A shiver ran across my frigid spine as I stared across the lifeless room that I was placed in. The whites of my eyes sank into the apathetic walls around me, although I could sense a frenzy in the corners of my eyes. Machinery dressed in all-white coats whirred across the bleached halls to protect the bundles they were rolling. Meanwhile, I, a lifeless soul, became entranced by the stench of disinfectant, staring at the pen and paper in my hands. Without the power to enter the hospital room of my mother, I understood that the body of a four-year-old could not withstand the complexity of the real-world—in my mind I knew. My innocence was dyed in convoluted colors. The nightmare of reality struck me as though I were blinded by the light outside of Plato’s …show more content…
As mother rushed to the emergency room, I felt strangely unsettled hinting the change of the meaning of my existence. No matter how many times I begged to visit my mother, everyone told me that it was prohibited. The doctors seemed apathetic to me since they rejected a 3-year-old in the verge of tears. That incident signaled a negative chain of events responsible in the drastic change of my personality. I became antisocial, lost my trust in adults, talked to stuffed animals rather than humans, and became overly independent and mature. Adults around me would gossip expressing their jealousy towards me as I traveled a different wavelength than their children. I drifted apart from my parents as they became busier with work and didn’t have time to help me conquer my psychological insecurities. I was bullied in elementary school for not speaking and was tormented by teachers who didn’t believe me or step in. Soon, I lost my trust in adults and stressed my mental state into hallucinating the false reality of them accepting me if I pushed myself to the limits to please them. Although I was awkward from my trauma, I didn’t fail to meet my parents’ expectations; in fact, I surpassed
“I slept… but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth…. as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death…and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms…and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel” (43).
Something as simple as taking a walk around the facility can prove to be a battle with patient X. From the day I met patient X it was noticeable that she was lacking her memory. Patient X could no longer tell me her name and everyday it would be different struggle, but for that day it was getting her out of bed to take a walk. From the moment I walked in and introduced myself, patient X could not provide me with her name. Patient X constantly asked if I was her baby, and when dealing with an Alzheimer patient, it’s always best to go along with what that patient is saying. As I got patient X up and out of bed, she started to become violent and resistant. Patient X took forty-five minutes to simply get out of bed and dressed, and that was the very beginning of the battle that would consist all day.
It would be entirely wrong for me to describe my childhood as alone, unwanted, vulnerable, and hurt. I am privileged; I grew up with both my parents giving me more love and attention than I could hold. Most times I grew to hate all the constant affection and attention. To me, it seemed like my overprotective parents didn’t want me to have fun and live. I didn’t understand why they cared so much about where I was going or why I couldn’t go hang out with my friends. I remember all the times I cried because they didn’t let me go out—because it was dangerous—or when they didn’t let me sleep over my friend’s house. But that was the most of my problems as a child. Yet, I still saw their overprotection as horrific and annoying, because I saw all the
According to Erikson, individuals are presented with crises that they must overcome in order to advance to the next stage of lifespan development. The psychological maltreatment that I experienced during my preschool years and continuing through to late adolescence, would have lessened my ability to succeed at the crisis presented and in the creation of a positive self-concept. During the time my pivotal experience took place, I would have been nearing the completion of Erikson’s Initiative vs Guilt stage (Feldman & Landry, 2012). The crisis presented during this stage is for the child to develop independence from their caregivers while learning to adequately contend with the guilt stemming from failure (Feldman & Landry, 2012). During this stage, I would have experienced an increased awareness of myself as an individual capable of making decisions and operating within a capacity separate form my caregivers. Returning to the example provided in this paper, one can see that the following occurred: 1. I assessed a situation to be harmful to my well-being; 2. I made a decision to tell my mother about the situation; 3. I received punishment for acting independently. My mother’s reaction to my attempt at independence not only made me question whether my concern had been fabricated or if it was as I recall her screaming at me “lies, lies, lies your
For the duration of this clinical experiences my intentions are to gain experience in leadership and develop those skills by establishing a partnership with R.K. She is currently teaching a leadership development course which I would like to develop a partnership with her and complete a community project.
I am an undocumented student at UC Davis. When I am asked a simple question such as, "describe your personal experiences", I ask myself: Where do I begin?
As I walked down the corridor I noticed a man lying in a hospital bed with only a television, two dressers, and a single window looking out at nothing cluttering his room. Depression overwhelmed me as I stared at the man laying on his bed, wearing a hospital gown stained by failed attempts to feed himself and watching a television that was not on. The fragments of an existence of a life once active and full of conviction and youth, now laid immovable in a state of unconsciousness. He was unaffected by my presence and remained in his stupor, despondently watching the blank screen. The solitude I felt by merely observing the occupants of the home forced me to recognize the mentality of our culture, out with the old and in with the new.
My As the years have passed, I do believe my father’s death had a profound impact on my emotional and social development, especially during my adolescent stage. It was during the adolescent stage of my life where my personality traits of shyness, introversion, and self-esteem began to manifest. I did not have a secure attachment to my father. My relationship with my mother felt more like I was attempting to protect her from my father. During my adolescent years we were not
And while the details of the arguments that caused these altercations are lost to me now, all I can remember is the distrust and rejection that ravished my identity the moment their bodies made physical contact with mine. Living a life that was constructed by them and for them, I was utterly lost when the feelings of trust and acceptance died. I had committed myself to taking part in extracurricular clubs that stepped up my involvement and got me closer to getting ahead, and I had achieved a status that was somewhat unmatchable for others in regard to my popularity because of my success, but all of this seemed pointless because of the confusion that my parents
“From time to time I can see their faces, against the dark, flickering like the images of saints, in old foreign cathedrals, in the light of the drafty candles;... I can conjure them but they are mirages only, they don’t last. Can I be blamed for wanting a real body, to put my arms around? Without it I am to disembodied. I can listen to my own heartbeat against the bedspring, I can stroke myself, under the dry white sheets, in the dark, but I too am dry and white... I am like a room where things once happened and now nothing does, except the pollen of the weeds that grow up outside the window, blowing in as dust across the floor”(Atwood 118).
Looking back at my past, I recall my mother and father’s relationship as if it were yesterday. I am only four years old, small and curious; I tended to walk around my home aimlessly. I would climb book shelves like a mountain explorer venturing through the Himalayans, draw on walls to open windows to my own imagination, or run laps around the living room rug because to me I was an Olympic track star competing for her gold medal; however my parents did not enjoy my rambunctious imagination. My parents never punished me for it but would blame each other for horrible parenting skills; at the time I did not understand their fights, but instead was curious about why they would fight.
I suddenly awaken over the loud crashing of books upon the floor. I blink a few times, attempting to recompose myself, but Socrates has disappeared from the ether of my dreams and returned to the pages of Plato’s Republic.
It had come to the attention of my family that I had some sort of psychological problem and something had to be done. I was always labeled as a shy and quiet kid, and like my family I had thought nothing more of my behavior. However, now it had become something more obvious. I had told my parents the kinds of problems I was having. Basically I didn't want to talk to anyone or to be anywhere near anyone I didn't know. I didn't really want to leave my house for any reason for fear that I might have to talk to someone. I was so critical and scrutinizing in relation to myself that I couldn't even enter into a conversation. Everyone seems to have a part of themselves that lends itself to thoughts of pessimism and failure, but mine was something that was in the forefront of my mind at all times. Something telling me that everything I did was a failure, and that anything I ever did would not succeed. Through discussion with my family it was decided that I should move out of my parents house to a place where I could find treatment and get a job. I was to reside with my sister Lisa, her partner Brynn, and their Saint Bernard in Greensboro.
My parents sensed my troubles and we moved. Adjusting to a new high school took time. It was not easy making new friends and I continued to be lost. These incidents weighed heavily on my mind. My anguished heart refused to see beyond my own woes. A recent disturbing incident changed my purview of life.
It was dark that night, I was nervous that this dreadful day was going to get worse. Sunday, October 23, 1998 I wanted to start writing this to tell about the weird things i’m starting to see in this new neighborhood. Gradually I keep seeing pots and pans on the sink suddenly move to the floor. I would ask my sister but she is out with my mom and dad getting the Halloween costumes. When they got home I didn’t tell them what I saw because i've seen Halloween movies and I have to have dissimulation otherwise the ghost will come out and get me first. October 24, 1998 I think I got a little nervous yesterday with the whole ghost thing. 12:32pm, Went to eat lunch with the family today and I go to get my coat. I heard the words furious and madness,