to a beautiful silent boy called Ricardo who I adored- in fact by the kind of amazing coincidence that characterises normal life it was his medal, the one that I had for so long coveted, so I had to give it back to him and so I never got one, not even now.
By robert twigger5 years ago in Confessions
Passing Passion
I can remember being eight years old, sitting in my one-piece school desk with lukewarm tears running down my cheeks. In an empty upstairs bedroom with no door. Fighting through the pain and tears, I can remember mumbling the question: "Why don't my parents have enough money?" They worked so hard and had nothing to show for it. "If only we had money." I was convinced that only money would end the abuse and alcoholism. For years my passion was to become wealthy. I could not find a reason aside from financial stress that my parents would hurt me so bad and for so long. I was twenty-three when my mother came knocking on my door on a mid-afternoon weekday. A confused expression stared back at her when I answered the door. "Do you love me?" She asked. Without hesitation, "Of course I love you." I replied. "I won a million dollars," she said. I could only describe the feeling as if the shackles that confined me my entire life had finally broken. I was now free. I was convinced we had just won happiness. It's not uncommon to hear that money does not buy happiness, but it's not far-fetched to idolize the idea that being financially sound would bring some happiness, right? In my case, this couldn't have been more wrong. I never realized just how broken I truly was until I eliminate all the excuses. Being financially stressed was equivalent to having a rug; all I could see was the rug, but I found all sorts of debris I never knew existed when I lifted the rug. The doctors referred to this debris as PTSD, Anxiety, Panic Disorder, and Depression. Now, a full-grown adult, I sit on my couch, in a messy house, with hair I haven't washed for over a week and clothes I have been in for days with lukewarm tears running down my cheeks. I mumble the question: "Why did no one help me? How did this go so unnoticed for so long?" "What can I do to change this, so no one has to feel the way I've felt?" I know from the years of therapy I've done that I only control myself and my actions. Every day, I make it my goal to share my experiences, feelings, and thoughts with those around me. I choose to treat people the way I want to be treated, with no expectation of seeing it in return. I share myself with others using different mediums such as social media, art and music, and writing. Throughout my journey, I've come to realize that our social system lacks the infrastructure of "preventative mental health." My passion now is to raise awareness and start building infrastructure for preventative mental health. I can only imagine what life would have been if there were more accessible places for me to go as a youth. I was unaware that addiction and mental health were why my parents were financially stressed and the reason I was a victim of abuse. Money was an excuse. Every day I have the intention to become this best version of myself. I know that by taking care of myself and overcoming my challenges, I can influence others that it is possible. One day I would like to open an arts center. A place where youth can go to communicate their inner thoughts through different art forms. A place where no external excuses can hold back youth from attending, such as financial stress. A social infrastructure that can identify and support youth who are susceptible to facing mental health adversities. From concerts, theatre, art exhibits, and all the endless possibilities in-between, we can support this idea financially without having to burden our youth with excuses and reasons for why they can't. I am confident that passing the passion for mental wellness and self-love, and care will bring the tool of wealth needed to support it.
By Drew Matousek5 years ago in Confessions
Why I'll Always Love Bedtime Stories
Some days I forget I'm not a child anymore. Some days I am full of nostalgia for everything 90's and 00's and I want to play Club Penguin and act seven again. Some days I crave the days where I had no responsibilities besides picking a bedtime story.
By Leigh Hooper5 years ago in Confessions
Wrong Puzzle Piece
A story about a time I did not fit in. I remember like it was yesterday. A smooth summer day, with the sun shining radiantly. The wind created a cool comforting breeze to balance the heat. There were cheers, laughter, and smiles all around me. Surrounded by the scenery of love and joy, at least that is what someone would conclude looking in from the outside.
By Steve Jackson5 years ago in Confessions
Capture the Flag
The summer program I went to after the seventh and eighth grades became fodder for my dreams way past late childhood when I had been a participant, right up until my adult years when I was trying to figure out what to do with my own kid for the month of July. It was billed as a pre-college program, the kind of thing that made my son shake his head and wonder out loud how I could be his mother. No, he did not want to do extra work for fun during his vacation, he let me know. I admit, I really had been excited about the courses I took on that old New England campus, but the biggest attraction wasn’t the academics, even though I got to do things like design and build model houses out of foam core in the architecture studio. The real draw was being set free on a college campus at the age of thirteen for three weeks without too much supervision.
By Kim Sillen5 years ago in Confessions
Culture Shock
Culture shock can be painful, embarrassing, or even deadly. What is killing me is the simple fact that it is even a thing anymore. I have experienced it myself, and have even feared for my own life from it. With the tools I have available to me now, I am embarrassed to say that I ever even felt such a way. The only reason for shock is an intolerance to another culture, and a forgetfullness that we are also human and animal and of the same Earth. It comes from a feeling that the ideas and values of that culture are threatening to our own. We who have the tools also have the duty to educate ourselves about any culture we should interact with enough so as not to be shocked by any interactions and also honor as much of thier heritage (much of which we likely share) as necessary to be respectful.
By Turtle Tank5 years ago in Confessions
