The track marks on my cousin’s arm spell my name. Nearly half of my lifetime ago, I had written out those four letters in sharpie on his bruised flesh, making him pinky-promise (the specified appendage made the covenant all that much more official, of course) to think of me every time he wanted to shoot up, so that I could help him through it. I had expected it to work, to fix him; after all, I’d always been able to make him all better before. It wasn’t until I saw him in person again years later that I realized how wrong I was. “I don’t need money. I need to talk. Let’s catch up?” his text read. It was from a familiar number, but I could’ve sworn that the person who met with me was a stranger. When he arrived, I was struck by his emaciation. Ravaged by addiction, to all of the typical substances and then some, he was little more than skin and bones. There’s something very wrong about being able to see everything that holds a person together—it seems, almost, like an invasion of privacy. His spindly limbs were lost in baggy clothes, though no amount of drapery or billowing could hide his sickly gauntness. His eyes had sunken, his cheekbones threatened to pierce through the translucent skin that clung to them. Seeing him, the feeble and ghastly remnants of my cousin, didn’t leave me …show more content…
I have a rather tenacious grip on the things that I want—some may call this stubborn, although personally, I prefer dedicated. Resolute, even. Suffice it to say that I was the kid that held her breath in order to get what she wanted. No longer a toddler, I’ve now adopted more graceful and less terrifying methods; namely, I just won’t freaking quit. Giving up is not something that I’ve ever been able to do, even when begged to do so. (Huge apologies to my parents for being forced to listen to me squeak my way through Tchaikovsky’s cello classic Lullaby in a Storm approximately 8,234,097 times as I tried desperately—in vain—to do it
road-life and drug abuse. When he came out of the coma the Dead made a tribute
In David Sheff’s book “Beautiful Boy” he utilizes descriptive diction, allusions to other works, and vivid imagery to recreate the experiences he’s gone through during his son’s addiction, times in recovery, and relapses.
Important goals about life have changed significantly suggests Kohn. With goals comes the ability to be persistent, the author mentions. He describes that persistence is one characteristic among many that could become valuable when wanting to reach a goal,
He was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, but some thought he might actually be suffering from drug-induced toxic psychosis. He visited the emergency room for testimonials that bones were coming out the back of his head, someone stole his pulmonary arteries, his stomach was backwards, and his heart stopped beating sometimes. He was also diagnosed with hypochondria, where he believed his heart was in danger of shrinking until disappearance. He then came to the solution that drinking blood of animals or humans would stop the shrinking. He was also interviewed and said that he killed to stay alive. He was admitted to a mental institution and was prescribed antidepressants. He was allowed to leave anytime he wanted. He was left unsupervised and his mother told him that he did not need the
Members of the ‘Edgewater Homeless’ community, participated in the study and shared their experience in Chapter 3, “A Community of Addicted Bodies,” which explains some of the most vivid descriptions of what individual’s may experience, also known as ‘dopesickness.’ One member named Felix, explains his challenge with ‘dopesickness’ when waking at 1:00 A.M., in the morning. His sickness begins to take over his mind and body. Physically, Felix was not able to complete normal functions such as standing, staying still, lying down, or have coordinated bodily movements, because his body shook uncontrollably. When Bourgeois and Schoenberg found Felix the next morning, he explained to him the symptoms he experienced. Felix attempted to escape the winter night accompanied by rain in a nearby bus shelter. He mentions that he could not get comfortable due to the dopesickness; going from being cold to experiencing hot flashes, spitting out phlegm or a green substance, and not being able to control his bowel. He reported that during his sickness, he could not breathe or think and also that he could feel every nerve in all of his fingers. The most strangest way in
In Augusten Burroughs’ memoir, Running with Scissors, he recalls the strange occurrences and circumstances of his early years of life that have shaped him to be the peculiar way he is. His life began in a broken home, with an alcoholic and emotionally distant father who both neglected his son and directed his pent up anger towards Augusten’s mentally fragile mother. Their home was often plagued by series of doctors, though one quite unlike the others. Dr. Finch, Augusten’s mother’s psychiatrist was an odd man who worked magic on his patients with unorthodox techniques. When Augusten’s father abandoned him and his mother, the two sought additional help from the doctor. His mother, who was unstable and unfit to take care of herself and much less
The literal confinement of the artist plays a key role in the understanding of the story but, his physical appearance sets him apart also. “He sat there pallid in black tights, with his ribs sticking out so prominently...sometimes...stretching an arm through the bars so that one might feel how thin it was... ”(Kafka 7). He wanted to show that he was different from them physically here. He emphasized his difference by letting people feel the brittle bones of his body, as if to say, “Look at how skinny I am!
When we are born into the world, it is far from our last birth. The birth of our identities begins as we grow. And while not right or wrong, it is how our minds take on an identity during our key developmental years.
Identity-“Ones personal qualities.”Identiy is something only he or she can fully define. My uncle says I am affectionate,cheerful, and calm. My grandmother sees me as slim, pretty and sweet. My dad described me as perky, cheerful and happy, my mom says beautiful, gentle, and self-conscious. These adjectives describe me accurately, yet they are only abstract versions of me. Adjectives cannot begin to describe me and I aknowlege these descriptions for what they are, a condensed translation from my outward self to the world. It is impossible for anyone to understand me completely because nobody has experienced the things I have. My mother has never cherished a raggedy doll named Katie and my father never spent hours upon hours making collages and scrap books for his future children. My uncle never hid in the back of a pick-up-truck and traveled four hours to New York and my grandmother has never walked hours in the rain looking for the Queen of England. My identity is something only I can define.
Petridis, Alexis. "Elton John: 'When I Was on Drugs There Was a Monstrous Side to Me'" The Guardian. Guardian News and Media, 16 Sept. 2013. Web. 13 May 2014.< http://www.theguardian.com/music/2013/sep/15/elton-john-drugs-monstrous-side>
The times we spent at each class, discussing about what success meant to us has allowed me to take a closer look at who I really was, and has made a great impact on myself. Personally, I have never thought about who I really was, nor what I was good or weak at. I always thought it didn’t matter if I was good or bad, but that I can always get better. However, lately, I have been reminded, from the passionate classes Mr. M has spent, talking to us, of our strengths and weaknesses I had, in which made me think of who I was at school, and who I was at home. Was I different? When Mr. M discussed this in class, I knew instantly that I was a different person at home and at school. At home, I am much more lively and outgoing than I am at school. To
There came a point in my life where I started to lose a sense of who I was, and my sense of direction. When I got pregnant, my whole demeanor changed, from my attitude to the way I carried myself. It wasn’t until I gave birth that my eyes truly opened to find something that was lost for a very long time: a glimmer of my old self. That baby, my child, helped me recover, shine, and gave me a purpose.
Otis sat at his tattered corner booth, the pale pink and teal upholstery ripped and worn by all those who had rested there before him. His charcoal-grey hair was oily and unkept as if he hadn’t known the pleasure of a shower or a comb since his early days in the war. His once green army jacket, faded to a light grey, covered the untucked, torn, and sweat-stained Goodwill T-shirt under it. He wore an old pair of denim blue jeans that were shredded in the knees and rested three inches above his boney ankles; exposing the charity he depended upon. His eyes, filled with loneliness and despair as if he had realized a lack of purpose in his life, were set in bags of black and purple rings two layers deep. His long, slender nose was set above a full crooked mouth with little lines at the corners giving his face the character of someone who used to smile often, but the firm set of his square jaw revealed a portrait of a man who knew only failure.
What truly shapes you? Throughout ones’ life an individual may have many contributing factors that shape them into who they are and what they will become. In my life the greatest factors that have influenced me in what kind of identity I see for myself have been my race and heritage. -Being Mexican American in a location that is predominantly Caucasian is not an easy task, especially considering one lives in the most stereotypical place a Hispanic can live. For many years lived in the mobile home park, however considering the previous places I had lived in before it wasn’t as inadequate. There had been the one bedroom apartment, the small basement, and let’s not forget the single ten by twelve room. After having lived in such various and diverse places one begins to gain an appreciation for the little things. More than anything however, all the struggles I faced caused my ambition to grow greater and greater.
My dad was brought into the courtroom wearing an olive green jumpsuit and restrained by metal cuffs around his wrists. The judge sat high at his bench with his gavel set off to the side, and I, my mom, and my sister, remained as tall as we could attempting not to show the worry that was running through our minds.