KhanhZ
Jul 9, 2012
Undergraduate / "Hitting Walls" - my comm app essay for question # 3 for 2013 admission [17]
So this is my essay for question #3:Indicate a person who has had a significant influence on you, and describe that influence.
I feel it doesn't have a good word flow, maybe I need better transitions. And does it answer well the question? Any help much appreciated!
"Hitting Walls"
For the record, punching walls is a quite healthy exercise for your knuckles. May hurt a lot, though. But the benefits such activity brings along could not be ignored. Punching walls is good for improving pain tolerance, hardening knuckle bones, as well as alleviating rage. Especially the latter. That's actually how I first got acquainted with the Wall. To be specific, my mother caused me to befriend it. She, while being strong and diligent, is a rather impulsive and self-righteous woman, who enjoys mocking others for their flaws and mistakes, but chronically never admits her own. As you can guess, I am one of the subjects that get a portion of that caustic criticism... A big portion. That constant barrage of unpleasant remarks or just plain high pitched notes, often undeserved and absurdly exaggerated, infuriated me unfathomably. The dosage progressively increased as I grew up.
When I really got enraged for the first time the preceding argument was approximately like this:
"Hey that girl should run away with her beloved." I said, peeking at some Korean TV series my mother watched, "Her parents are too cruel to absolutely forbid her to marry a man she loves. And really, there is no apparent reason."
"So that's how you think?" my mother suddenly barked, "You think it's OK to oppose your parents' opinion?!"
"But what if their opinion is flawed? You can't look only from one point of view."
"I've raised you, so you must listen to and follow my advice!" she snapped with a cracked voice.
"Why do you make yourself so authoritative over me? Am I not equal to you?" I shot, swallowing saliva nervously in anticipation of imminent tempest.
"What?! I earn money to provide for the family, and you do not! If you are equal to me then go and work!"
"I mean equal as humans. Not financially or social duty-wise. Can't I have my own opinion to be considered too? And by the way, isn't this the 21st century we are living in?" I restated, trying clear the confusion.
"You, ungrateful brat! ... " and then she went on ranting.
My head was filled with thoughts, which you might find familiar: "I hate her so much! Why?! Why is she treating me like that? I'll kill her, that's for sure!" My body was consumed with boiling hatred that gnawed me from the inside. I didn't know what to do: I thrust on chair, clenching my teeth with smothering anger; I didn't know how to suppress that overflowing feeling. But then I just rushed into my room, closed the door and started punching walls relentlessly. And punched, and punched, and punched until I started feeling acute pain in my knuckles. I stopped. I looked at my knuckles: they were bruised, violet with congealed blood underneath; skin was scratched in some areas-- luckily nothing was bleeding. I calmed down and a burdening feeling slowly subsided from my body and mind. Rage evaporated. Pain ceased. I told myself: "Hey that actually helped, but it hurts a great deal," then turned and addressed the concrete entity, "Thanks, Wall."
There were so many instances that I can't bother you with cataloging them all. So I'll dissect them. The influence of my mother that manifested through all those occurrences wasn't and still isn't pleasant to me so to say. It could have gone one way: I could've become self-conscious and more reserved; all that could have ruined me as a person. But instead I shuffled a bad hand to my favor. I have considered that as a test of my fortitude, a necessary hardship to overcome in order to become stronger. I have come to fully learn how to suppress my emotions and to calm down during fits of rage. I accepted only the criticism that seemed most objective, the other I neglected, for I know who I am, I know my flaws -- no need to remind me of that. A phlegmatic and introvert by nature, I mastered the best that comes from those personality types: patience, perseverance, emotional stability. But I have to admit without my mother's influence, even though hardly bearable, I could've been different. For that I'm reluctantly grateful. Perhaps, the most important thing I learned myself is that hatred and anger is not the way to go: they strain your nerves and exhaust your existence. Order and Composure -that is strength. But Fury and Grief - weakness.
Anyway, now I punch walls for practice.
So this is my essay for question #3:Indicate a person who has had a significant influence on you, and describe that influence.
I feel it doesn't have a good word flow, maybe I need better transitions. And does it answer well the question? Any help much appreciated!
"Hitting Walls"
For the record, punching walls is a quite healthy exercise for your knuckles. May hurt a lot, though. But the benefits such activity brings along could not be ignored. Punching walls is good for improving pain tolerance, hardening knuckle bones, as well as alleviating rage. Especially the latter. That's actually how I first got acquainted with the Wall. To be specific, my mother caused me to befriend it. She, while being strong and diligent, is a rather impulsive and self-righteous woman, who enjoys mocking others for their flaws and mistakes, but chronically never admits her own. As you can guess, I am one of the subjects that get a portion of that caustic criticism... A big portion. That constant barrage of unpleasant remarks or just plain high pitched notes, often undeserved and absurdly exaggerated, infuriated me unfathomably. The dosage progressively increased as I grew up.
When I really got enraged for the first time the preceding argument was approximately like this:
"Hey that girl should run away with her beloved." I said, peeking at some Korean TV series my mother watched, "Her parents are too cruel to absolutely forbid her to marry a man she loves. And really, there is no apparent reason."
"So that's how you think?" my mother suddenly barked, "You think it's OK to oppose your parents' opinion?!"
"But what if their opinion is flawed? You can't look only from one point of view."
"I've raised you, so you must listen to and follow my advice!" she snapped with a cracked voice.
"Why do you make yourself so authoritative over me? Am I not equal to you?" I shot, swallowing saliva nervously in anticipation of imminent tempest.
"What?! I earn money to provide for the family, and you do not! If you are equal to me then go and work!"
"I mean equal as humans. Not financially or social duty-wise. Can't I have my own opinion to be considered too? And by the way, isn't this the 21st century we are living in?" I restated, trying clear the confusion.
"You, ungrateful brat! ... " and then she went on ranting.
My head was filled with thoughts, which you might find familiar: "I hate her so much! Why?! Why is she treating me like that? I'll kill her, that's for sure!" My body was consumed with boiling hatred that gnawed me from the inside. I didn't know what to do: I thrust on chair, clenching my teeth with smothering anger; I didn't know how to suppress that overflowing feeling. But then I just rushed into my room, closed the door and started punching walls relentlessly. And punched, and punched, and punched until I started feeling acute pain in my knuckles. I stopped. I looked at my knuckles: they were bruised, violet with congealed blood underneath; skin was scratched in some areas-- luckily nothing was bleeding. I calmed down and a burdening feeling slowly subsided from my body and mind. Rage evaporated. Pain ceased. I told myself: "Hey that actually helped, but it hurts a great deal," then turned and addressed the concrete entity, "Thanks, Wall."
There were so many instances that I can't bother you with cataloging them all. So I'll dissect them. The influence of my mother that manifested through all those occurrences wasn't and still isn't pleasant to me so to say. It could have gone one way: I could've become self-conscious and more reserved; all that could have ruined me as a person. But instead I shuffled a bad hand to my favor. I have considered that as a test of my fortitude, a necessary hardship to overcome in order to become stronger. I have come to fully learn how to suppress my emotions and to calm down during fits of rage. I accepted only the criticism that seemed most objective, the other I neglected, for I know who I am, I know my flaws -- no need to remind me of that. A phlegmatic and introvert by nature, I mastered the best that comes from those personality types: patience, perseverance, emotional stability. But I have to admit without my mother's influence, even though hardly bearable, I could've been different. For that I'm reluctantly grateful. Perhaps, the most important thing I learned myself is that hatred and anger is not the way to go: they strain your nerves and exhaust your existence. Order and Composure -that is strength. But Fury and Grief - weakness.
Anyway, now I punch walls for practice.
