Prompt: Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact on you.
Scalpel in hand, I puncture the epidermis of my memory, 1 millimeter, 2 millimeters, there. Blood of my suppressed recollection begins to bead on the surface in a burning, scarlet red color. Peeling back the skin I finally find it- one of the worst memories of my life. Seeking it feels like operating on myself, but the thoughts uncontrollably flood back, pulsing into my head out from the capillaries in which I had so intricately hid them.
I am sitting, waiting, watching, and hoping. A miniscule voice inside of me boosts up my confidence and cries, "Don't worry, you've got this in the bag! In no time you will have won this election".
I make another incision, this time time to pull back the opposite facing piece of skin to completely uncover the underlying memory. As light sheds upon it, I feel a hot rush of blood bringing me back to those uncomfortable depths of my brain.
Each of my shoes is filled with lead- no plutonium, both my eyes have been spritzed with acid, and my body feels twisted as I lean into the mallicious piece of paper that lacks my name. I keep thinking, "it has to be here! I know I won! I deserve to". Suddenly the four weeks of permission with ink, campaining with slogans and T shirts, and anxiety with a hint of excitement all feel like wasted time and energy. Once I accept that my name was not there, and that I was not good enough to become Director of Assemblies for my high school, I turn to make it back to the car letting the misery set in.
At this point I have a gaping wound. It aches, it stings, and it makes me cry. I feel weak in my own skin, knowing that exposing this pain was done with my own hands, under my own power therefore I force myself to be the one to take responsibility and turn this agony and shame around. I unscrew the black bottle which leaks a sour smell, I proceed to pour it on the skin making white bubbles rise to the surface. After a moment of pain, I feel nothing.
Waking up the next morning, going to school seems unbearable while surviving a week of shame and embarrassment seems impossible. Walking to class a deep stab of envy evades my body ripping my soul in two as I lay eyes on my lucky opponent. This feeling of disappointment is so new and offputting that I begin to despise submitting my name into the election. Something inside frowns at this feeling as I know the risk I took defines me as a person for wanteng to put myself out into the public. As the day progresses, I feel my right mind coming back to me and my true senses taking me up in arms. Suddenly I feel that I am only disappointed, not dead. I can see that the world is still functioning around me, and I can hear other unlucky competitors laughing. Maybe everything will be alright after all.
As the bubbles begin to slow and slough away, I find a needle and string to suture this tear in my skin. As the ends of the skin are forced to kiss I can no longer see the raw wound underneath. Once each piece touches another, I place a bandage over the stitches covering the injury completely. A voice inside tells me I am healing.
The next day a meeting is called that I actually almost decide to skip as my fear of the group in which I dont fully belong deepens. I walk through the door, take a seat, and become appauled at the lack of wispering of the absurdity of my presence, or how I deserved my unfortunate fate. I am even further surprised as I welcome a smile from a girl from who I answered a general question. By the time I exit, I had volunteered for just as much as if I had won. This new found pride startles my unsteady emotions but makes me comfortable in my skin for the first time in days.
I remove the bandage and stare at the skin. The granulation tissue had morphed into a scar that had no sense of pain or pleasure. I discover that the scar contrasts with my montonous skin and gives a simple variation and texture. Although jarring, I know that one day it will fade and become a simple accident caused by an easily forgettable incident.
Four months later, my right mind shines through brighter everyday. Although i lost in a full hearted gamble I no longer feel tears in my eyes to remember that sense of great disappointment. Upon losing the election, I found my pain would be swept away by my own natural course of attitude. By letting myself break down due to disappointment I did not have to take any gambles at building myself back up. The recovery was almost easy. I continued playing the role of myself and took losing as an excellent excersize for my character giving me pride of the risk I took running for the position. Above all, I am most proud of how I managed to turn the pain around and carry my true attitude with me in such a mighty test of my character.
*Thanks for getting through the entire passage and I am more than willing to hear any critisms you have. Thank you!*
Scalpel in hand, I puncture the epidermis of my memory, 1 millimeter, 2 millimeters, there. Blood of my suppressed recollection begins to bead on the surface in a burning, scarlet red color. Peeling back the skin I finally find it- one of the worst memories of my life. Seeking it feels like operating on myself, but the thoughts uncontrollably flood back, pulsing into my head out from the capillaries in which I had so intricately hid them.
I am sitting, waiting, watching, and hoping. A miniscule voice inside of me boosts up my confidence and cries, "Don't worry, you've got this in the bag! In no time you will have won this election".
I make another incision, this time time to pull back the opposite facing piece of skin to completely uncover the underlying memory. As light sheds upon it, I feel a hot rush of blood bringing me back to those uncomfortable depths of my brain.
Each of my shoes is filled with lead- no plutonium, both my eyes have been spritzed with acid, and my body feels twisted as I lean into the mallicious piece of paper that lacks my name. I keep thinking, "it has to be here! I know I won! I deserve to". Suddenly the four weeks of permission with ink, campaining with slogans and T shirts, and anxiety with a hint of excitement all feel like wasted time and energy. Once I accept that my name was not there, and that I was not good enough to become Director of Assemblies for my high school, I turn to make it back to the car letting the misery set in.
At this point I have a gaping wound. It aches, it stings, and it makes me cry. I feel weak in my own skin, knowing that exposing this pain was done with my own hands, under my own power therefore I force myself to be the one to take responsibility and turn this agony and shame around. I unscrew the black bottle which leaks a sour smell, I proceed to pour it on the skin making white bubbles rise to the surface. After a moment of pain, I feel nothing.
Waking up the next morning, going to school seems unbearable while surviving a week of shame and embarrassment seems impossible. Walking to class a deep stab of envy evades my body ripping my soul in two as I lay eyes on my lucky opponent. This feeling of disappointment is so new and offputting that I begin to despise submitting my name into the election. Something inside frowns at this feeling as I know the risk I took defines me as a person for wanteng to put myself out into the public. As the day progresses, I feel my right mind coming back to me and my true senses taking me up in arms. Suddenly I feel that I am only disappointed, not dead. I can see that the world is still functioning around me, and I can hear other unlucky competitors laughing. Maybe everything will be alright after all.
As the bubbles begin to slow and slough away, I find a needle and string to suture this tear in my skin. As the ends of the skin are forced to kiss I can no longer see the raw wound underneath. Once each piece touches another, I place a bandage over the stitches covering the injury completely. A voice inside tells me I am healing.
The next day a meeting is called that I actually almost decide to skip as my fear of the group in which I dont fully belong deepens. I walk through the door, take a seat, and become appauled at the lack of wispering of the absurdity of my presence, or how I deserved my unfortunate fate. I am even further surprised as I welcome a smile from a girl from who I answered a general question. By the time I exit, I had volunteered for just as much as if I had won. This new found pride startles my unsteady emotions but makes me comfortable in my skin for the first time in days.
I remove the bandage and stare at the skin. The granulation tissue had morphed into a scar that had no sense of pain or pleasure. I discover that the scar contrasts with my montonous skin and gives a simple variation and texture. Although jarring, I know that one day it will fade and become a simple accident caused by an easily forgettable incident.
Four months later, my right mind shines through brighter everyday. Although i lost in a full hearted gamble I no longer feel tears in my eyes to remember that sense of great disappointment. Upon losing the election, I found my pain would be swept away by my own natural course of attitude. By letting myself break down due to disappointment I did not have to take any gambles at building myself back up. The recovery was almost easy. I continued playing the role of myself and took losing as an excellent excersize for my character giving me pride of the risk I took running for the position. Above all, I am most proud of how I managed to turn the pain around and carry my true attitude with me in such a mighty test of my character.
*Thanks for getting through the entire passage and I am more than willing to hear any critisms you have. Thank you!*