Topic: '"I soon realized that no journey carries one for unless as it extends into the world around us, it goes an equal idstance into the world within."'- Lillian Smith
"There is something profoundly intriguing abou the telling of a journey- whether it be travel to exotic locales; in- depth personal discovery; a meandering walk throug ha dense rich forest; or the realization of lifelong dreams. Tell us about a journey- real, imagined or metaphorical. You journey starts here."
My chosen topic may be a bit risky: I have chosen to write about my struggles with a mental disorder and how it negatively affected my life and school work in high school, but also go into how I have worked hard in the past couple years to overcome it. Please let me know if you think there is anything that I should cut out, make shorter, explain more in depth, or if I should change my topic all together. I am nearly done with the essay at this point, but I want to make sure this essay was not a mistake and will not "do me in."
Note: I would prefer not to add anything, as my essay is already over 1100 words long. Thank you very much for any insight you may have!
"Lopsided ground- or is it sand- that moved in waves under my feet as I fight to stay on them, fight to continue towards my safe haven - a haven that I could not even recall. The wind is roaring, pulling fiercely at me, crippling my already weak balance. No matter how many times I tried to crawl forward, a wall of sand, or soil, hurtles into my chest with enough force to blow me backwards; the volatile wind tears at my skin, the fearsome lightning strikes overhead with a brilliance that blinded me, obscuring my view of the haven, the one that I don't even know. It is at this point that I scream; with frustration, with pain- and startle myself awake.
A dream. The result of random neurons firing off like fireworks in my brain while I was in the midst of a REM cycle. And yet, I knew it is more than that. I knew because these traumatic late night escapades would coincide with times when my parents would start week-long yelling matches over the telephone. When I got into middle school, they came as a result of not finishing a project or not studying for a test. During my junior year in high school, I got to the point where I was only sleeping every other night; between frequent conflicts with my mother and father, chronic migraines that I had developed a year earlier, and a GPA that left a lot to be desired, my nightmares were worse than ever. Eventually, I allowed my mom to bring me to a psychiatrist, who confirmed what I already suspected, that I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. This means that I have a tendency to become anxious over both small and large problems and even things that are out of my control. This explained another problem of mine: people who struggle with anxiety tend to build up tasks that they need to complete so much in their head that it becomes too daunting for them to actually do. It explained the years of procrastination that cost me the A grades I knew I was capable of getting.
My doctor recommended an SSRI (a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor), which works by blocking a receptor in the brain that soaks up the neurotransmitter responsible for influencing mood. He wrote a script for one of the more common SSRIs, Lexapro, and told me it would take a few weeks for the medication to start taking effect. After a couple months of taking the SSRI, the only observable difference within me was that I was fighting with my parents and struggling with my schoolwork even more so than before. My mood fluctuated from irritable to wanting to bite the head off of anyone who dared talk to me. I was constantly fatigued, and it showed when I would come to class and ten minutes later had my head lying on my desk with my eyes closed.
I went back to my psychiatrist, who told me that unfortunately, curing me of my anxiety would largely be based off of a trial and error process. So I was prescribed another drug; after that one failed me as well, I was given another. By the time I was supposed to graduate from high school, I had been on four different antidepressants and had seen two different therapists. The meds had made me chronically tired, bad-tempered, nauseous, and/ or headache ridden. But it isn't in my nature to be easily discouraged, so even when the soporific effects began to inflict my ability to pay attention in school (something that I had never struggled with before) and made it nearly impossible to do homework, I stuck it out. I was certain that if my dosages were "upped" or if I tried a new medication, eventually I would be relieved of the anxiety that had plagued me for as long as I could remember. My quest for a relaxed mind came at a price; I did not graduate with my class, and as a result I spent the majority of my summer in a tutor's stuffy, dimly lit living room, writing out answers to hypothetical questions, or typing out essays as quick as my fingers would allow on subjects like Federalism, or what makes American democracy unique.
Towards the end of the summer, I was able to visit my older sister in Toronto for a couple weeks. On one day, we took the local ferry to a smidgeon of land called Centre Island; a lavish park just across the waterfront of Toronto City. It took all of about 20 minutes of walking around for me to become so worn out that we had to prematurely leave the park. I even fell asleep in the car on the drive back to my sister's apartment.
When I came around, my sister asked me if I was alright, concern etched deeply into her youthful face. When I said that I was okay, that it was just the medication, she responded with "You're only 18, you shouldn't have to be drugged all the time." As simple and softly spoken as it was, such an honest statement had an impact on me. I thought of all the parties, get-togethers, and voyages to some of my favorite places that I had missed out on because of the little white pills I told myself I had to take. I thought of the cap and gown I had purchased back in the winter that had never been worn, and the Track and Field season I had missed out on because I had been kicked off the team for frequently hyper ventilating during races due to overwhelming stress. I thought of these things as I stared at the little orange bottle of white pills sitting atop my sister's sink - and chose not to take them that night, and never again.
Just like Hollywood has taught us time and time again, going off drugs is not a walk in the park. For a few days, my sister jokes, it was like Mr. Hyde had invaded my body; I was moody, angered at the slightest inconvenience, and snapped at anyone who dared ask me such uncouth questions as: "Would you hand me that?" or "Want to get something to eat?. Needless to say, I was not good company for that first week. Eventually, I was sleeping at regular times again and no longer needed to nap during the day. My ever persistant anxiety remained, but because I was on a regular sleeping schedule again that didn't interfere with my daily affaires, it was reduced significantly."
"There is something profoundly intriguing abou the telling of a journey- whether it be travel to exotic locales; in- depth personal discovery; a meandering walk throug ha dense rich forest; or the realization of lifelong dreams. Tell us about a journey- real, imagined or metaphorical. You journey starts here."
My chosen topic may be a bit risky: I have chosen to write about my struggles with a mental disorder and how it negatively affected my life and school work in high school, but also go into how I have worked hard in the past couple years to overcome it. Please let me know if you think there is anything that I should cut out, make shorter, explain more in depth, or if I should change my topic all together. I am nearly done with the essay at this point, but I want to make sure this essay was not a mistake and will not "do me in."
Note: I would prefer not to add anything, as my essay is already over 1100 words long. Thank you very much for any insight you may have!
"Lopsided ground- or is it sand- that moved in waves under my feet as I fight to stay on them, fight to continue towards my safe haven - a haven that I could not even recall. The wind is roaring, pulling fiercely at me, crippling my already weak balance. No matter how many times I tried to crawl forward, a wall of sand, or soil, hurtles into my chest with enough force to blow me backwards; the volatile wind tears at my skin, the fearsome lightning strikes overhead with a brilliance that blinded me, obscuring my view of the haven, the one that I don't even know. It is at this point that I scream; with frustration, with pain- and startle myself awake.
A dream. The result of random neurons firing off like fireworks in my brain while I was in the midst of a REM cycle. And yet, I knew it is more than that. I knew because these traumatic late night escapades would coincide with times when my parents would start week-long yelling matches over the telephone. When I got into middle school, they came as a result of not finishing a project or not studying for a test. During my junior year in high school, I got to the point where I was only sleeping every other night; between frequent conflicts with my mother and father, chronic migraines that I had developed a year earlier, and a GPA that left a lot to be desired, my nightmares were worse than ever. Eventually, I allowed my mom to bring me to a psychiatrist, who confirmed what I already suspected, that I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder. This means that I have a tendency to become anxious over both small and large problems and even things that are out of my control. This explained another problem of mine: people who struggle with anxiety tend to build up tasks that they need to complete so much in their head that it becomes too daunting for them to actually do. It explained the years of procrastination that cost me the A grades I knew I was capable of getting.
My doctor recommended an SSRI (a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor), which works by blocking a receptor in the brain that soaks up the neurotransmitter responsible for influencing mood. He wrote a script for one of the more common SSRIs, Lexapro, and told me it would take a few weeks for the medication to start taking effect. After a couple months of taking the SSRI, the only observable difference within me was that I was fighting with my parents and struggling with my schoolwork even more so than before. My mood fluctuated from irritable to wanting to bite the head off of anyone who dared talk to me. I was constantly fatigued, and it showed when I would come to class and ten minutes later had my head lying on my desk with my eyes closed.
I went back to my psychiatrist, who told me that unfortunately, curing me of my anxiety would largely be based off of a trial and error process. So I was prescribed another drug; after that one failed me as well, I was given another. By the time I was supposed to graduate from high school, I had been on four different antidepressants and had seen two different therapists. The meds had made me chronically tired, bad-tempered, nauseous, and/ or headache ridden. But it isn't in my nature to be easily discouraged, so even when the soporific effects began to inflict my ability to pay attention in school (something that I had never struggled with before) and made it nearly impossible to do homework, I stuck it out. I was certain that if my dosages were "upped" or if I tried a new medication, eventually I would be relieved of the anxiety that had plagued me for as long as I could remember. My quest for a relaxed mind came at a price; I did not graduate with my class, and as a result I spent the majority of my summer in a tutor's stuffy, dimly lit living room, writing out answers to hypothetical questions, or typing out essays as quick as my fingers would allow on subjects like Federalism, or what makes American democracy unique.
Towards the end of the summer, I was able to visit my older sister in Toronto for a couple weeks. On one day, we took the local ferry to a smidgeon of land called Centre Island; a lavish park just across the waterfront of Toronto City. It took all of about 20 minutes of walking around for me to become so worn out that we had to prematurely leave the park. I even fell asleep in the car on the drive back to my sister's apartment.
When I came around, my sister asked me if I was alright, concern etched deeply into her youthful face. When I said that I was okay, that it was just the medication, she responded with "You're only 18, you shouldn't have to be drugged all the time." As simple and softly spoken as it was, such an honest statement had an impact on me. I thought of all the parties, get-togethers, and voyages to some of my favorite places that I had missed out on because of the little white pills I told myself I had to take. I thought of the cap and gown I had purchased back in the winter that had never been worn, and the Track and Field season I had missed out on because I had been kicked off the team for frequently hyper ventilating during races due to overwhelming stress. I thought of these things as I stared at the little orange bottle of white pills sitting atop my sister's sink - and chose not to take them that night, and never again.
Just like Hollywood has taught us time and time again, going off drugs is not a walk in the park. For a few days, my sister jokes, it was like Mr. Hyde had invaded my body; I was moody, angered at the slightest inconvenience, and snapped at anyone who dared ask me such uncouth questions as: "Would you hand me that?" or "Want to get something to eat?. Needless to say, I was not good company for that first week. Eventually, I was sleeping at regular times again and no longer needed to nap during the day. My ever persistant anxiety remained, but because I was on a regular sleeping schedule again that didn't interfere with my daily affaires, it was reduced significantly."