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The Girl
My name is Morgan and I'm going to be 18 this year. I live in Portage, PA, a dismal drug town. I'm a vegetarian, animal lover, and an athlete. I play volleyball and run distance in track. Plan on attending community college for my general studies and attending Mount Aloysius to study Criminal Justice/Forensic Accounting and hopefully go into the FBI or CIA.
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Disclaimer
My diary, my space, my rights. Don't like what you see? Feel free to hit that little X up there. Thanks.
My Personal Narrative
...written on 2005-10-14, @ 6:03 a.m.
Here's my personal narrative for my college English class. I had to turn it in today. Hope you like it.
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“Cow! Mooooo!” Laughter filtered through the audience.
Those foul words floated through the air and reached my ears all too quickly and my face turned red with shame and pain. Embarrassment and distraction frightened me. Would I get my serve over? Would they pick on me even more for missing it?
The referee blew her whistle and I threw the ball in the air and listened to it crack against my hand. My served triumphantly floated over the net leading to a point for my volleyball team. I did not celebrate that point. Early celebration would lead to failure and failure would lead to more embarrassment.
As my next serve went into the air, another string of words stabbed me in my heart. “Pig.” “Freak.” A sob found its way into my throat and I hit the ball only for it to bounce against the net winning the game for the other team. I walked off the court, ignoring sympathy and reassurance from my teammates telling me to ignore the other teens that made fun of me. This was a matter I had to deal with alone as I have done for the last thirteen years of my life.
“Can I play with you?” My seven-year-old mind was hopeful and desired to be with the group playing tag. Yet, words fell upon deaf ears and I again was left to play by myself on the swing set watching the other children laugh and play. Somehow, I could never stand out in a crowd of children who looked the same as I and were human just as I. I played alone, ate alone, and went home alone to sit alone in my room. My parents never understood my bitterness. I was too proud to display any emotions of pain and misery and I had never liked to cry.
The bus ride home from the volleyball game was as loud as ever and yet I did not hear anyone. I gazed out the window at the star-filled sky wishing I could be someone other then myself. Someone beautiful, popular, skinny and not…different. If being “large” or “strange” proved to only breed hate, then why did I have to suffer? I should convert to their standards. Starve myself until I am rake thin, buy all the fashionable clothes and shoes, and act snobby to other people I do not like. I should join the cult... Only being a part of it is the same thing as hating myself.
A warm hand grasped my shoulder comfortingly. I turned my head to see my coach standing over me, worry filling in her eyes. “Do you want to talk?” She asked. I stared at her for a moment, lost for words. I never talked about my problems or my emotions and I could not now, and maybe even never but I had this one chance, this once in a lifetime opportunity to break the dam that was my sorrow.
“I…” I trailed off. My throat constricted and did the only thing I could do to end my suffering. I could only break down and cry. Crying is the hardest thing I could do.
And when that brief moment of relief was over, I felt free. Free to act, and be who I wanted to be and not care what the world thought. I looked over at my coach and laughed apologetically. She understood my tears and my laughter, patting me on my shoulder once more before she left to sit back down.
I realized after that, it was okay to cry and feel pain. I was not an automaton robot, I was human; and I was ready for battle. People could stomp me into the ground but I knew that I would always spring back up ready for more.