"Thanks, but for the last time," I said, trying not to sound ungrateful. "I honestly do not need to see a therapist." "But, Anisa..." my mum sighed, worry still dancing around in her eyes. "You try to hide it, but just seem so upset all the - recently. Of course, we understand, regarding the circumstances. But that just makes it even more reasonable for you to consult a professional." "We're just concerned about you," dad added on. I gave them a genuine smile, and told them once again that I was fine. After a couple more minutes of persuading and nagging, my parents exhaled unhappily, nodded unwillingly, and left me in peace inside of my room. I had received my GCSE results a day or two after Ashley's visit. It was what I'd expected for the few hours that I had been waiting on it - mostly As and A*s, and one B. It was lower than my predicted grades from school, as I had been working hard on these exams for five or six years, but I guessed it was the rush of events that had happened before the exams that impacted my score. It didn't matter, though. At least I passed all of them. After all, my lowest grade was only a B. The thoughts I had about my marks sort of amused me. If this was a year ago, I would have been devastated with anything lower than mostly A*s and maybe one or two As. Maybe it was to do with what I'd learned about life - no matter how hard things are, as long as you try your best, you can always be happy in the end. Apart from the 16th, the same day Ashley came over, I hadn't really spent time with Kenzie and Cody. Face to face, anyways. We Skyped each other a few times, talking about this and that. Their exam results were about the same as mine. The reason why we didn't talk much now... ... middle of paper ... ... my shirt?" She said, looking annoyed. "Yes." I said in a bored tone, ready for her attack. She opened her mouth, but then to my surprise closed it quickly again and stomped back up the stairs to her room. When I made it to the bottom of the steps, I noticed mum fixing her hair just feet away from me for the case. That was probably why Alia didn't say anything bad to me. Forget the simple saying, my mother's looks could kill. I knew she was just worried about me, but to be honest it bothered me. It sounded masochistic, but now I didn't want her to have stopped Alia from insulting me. She was my sisters, we were both near the perfect age to be 'moody teenagers' and we lived under the same roof. It was almost natural for us to yell at each other frequently. That was why I didn't mind her bashing at me. I just wanted everything to be normal again.
In the novel, The Other Side of the Bridge by Mary Lawson, the author capitalizes upon society’s expectation of a character to emphasize the struggle to achieving his goals. Ian, one of the central characters in the plot line, is heavily impacted by these expectations, which hold a substantial influence upon his decision’s regarding his future. To teenagers an expectation: a strong belief that something will happen or be the case in the future, is nothing but a restriction upon them. Ian believes he is contained within these expectations; to the point where he does not wish to follow this given path. In a time of adolescence, teenagers are compelled by the strong desire to denounce that which is expected of them; Ian is no exception to this. Societies expectations create a negative influence upon Ian’s struggles to achieve his goals. These effects are due to the following expectations: to leave Struan for a superior education, to obtain the opportunity to become successful; to strive for a medical career, since he excels at the trade already; and to settle into a happy relationship, to raise a family.
“Yep” she said as she opened her apartment door and walked inside without speaking another word.
her that I didn't think she was funny. I also growled at her. She told my like
It took her a long time to catch her breath,but she finally managed to spit out the words,
The adults chuckled over my petulance and my parents shared embarrassed smiles. Then they banished me to the designated "children's table," leaving me with a lingering sense of injustice. My strong desire for equality has been shaped by experiences like these and myriad of other people and standards as well.
should have lost her temper and didn’t. For instance, when I was around 12 years old I was bored
I felt fine on the reading and English sections, even though I’m not great at the subject. But when it came time for the math section, I was so confident I breezed right through it and didn’t check any of my answers. Though that probably wasn’t the best idea, I didn’t think about the horrid assessment again until the scores came out right before spring break.
Marisa rolled her eyes. I popped her on the leg, and shook my finger at her when she gave me the ‘what did I do’ look? I didn’t want another round of Marisa acting like a jealous stepsister.
I don't bear her any grudge for it. In fact I'm proud of her. It shows I brought her
I started thinking of all the lies that I'd heard her tell. I remembered the time she told someone that her favorite restaurant had closed, because she didn't want to see her there anymore. Or the time she told Dad that she loved the lawn mower he gave her for her birthday. Or when she claimed that our phone lines had been down when she was trying to explain why she hadn't been in touch with a friend of hers for weeks. And what bothered me even more were all the times she had incorporated me into her lies. Like the time she told my guidance counselor that I had to miss school for exploratory surgery, when she really needed me to babysit. And it even started to bother me when someone would call for her and she would ask me to tell her that she wasn't there.
My mom came over to my and wrapped her arms around me in a warm, comforting hug. “It'll be okay.”
Seemed pretty normal on the outside. Typical arguments over literally anything such as, “Joy! Hurry up I needed to be in the shower ten minutes ago!” and “Blair I called shotgun! Ugh you suck!” We did not affirm each other very well. In fact and even further, the next stage of the relationship model seemed to be one we lacked, which was intimacy. Growing up, but especially in high school, Blair and me rarely talked about our feelings with each other, and I don’t mean like the surfaced stuff. We never talked really about deep things, things that mattered and that were going on in each other’s lives, no real commitment to each other. I remember one time specifically where I tried to have a spiritual conversation with her in the locker room at school (we both have a relationship with the Lord), but she shut me out. I remember being really upset about that one specific conversation because I just wanted to help. There were random times where I would try and display affiliative cues, showing that I loved her but there was never really any return or any “I love you” that would be said between us. If there was it was because we were family and that was what we were suppose to say, right? Our level of intimacy lacked, but it was a sister-sister relationship so maybe that was how they all
I nodded, "Yeah, I know how that feels but do you really honestly think suicide is an option for this? I mean, its a temporary problem. You have control, please don't end your book here. Things are going to get tough. That's life. You've gone through so much, but you're still here. You're alive."
“You know, it’s okay though,” my voice softened to just a whisper. My hand released his chin to run my fingers through his greasy, blond locks. “It’s okay. I know, I’m broken. I’ll accept it. Step six out of seven of the grieving process. Although, I’ll admit, I might still be on the fifth step: anger.”
There was a door that I had never gone in. It stood out in the middle