Hi, So I am applying to graduate schools for speech language pathology and one of the admissions essays had to be of a personal challenge. It has to be from 250 - 300 words. i would typically show my friends my essays but I don't think that I want to for this one.
Please let me know what you think.
There was a knock at the door. The navy blue uniform and polished badge peered through the crack, and I fell to the floor. There was no question in my mind as to why these police officers were on my front porch. The following days were filled with choosing flowers and planning ceremonies. At the time it was all somewhat surreal, somehow I was more worried about my eighth grade math test then anything else going on.
My father was a great man at heart, but when I was only three years old he was struck with a disease. It was not something that required a wheel chair or many transfusions. Instead there were days that he would stay in bed until five and others that he would clean the entire house and do all of the food shopping in an hour. My fathers severe manic depressive disorders prevented me from ever knowing the real him, and also created many hardships in my childhood. The manic episodes were hard to handle, but depressive states were the worst. At times I would be responsible to ensure that he took his medications for the day, even though they did not help much. There were many times that I was woken in the middle of the night to make a trip to the hospital, sometimes my father would go voluntarily, and other times when a straightjacket would be "administered" on my front lawn.
The fact that I never truly knew the good man behind the disorder is what makes his death hard to handle. Even eight years later it is hard to believe that I will never be "daddy's little girl" or have him walk me down the aisle. Yet the idea that he is in a better place where his disorder can no longer afflicts him is what gets me though each day.
Please let me know what you think.
There was a knock at the door. The navy blue uniform and polished badge peered through the crack, and I fell to the floor. There was no question in my mind as to why these police officers were on my front porch. The following days were filled with choosing flowers and planning ceremonies. At the time it was all somewhat surreal, somehow I was more worried about my eighth grade math test then anything else going on.
My father was a great man at heart, but when I was only three years old he was struck with a disease. It was not something that required a wheel chair or many transfusions. Instead there were days that he would stay in bed until five and others that he would clean the entire house and do all of the food shopping in an hour. My fathers severe manic depressive disorders prevented me from ever knowing the real him, and also created many hardships in my childhood. The manic episodes were hard to handle, but depressive states were the worst. At times I would be responsible to ensure that he took his medications for the day, even though they did not help much. There were many times that I was woken in the middle of the night to make a trip to the hospital, sometimes my father would go voluntarily, and other times when a straightjacket would be "administered" on my front lawn.
The fact that I never truly knew the good man behind the disorder is what makes his death hard to handle. Even eight years later it is hard to believe that I will never be "daddy's little girl" or have him walk me down the aisle. Yet the idea that he is in a better place where his disorder can no longer afflicts him is what gets me though each day.
