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Coping with loneliness
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Although I was born in Las Vegas, Nevada, most of my life was split between living in Kansas City and Denton, Texas. Looking back, growing up in Kansas City, Missouri just wasn't the right fit for me. I didn’t have many friends and often found myself isolated, and self harming at the same time. Moving to Texas didn’t make much of a difference either. I still felt the same emptiness I did before. Many times people would try to give me advice; they would always say God has your back, or God has you no matter what. Although they are the same statement, neither seemed to reach me, and I just didn't believe it. Growing up I was a skinny African-American kid in a world of my own, who got along with everybody, but not just anybody to call a friend.
For years I’ve been planning a family vacation but had never decided a pleasant and fascinating place to visit. A lot of people relate the adventures in San Antonio for tourists. To mention a few, The Riverwalk, Sea World, Six Flags Fiesta, and The Tower of the Americas are the main attractions that would be perfect for a family trip. I was so enthusiastic and explored more into it. I gave my family the great news of going and exploring this amazing city on our own! San Antonio offers the best of attractions and activities in all Texas! Whether you’re looking for popular entertainment for the whole family or to spend time with your friends, I was so positive I had made a superb decision!
I've never really been bothered about being the only black friend most of my friends have. But at times, it leads me to some stressful conclusions. I realize that I, in a way, represent the entire black community to them, as they get to know me, and see my strengths and weaknesses. It is one of the things that keeps me motivated. Perhaps I want people to see only the best in us, or perhaps it is something deeper.
When I was younger, and didn’t realize that being biracial was something different, friends made me feel like I didn’t really belong. I know now that that is not the case, and that being different is a good thing. I’ve learned that I am not half a person, and this has taught me not to “judge a book by it’s cover”, because the way people look doesn’t define who they are. I’ve also learned to be more open-minded to new cultures because that is what I’ve been exposed to. Even though two races make me unique in some ways, I am not any different from anyone else and shouldn’t be viewed that way. I may not look the same as someone who is entirely black or white, but being biracial does not make me less than one
Many folks go their whole lives without having to move. For them it is easy; they know the same people, have loads of friends, and never have to move away from their families. As with me, I was in a different situation. I grew up my entire life, all eighteen years of it, in a small town called Yorktown, Virginia. In my attempt to reach out for a better life style, my girlfriend and I decided we were going to move to Shreveport, Louisiana. Through this course of action, I realized that not two places in this country are exactly alike. I struggled with things at first, but I found some comforts of home here as well.
I wanted to wear brand clothes/shoes they did, I wanted to do my hair like them, and make good grades like them. I wanted to fit in. My cultural identify took a back seat. But it was not long before I felt black and white did not mix. I must have heard too many comments asking to speak Haitian or I do not look Haitian, but more than that, I am black, so I always had to answer question about my hair or why my nose is big, and that I talked white. This feeling carried on to high school because the questions never went away and the distance between me and them grew larger. There was not much action my family could take for those moments in my life, but shared their encounters or conversations to show me I was not alone in dealing with people of other background. I surrounded myself with less white people and more people of color and today, not much has
My memory of strolling up and down St. George Street in St. Augustine is more than just a cherished flashback, it’s the start of a new life. Prior to moving to Florida, both of my parents were in the Navy, resulting in our family having to move all around the East Coast frequently. When it was revealed that we would finally settle down in Florida, our first visit would be none other than the oldest city in the United States, St. Augustine. This memory of St. Augustine is so important to me because it piqued my interest in history, it gave me a chance to spend time with my mom, and I was able to witness my first sunset.
For twelve years I’ve tried to hide my pain and fear from you. I’ve been trying to ignore the horror stories, unknowingly blinding myself from the stories of hope. I’m not as bitter as this story may lead you to think. In fact, I am an adamant believer in the statement (overheard three years ago in the Coffee House): “God has never taken anything away from me that he hasn’t replaced with something better.”
I was seven years old when my Mom had told me the bad news that would change my life completely. My mom had told me that are family would be moving from California to North Carolina. Well it was hard to take it in because all of my close relatives lived near the west coast at the time and my mom and dad were split up and it was just me my older sister Samantha, my little brother Evan, my mom Saline, and my step dad Robert. So it was hard thinking that I wouldn’t be able to see them as much.
It was a Sunday morning when I woke up by the morning shiver and with the sweet smell of tea filling the room. I woke up with a yawn but still laying down because I was too lazy to get up. I stood up quickly almost losing my balance when why mom yelled my name. “Come down stairs I have good news for you” said mom. I went down stairs I saw my parents drinking green hot tea and watching news on the television. I walk toward the table distracted by the chaos of different loud noises like the news, my brothers watching cartoon, and my sister whining. I greeted my parents, as I passed them I heard someone saying “can’t wait to move” excitedly.” After finishing my delicious breakfast I ask my mom, where are we moving? “We are moving to America” with
When I was young, I never expected to live such a lit life in America. I was born in Laos which is a small country in the Southern part of Asia. My life was slow and my family didn’t have much. Then one day my mom met my stepdad in a bar and the next thing I knew, we move to America. My first impression of America was that it was way different than where I came from. I saw snow for the first time and never felt something so cold. My early life in America was a struggle, but as I grew up, I started understanding what my purpose was. I went from nothing to having great times with great friends, having cash flow, and riding motorcycles.
Let the stream begin. Some body, some things, life and me, communicated the idea to talk now, not to leave it, to stay, and face up to the past, the places, the people, the pain, the many reasons why I left my home and family, all those years ago, to become a drug addict, an alcoholic, a wanderer, move nomadically from house to house, year to year, to live inside a prison, real and imaginary. I met hell. I met the devil. I met them both inside my head. I found out the hard way that humans could easily imagine evil. The path forward comes from the push to write and to deal. Yes, I felt happy in between the miserable spaces. My family helped me to survive and still do now, even more so than before. Without them, I would not exist, for in the darkest moments I realised that they kept me breathing. I want the virtual picket fence, ideal partner, children and career. They may or may not eventuate. Now as I regroup, look upon me with sober, straight and clear eyes, I can have anything. I walk to a lake, to sense nature, to allow the anxiety to live on these pages, to take shape, and mould into a form that speaks atonement.
Have you ever had to leave behind almost everything that you loved, and go somewhere new, and try new things? I have, and that’s something that’s still happening today. This is about my experience moving from Georgia, to Columbia, South Carolina. But before I even lived in Georgia, I lived in a small town in Virginia. Now looking back on it, I’m glad that our family left Virginia, because in Georgia, and now South Carolina, there’s so much more opportunity for success. But at the time it was very difficult, because that was all I knew. But that’s the reason I have hope for moving to Columbia. But I had to leave behind a whole lot of stuff in Georgia, and now it’s like I have to work really hard to get back what I once had.
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.
Everything seems like it’s falling out of place, it’s going too fast, and my mind is out of control. I think these thoughts as I lay on my new bed, in my new room, in this new house, in this new city, wondering how I got to this place. “My life was fine,” I say to myself, “I didn’t want to go.” Thinking back I wonder how my father felt as he came home to the house in Stockton, knowing his wife and kids left to San Diego to live a new life. Every time that thought comes to my mind, it feels as if I’m carrying a ten ton boulder around my heart; weighing me down with guilt. The thought is blocked out as I close my eyes, picturing my old room; I see the light brown walls again and the vacation pictures of the Florida and camping trip stapled to them. I can see the photo of me on the ice rink with my friends and the desk that I built with my own hands. I see my bed; it still has my checkered blue and green blanket on it! Across from the room stands my bulky gray television with its back facing the black curtain covered closet. My emotions run deep, sadness rages through my body with a wave of regret. As I open my eyes I see this new place in San Diego, one large black covered bed and a small wooden nightstand that sits next to a similar closet like in my old room. When I was told we would be moving to San Diego, I was silenced from the decision.
I was very excited to make a new step in my life, college. I came with high hopes and aspirations. My hometown is not near Arizona, It is Lake Tahoe, Nevada, so going home for the weekend was simply out of the question. I had a great time for the first month, enjoying freedom. However, I was sitting in my room one night writing a paper with my roommate, and one of my friends from home called me. She said that one of our good friends from high school had just committed suicide earlier that day. I didn’t know how to react to this; I was scared, and confused. Why did he do it? Why didn’t anyone know that he was unhappy? Was he unhappy? I felt regret, thinking I should have been there for him. Once the crying commenced, my mother called me telling me that my last grandma had gone into the hospital. She had collapsed in her apartment and was rushed to the emergency center. I had no idea what to do. I felt like God was just condemning me and attacking me for some reason. I went into this deep depression and I didn’t want anyone to talk to me, if they did, I would simply start crying. I was alone, and no one knew who I was. I was too far away from home to go to my friend’s ceremony.