My World
For most people their lives gradually shift with each new event that occurs. However, I am able to determine the exact day, the exact hour, the exact minute that my life was forever altered.
October 24, 2005 was a Monday just like any other. I woke to the sound of my alarm clock beeping annoyingly as always. My shower was fast and my clothes were already laid out for me from the night before. My tiny nine-year-old body was buzzing with excitement for another riveting day of learning more fourth grade curriculum. I had no idea how much my life could change in a single moment.
It wasn't until I had finished eating my cereal and started putting on my shoes whilst watching television that it occurred to me something must be wrong; neither my mother nor my older brother was awake and ready for school. I figured that she must have not set her alarm clock the night before, so I quietly went back upstairs to my parents' bedroom and opened the door only to find my father sleeping in it alone.
I was confused, where was my mom, how was I supposed to get to school? I quickly woke my father up. My father is a no nonsense type of guy, he's not very emotional and is awkward in highly sensitive moments. When my dad gained consciousness he told me straight out that my uncle, the one who never failed to make me laugh, was dead. That he had killed himself the night before.
At first, there was nothing. I was in shock; this must be some sort of sick practical joke. What's going on? Why would my dad say something like this? Was I not just joking a few days ago with my mom and brother about how crazy my uncle was? He might've been crazy, but that didn't mean I didn't still love him. I mean, I had just stayed the night over at my grandparents' house, where he lives. We had just been joking and laughing together, he had just complimented me on my new Pink Panther shirt. But, then I remembered what also happened that night. Two of my cousins and I were locked away in our grandmother's bedroom, while we listened to our grandfather and uncle yell and argue about things that nine year old minds couldn't really comprehend: Heaven and Hell, Angels and Demons, Life and Death. What were these things? Why was my grandpa so angry that my uncle could see angels in the sky?
My family has a long standing record of mental illnesses; one of my great-grandmothers died from electric shock treatment in an insane asylum. So, it was no surprise that my uncle probably had something wrong with him. He told my mom that he'd go to the doctor in a few days--he never got the chance. My fun-loving uncle was a schizophrenic: he had hallucinations of many spiritual apparitions.
It was because of these hallucinations, that he believed he was Christ reborn. That and the fact that in my grandparents' house there was a painting of Jesus that bore a strong likeness to my uncle. These voices, these apparitions slowly poured their poison into my uncle's mind. He thought that it was his duty to sacrifice himself for all of mankind. My poor, poor uncle.
I sat down in a chair in the living room, the same chair that just ten minutes ago I was happily sliding on my favorite brown boots and watching the morning cartoons in. How could everything have changed in just ten short minutes? I was in shock, I didn't understand what had happened, I couldn't comprehend that he was dead. My world had just shifted on its axis and started spinning backwards, how was I supposed to deal with this?
Before I went to school that day, my dad took my older brother and I to our grandparents' house. Everyone was grieving over our lost son, brother, father, and uncle. One of his older daughters took me aside and told me, "Rachael, you have to be strong for everyone else. You have to be strong for all your cousins and your Mom. Okay?" I of course replied with an affirmative. How could I say no? And she was right; I did have to be strong for everyone else. A nine year old girl, just starting the fourth grade did not cry a single tear in public after that.
After the 24th I cried myself to sleep for the better part of two and a half years. My uncle's funeral was held a few days after his death. I spent the entire time running around to family members, just trying to make them smile through the tears streaming down their cheeks. I would crack jokes and comfort my family. To everyone else it was as if I was just a happy, bouncing, smiling child who had no real concept of gravity of the situation. I've always been quite good at putting up façades, even back then. I wish that I had known then that I would regret not paying my final respects to my uncle, that I did not honor his last rite. I'm ashamed to admit that for years after that I felt guilt, anger and depression. Guilt for not crying, anger because he took his life, it was his choice to die, no one forced him. And finally, depression over his death, over all that I had lost, that had been stolen brutally from me. I did not cry a single tear as my uncle was lowered six feet under.
My family is no longer the same. We were arguably the happiest, most dysfunctional family on the face of the Earth. Oh, the jokes and fun are still there, however every holiday and family get together is tinged with sadness. Why should we be having so much fun when my uncle is dead and missing everything we're doing? After the 23rd I became hard and mean, not willing to get hurt again, wondering why God is such a vicious God, why he had to take one of my fun loving Uncles from me. Our family will never be the same, and we will never heal or forget the pain.
When my uncle died, I changed, maybe for the better, or maybe for the worse. But what I do know is that his death has made me stronger. It has given me a focus, a purpose, something to strive for. After his death, I buried myself in books. It was all I could do; pain doesn't exist in a fantasy world. I believe that Emerson College is a fantastic fit for me to better my education and myself. Your college will be a major stepping stone toward my chosen career. As an editor, I believe that I will be able to help other people who are suffering as I have. I will have the chance to improve the world with the written word. By giving people the chance to escape their lives, escape their reality within prose, I am honoring my uncle's memory. I know that he would have been proud of me.
No need for a comma here:
It was because of these hallucinations that he believed he was Christ reborn.
Well, he may have been! Nothing about this strange reality makes sense. I might be Christ reborn, too...
...sliding on my favorite brown boots and watching the morning cartoons
in .
I'll take out another comma here:
Two of my cousins and I were locked away in our grandmother's bedroom while we ...
Use a hyphen:
nine year-old minds...
As an editor, I believe that I will be able to help other people who are suffering as I have. I will have the chance to improve the world with the written word.
Okay, pretty good, but I think you can do even more to make editing a constant theme. Editing is actually what I do for a living, and it can consist of forum moderation (like this), editing people's dissertations, editing articles for publications, freelancing in various ways... So... you can be more specific as you make the connection between these heavy topics and the work you will do.
You write very well!!! Look at Strunk and White to fine tun the writing.
Really, you can go very deep and get very abstract in the way you show how writing and editing are connected to mental illness, pain, and even delusion. :-)
