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The Depths to Which We Go
For Longreads, Maddy Frank writes about memory, absence, and the karst of Missouri:
“There was something, and then, unbearably slowly, there is nothing. A cave is an absence. “
“Even the recent past eludes me. I can remember crying last week, for example, but not what the crying was about. I can remember around a memory, but rarely the memory itself. Nothing is medically wrong with me, at least not as far as I can tell. It has always been this way.“
Read her new essay and be sure to check out our other original features.
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From committer of a crime
A woman who has had a powerful presence in my life, who inspired me to persevere, overcome obstacles, and not back down? That person is my Mum. She is the most kind-hearted and fair human in the whole world. Our relationship has not always been so easy because I think paradoxically we have so much, even too much, in common. She had a tough childhood and marriage. My father is not a bad person but addictions have significantly impacted his personality and attitude to life. My childhood was neither an easy one, but my Mum did everything she could for me. Each time I failed, I knew I would receive constructive criticism from her. But I also knew that she would protect me from this world. I frequently heard from her ‘I will love you despite everything’. And she did. She taught me how not to be afraid but to be determined. I suppose all my achievements and even that I am still alive are thanks to her. She taught me how to combine kindness and strength (I did not believe that these two traits could be combined in one person). She was a very beautiful woman who could shine despite the bleak situation in her life, especially in our house. Her blond hair and appearance reminded me of Marylin Monroe…. her personality too, so it isn’t a surprise that Marylin Monroe still is my idol.
Let’s come back to my life. I was 19, I suppose when my Dad woke me up with the phrase ‘Your Mum is dying’. She had lost consciousness. Since that time I have hated mornings. Sometimes I would rather never wake up again.
My Mum had breast cancer which she didn’t want to treat. She refused to go to the hospital. She wanted to die. I couldn’t bear that. I started my investigation of hospitals that can perform urgent operations. There were none available because of COVID-19 measures. My Dad was too helpless to take responsibility so I realized that if not me then who? That evening we called the ambulance. I suppose if we hadn’t she would have not suffered so much.
The long days and nights began. I abandoned my studies (fortunately teachers understood and gave me the opportunity to pass exams later), and spent all the time next to my Mum’s hospital bed. I had never been responsible for somebody ill. It was new for me. I had time to think and consider my life. My attitude to Mum. I was and still am a rude person who can say tough things to important people. I blame myself for not being humble and understanding. I am a monster. My Mum always wanted to help me with my life and support but she did not receive the same attitude from me. Knowing she had been ill (despite the fact she hadn’t wanted to be cured) I had let her make all household chores by herself, I had not offered my help. Knowing that she had been suffering enormous pain, I had not taken responsibility for any physical work which should have been done. When she had been suffering mentally when she had yelled at me…I had not recognized these signs as a call for help but had become in a defensive position making her suffer more.
One day I came back home to rest for a couple of hours. When I returned back to the hospital I saw my Mum deadly pale. I immediately forced the nurse to do a blood analysis. Mum was taken to the resuscitation ward. I was not allowed here so I returned home. That was one time I saw my Dad crying and believed that he could change (spoiler: he cannot). It was May. Everything was green. It was raining. I was standing under that rain. I was not crying but praying. The sun appeared. I thought it was a good sign.
Eventually, in a couple of weeks, my Mum was taken to a big city for an operation. She was so tiny after that. Then I realized how much she suffered. I saw her tiny body in her tiny clothes. She was so weak. I believe it was that time when I saw her inner nature…. So vulnerable and fragile. It was different from what everybody used to see. She was always a strong woman who knew what she wanted, and how to achieve her aim. Now she needed protection. And I couldn't give her that. My Dad was drinking again so I couldn't rely on his help.
Then she started recovering. Long courses of chemotherapy began. She lost all of her fabulous hair. I do not know whether she wanted to survive. My Mom always had been the kind of person who wants to help everyone, to make other people’s lives easier. With this illness, she started realizing that no one cares about her. That she always had not been ‘enough’. Not enough supportive, not enough kind, not enough beautiful. She frequently said that she feels guilty about something she even did not know.
I committed a crime. My Dad had gone to Poland to earn money for Mum’s treatment and I… I went to another city to continue my studies. I left her alone. How could I? I even could shout at her through the phone if she told me things I didn’t want to hear. Oh my goddess what kind of a bitch I was.
Some months passed and I received an offer to go to Lithuania as an exchange student. My Mum was enormously happy about that. I was doubting whether
I should go. She persuaded me that everything will be okay. That was the first time I went somewhere abroad. I was so excited about the plane because I hadn’t ever traveled by plane. Finally, I reached the dormitory where I was supposed to live. It was night. Thanks to my incompetent teacher who was responsible for these studies I hadn’t been aware of the requirement to fill in the form to be able to live in the dormitory. My Mum was constantly writing to me because she was worrying of course. I was rude. Taking into consideration that I did not fill in the form, I was forced to spend the night in the dormitory hall. There were sofas where I tried to sleep, and it was very cold.
In the morning when a manager of the dormitory came and let me in the room, I was crying. I saw a fabulous view from the windows and the dawn. I recorded a video for my Mum and sent it to her. She started calling me but I was not able to connect to the dormitory Wi-Fi and didn’t have a Lithuanian sim card so the connection was horrible. I was crying and in despair. I let my emotions fall on my Mum. She was soothing me to the fullest extent. She was so supportive and I was a monster.
After a couple of hours of sleep, I tried to call her again. The connection was worse. I was so irritated. And again she received my negative emotions. I was supposed to attend the excursion so I started preparing for it. I sent a message to her saying sorry for my behavior. She answered that everything will be okay and I shouldn’t blame myself for that. ‘It is just an aggressive chemotherapy’ was the last answer I received. I had a wonderful time on the excursion and after coming back to the dormitory I received a call from my aunt that Mum is in hospital. Her condition became worse and Mum was taken to the resuscitation ward. I wrote her another message with apologies. This message was never read. I was praying again.
With no more news, I started preparing to go to bed. Then I received another call from my brother. He said that my Mum passed away three hours ago. The spectrum of my emotions is difficult to describe. During all the years she was ill I prayed before sleep for her health. Everything was in vain. I was furious. Why didn’t she call? Why didn’t she say goodbye to me? Why was I so rude to her? Why was I such a monster? I almost didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t even attend the farewell ceremony because I would be disqualified from the program. Everybody persuaded me that she wanted me to stay there. Probably such a way of things is better for me. Thanks to her I knew I must live. I must be as strong as she was. This was my first time abroad, and I lost the most vital person in my life.
P.S. I don’t know what others write here. I will just write some thoughts with the hope that you, the person who is reading this, will hear. Keep your emotions. Keep your rude words. Remember that each conversation can be the last one. Do not repeat my mistakes. Say words of love to people who you love. Memento mori.
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Do you wanna talk about eating disorders? Because I kinda don't but I will anyway
There's only two people in my life that I’ve ever admitted to having an eating disorder to. My best friend who introduced me to purging, and my other best friend who’s complained about her body for as long as I can remember but I never understood, until I did. I grew up with a very privileged relationship with food. I’ve noticed that a lot of women talk about getting eating disorders from their parents but that’s not the case for me. Yeah my moms a little bit of a health freak but more in the “don’t leave the wifi on at night or we’ll all get cancer” kind of way. Not so much the “a moment on the lips forever on the hips”. My eating disorder came out of nowhere, it was tragic to be honest because I don’t think I’ll ever be the same again. I went 19 blissful years without a second thought of how many carbohydrates I was consuming or if I could pinch the fat on my stomach or not. But then again, I’ve always been averagely healthy or even thin. My relationship with food was so healthy that I never needed to diet because I genuinely enjoyed eating moderately healthy, and that's all it takes in my opinion. I was in the kitchen of my then apartment chatting with my roommate. (There were five of us in total) but this one (we’ll call her Stacy) was basically my best friend. She seemed awkward, and started talking about how her therapist had told her she needed her friends to start “holding her accountable”. I had no idea what she was talking about but I listened as I fixed myself lunch in the kitchen. She then explained that she was bulimic, she had been struggling with this for a while and that being completely transparent with the people around her about it would aid in her recovery. This, I completely agree with, don’t get me wrong. Maybe I’m selfish for wishing she hadn’t opened up to me as fully as she did that day, but this created a string of problems that are still present in my life years later. I think the fact that we lived together made it so much worse. Now that I had been made aware of her eating disorder I would literally hear her purging in the bathroom, I couldn’t ignore it, she wasn’t exactly subtle. I wanted to lose weight, so naturally I started restricting my diet. Unfortunately this is a stupid idea when you do it in extremes because scarcity leads to higher demand. I put unhealthy foods on a pedestal in my head, like they were something I could never have, which only made me want it more. I remember the first time I made myself throw up. I had made fried spring rolls for one of my roommates and me. (For someone struggling with an eating disorder I actually really enjoyed cooking). We were sitting down eating together and then he eventually got up to go to bed. I think I had a small amount of alcohol that night but basically the second he left I lost complete control around the food. I proceeded to eat all of the spring rolls and then a whole bag of kettle corn that had been sitting in our pantry for way too long. I think I would probably consider that my first “binge”. I was obviously uncomfortable with the amount of food I had eaten and so I proceeded to go to the bathroom, luckily our fan was extremely loud in there, this is something that never got fixed by maintenance unfortunately. Anyways, I purged everything and went to bed. I woke up thinking I had hacked the system. I could have my cake and eat it too, but how I wished it never happened. My brain got caught in a vicious restriction, binge and purge cycle. I had lost any sense of how to eat “normally” anymore. Food consumed my thoughts every. Single. Day. It sucks. I know that I’ve wanted to recover for a while now but it’s much easier said than done. Yesterday I binged on 4 doughnuts, two bowls of cereal, three tacos, and an assortment of random things in my kitchen. But! Today I resisted the urge to do all of that over again and instead I’m writing this. I don’t think I’ll be like this forever, at least I hope not. Breaking a habit takes time, I got this, and,if you related to anything I wrote, you got this too.
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ARE YOU APPLYING TO COLLEGE?
ARE YOU APPLYING TO COLLEGE?
One of the most vital parts of any college application is the personal essay.
All potential students are required to submit an essay, that is written based off of a specific prompt for the college you are interested in. Different colleges will have different prompts.
Here at BFW, not only have we been helping students prepare these since 1991, we also have professional training in exactly what…
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#24#24 hour turnaround#admission#admissions#Button Factory Writers#college#college application#collegeadmissions#deadline#essayprompt#hour#november#october#personal essay#personalessay#prompt#success#topic#turnaround#writing#writing support
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Pillars of my Journey #1: BANKS, The Altar
Anyone who knows me knows how much Banks means to me, probably because I can never stop unapologetically fangirling her whenever I can. To me, Banks is the best kept secret in music, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. The impact she and this album had on my life is not something that I can even really try to start to sum up with just a few words and pictures, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try.
Banks second album, The Altar, altered my life in many ways, and has stayed with me on my journey of getting to know myself and accepting myself ever since it first entered my life all those years ago in 2016. To this day it is one of the centerpieces of my life in many ways.
I’m not quite sure what it is about Banks that made her able to pierce through the masc facade bubble that I was living in, but I am so glad she did. Gemini Feed sure might have helped, it’s a song that can turn anyone into a believer, but for me, it was the first time since repressing that part of myself at the start of puberty that I was fine with letting myself listen to music that would be considered ‘too girly’.
My Banks fandom grew fast as I listened to the album again and again, and I went to her tour that year for the album. It was one of the most profound moments in my life where I was confronted with myself, gender-concepts, and the fact that I was living a lie. As I was fangirling Banks at her concert, a girl called me out and started to make fun of me, because how could someone that looked the way I did be having the time of their live at this woman's concert? It’s a moment that I look back on with a lot of duality, because in essence, she had a point, and yet it’s that exact fucking stupid gender boxed thinking that actually kept me from living the life I wanted to live all of my life. That, and of course various other layers of transphobia. It was a clear example of the thing that I have experienced over and over again for the first 25 years of my life, that my cis privilege was not something I ever felt to be a privilege, it was a prison, a coping mechanism that allowed me to run away from myself and constantly leave situations feeling like I hadn’t taken my space or compromised myself.
When I did start to accept who I was, this album became so much more layered and spoke to me on so many more levels. The song Weaker Girl is now an anthem to my existence. That moment when you can finally get over your own transphobia and stand in your own energy is so groundbreaking, to let go of the prejudice and just let yourself exist is truly a feeling like no other. To feel pride for your existence and who you are, the growth you made and who you’ve become despite all the fucking hardship. I used to pretend to be really tough as a shitty coping mechanism for trying to compensate for who I wasn’t, but the person I am now, they are actually tough, although I would much prefer to use the word resilient. When Banks sings ‘I need a bad motherfucker like me’ that always hits me really deep, because life, especially choosing to live life on your own terms, and not a life lived out of fear, sometimes requires you to channel that fierce energy inside of you, and that’s one of the many things I like about this song.
But Fuck With Myself also has a very special place in my heart, because of the dual meaning of the song, and how relatable that is to my own life. With the title, Banks means that she ‘fucks with herself’ as in that she rocks with herself, or that she has her own back, but she also means the other interpretation of the word, to ‘fuck with yourself’ as in to mess with yourself. I think it’s so clever to put these two together, but more than it just being a smart play on words, it’s something that I often find myself struggling with. Sometimes I’m my own worst enemy, and sometimes I’m my own best friend, and the beauty in it in my opinion is to be able to still be there for yourself when you are your own worst enemy, when you are messing up your own opportunities and chances at happiness, because it’s only by taking ownership of those moments in life that you can also take ownership of the growth you make, the challenges you overcome, the wounds you heal, the milestones you couldn’t even fucking imagine being possible to be reached being reached. That starts with unconditionally fucking with yourself more than anybody else, even if you do also fuck with yourself more than anybody else does.
The words she sings on Trainwreck often echo through my mind, ‘they told me you were never gonna let me get away’, to me that was referring to this prison that I had built for myself in which I lived, that I genuinely thought was the only right thing to do, because I really believed that my life would be invalidated and dehumanized if I lived the life I wanted to live. Which is obviously a very sad and depressing thing to acknowledge, but I think we often forget the impact that the societal treatment of queer, trans, and in other ways diverse people has on the brain of a child. But thanks to Banks I slowly did start getting away. I no longer saw my own femininity as something to be ashamed of, but rather as something to be proud of. Seeing her embracing and being proud of her own physical flaws, as she sings on this album, gave me the courage to start dealing with my shame about my body, that my femininity isn’t defined by how broad my fucking shoulders are. So I broke away more. I saw her rocking this cute moody vibe of a leather jacket and dark eye makeup and I went and bought myself a leather jacket and eyeliner. And sure, I can’t dance or look as good as Banks no matter how hard I try, but I felt carefree, and cute. By empowering herself, she also empowered another human being, and I think that is one of the most awesome things a person can ever do. And to some I’ll always just always be a boy with makeup on, or a dress on, or a fake woman with a dick, but people that think those things clearly don’t understand one very important aspect of the trans experience, and that is the human one. All those things I just said are things I have mostly been told by my own brain, by my own internalized transphobia and trauma and shame. But Banks helped me realize a really powerful thing. I’m not claiming anyone else’s space. The only person whose space I’m claiming is my own. The space I never claimed for the first quarter-century of my life. So I’m extremely grateful to Banks for coming into my life, for being a part of my journey, and for being able to reach someone that needed to hear those words of love and self-empowerment so much. Thank you forever.
P.S
One tiny detail I love about this album is that the CD version of the album has a short a cappella piano intro to Gemini Feed to start the album off, it’s such a lovely touch.
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With all of the temples scattered around Greece, one might be led to believe that great buildings such as the parthenon were used in much the same way as people use churches, synagogues and mosques. But, contrary to that belief, according to Sean and Colette Hemingway with the MET museum, temples weren't really used for religious deeds outside of being a representation of a god's might. The Parthenon specifically was set on a rocky mountain and that, along with its size, became a testament to the might of Athena, Patron goddess of Athens, as well as the power and influence of Athens. Temples such as the Parthenon were seen as a home away from mount olympus for the gods, and as such, just like you wouldn't go into someone else's house without permission, it was seen as an invasion of privacy to go inside of a gods temple.
There are a few instances to be found where this proves false. One such instance is, according to Peter Chrisp in his book The Parthenon–How it was Built and How it was Used, the parthenon was used as a treasury for the delphian league when the Greek city states were fighting against the persians–but this could just be a case of the government having more religious freedom from offending the gods than the common folk.
Religious practices of the ancient Greeks typically happened outside at an altar, where people could sacrifice animals such as ox, sheep, and goats, as well as make other kinds of offerings.
When the Roman empire changed its tune of religious tolerance and changed its official religion to Christianity, that changed the religion of all of the places that were a part of the roman empire, including, as it happens, Athens, greece. This change made it necessary to build churches to cater to the new religion, and it also led to the destruction or reform of the religious buildings that had previously been used. One such building was the Parthenon. The Parthenon was converted into a church and a place to hold a christian altar was added to the structure, as well as tearing down a wall to convert the previously two roomed structure into a one roomed structure to hold worshippers inside of. This was the first instance I could find of religious practices being held inside of the parthenon. A, surprisingly effective, way of getting the people to accept and start practicing the new Religion of the Roman Empire, was to assign reformed religious buildings with a saint that was similar to the god that the religious center used to worship. In the case of the parthenon, Athena became the concept of Holy Wisdom, and then later The Virgin Mary.
The Parthenon was used as a Christian church for 1000 Years, which is longer than it served as a temple to the goddess Athena. In 1458, the Turks took Athens and converted the parthenon into an islamic mosque and added a minaret to the roof. They painted over the paintings inside the building because they didn't believe in showing humans in art inside religious centers, but they kept the statues, which experts still debate about the reasoning for.
The venetians from venice, italy wanted to drive the turks from Athens, and during the attack that captured Athens, the parthenon was used by the turks to house women, children, and gunpowder. This choice doesn't seem very wise, but the thought process of the Turks was that, perhaps the Venetians wouldn't fire on the Parthenon because of all of its valuable art, so, logically, it would be the safest place. Sadly, the Venetians had no such reservations, and, after hearing that gunpowder was stored there, one fire from a cannon was all it took to shake the city and reduce the parthenon to mostly rubble. The blast killed at least 300 people.
In the years after that, tourists would come and take chunks of rubble home as souvenirs. An ambassador to Greece, Earl of Elgin, was an enthusiast of Greek art and architecture, and owned a vast collection of Greek works. Elgin gained permission to take parts of the parthenon's rubble that contained art, and it was likely under the assumption that he would take parts that were lying around, like so many tourists before. This was not what happened. Elgin used his permission to cut away pieces of wall to add to his collection. Later, Elgin sold his pieces, and they ended up with the British museum, who is known to covet and take things from cultures around the world for display, as well as at one point buying stolen pieces. At this point in time, many of the world's wealthy countries wanted a piece of Greek art for themselves.
Between 1820 and 1830 was a bloody war for Greek independence, where they were assisted by Britain, France and Russia. After their independence, Greece began to ask that the statues of the parthenon that had been taken in by the British museum be returned to Athens. The British Museum refused, and it is speculated that the reason is that if they had to return the statues to Athens, other cultures would start to demand their artifacts back.
Restoration of the parthenon is an ongoing effort, but pollution from the large city that Athens now is makes that difficult. Smog from gas emissions and cars, as well as acid rain continuously deteriorate the marble, making restoration nearly impossible.
It's important to understand the history of the parthenon because it tells a story of devotion, war, and greed, and can teach us a lesson on how we can prevent the great structures of our world from ever getting to the point that the parthenon has.
Britannica, The Editors of Encyclopaedia. "Parthenon." Encyclopedia Britannica,
6 Oct. 2022, https://www.britannica.com/topic/Parthenon. Accessed 9
November 2022.
Adkins, A.W.H. and Pollard, John Richard Thornhill. "Greek religion."
Encyclopedia Britannica, 22 Aug. 2022, https://www.britannica.com/topic/Greek-religion. Accessed 9 November 2022.
Chrisp, Peter. The Parthenon How It Was Built and How It Was Used. Vol. 5,
Austin, Texas, RainTree Steck-Vaughn, 1998. Great Buildings.
Fangqing, Lu. "Architecture as Spatial–Textile Storytelling: Metamorphosis of
Frieze as a Narrative Medium Mediating the Panathenaia Festival."
Frontiers of Architectural Research, vol. 5, Dec. 2016, pp. 489-98.
Hemingway, Colette, and Seán Hemingway. "Greek Gods and Religious Practices."
Met Museum, Oct. 2003, www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/grlg/hd_grlg.htm.
Accessed 9 Nov. 2022.
Nardo, Don. A Travel Guide to Ancient Athens. Lucent Books, 2003. Travel Guide.
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Overcoming Writer's Block: Unleash Your Creative Juices and Start Writing!
Hey there, aspiring writers and essay enthusiasts! We all know that dreaded feeling of staring at a blank page, struggling to find the right words. But fear not! In this post, we'll explore the phenomenon of writer's block and share some tips to help you overcome it. Get ready to unleash your creative juices and get those words flowing!
Embrace the Power of Freewriting:
When you're facing writer's block, sometimes the best approach is to let your thoughts flow freely. Set a timer for a few minutes and write whatever comes to mind. Don't worry about grammar, structure, or coherence. Just let your thoughts pour onto the page. You'll be surprised at the gems that emerge from this uninhibited writing exercise.
Take a Break and Refresh:
Sometimes, stepping away from your writing can provide the mental reset you need. Take a walk, engage in a creative activity, or indulge in a hobby you enjoy. This break allows your mind to recharge and can spark new ideas. You might find inspiration in the most unexpected places!
Break It Down with Outlining:
If the thought of tackling your essay as a whole feels overwhelming, break it down into smaller, manageable sections. Create an outline that maps out the main points and subtopics. This helps you visualize the structure of your essay and makes the writing process more approachable.
Seek Expert Assistance with Essay Market:
When writer's block becomes persistent, reaching out for professional support can be a game-changer. That's where Essay Market comes in. They offer expert writing services tailored to your specific needs. Their experienced writers can help you jumpstart your essay, providing you with fresh ideas and guidance.
Set Realistic Goals and Deadlines:
Setting clear goals and deadlines is crucial for overcoming writer's block. Break your writing tasks into smaller, achievable milestones and set realistic deadlines for each. By giving yourself a sense of structure and accountability, you'll be motivated to work steadily towards completing your essay.
Embrace the Power of Humor:
Sometimes, injecting a dose of humor into your writing process can help loosen up your creativity. Create funny writing prompts, use puns, or imagine hilarious scenarios related to your essay topic. Laughter can be a great catalyst for unlocking your creativity and breaking through writer's block.
Essay Market - Your Partner in Overcoming Writer's Block:
When the words just won't flow, Essay Market is here to support you. Their expert writers can provide personalized assistance, helping you overcome writer's block and guiding you towards creating a stellar essay. With their professional help, you can regain your writing momentum and produce high-quality work.
Remember, writer's block is temporary, and with the right strategies, you can overcome it. Embrace freewriting, take breaks, outline your ideas, seek professional assistance, and set achievable goals. Let your creativity shine through and conquer the challenges that come your way!
So, my fellow writers, it's time to break free from the chains of writer's block. Unleash your creative juices, conquer that blank page, and bring your ideas to life. And if you ever need a helping hand, Essay Market is here to support you on your writing journey.
Happy writing, and may your words flow effortlessly onto the page!
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Trying to Save My Father
Part Two
My father’s lungs stopped working and as a result he was intubated. I will never forget the look in his eyes when he was intubated. For me it is one of the most haunting memories of the entire sickness. I remember my father strapped up against the medical bed, sedated and pinned down while doctors pushed a thick tube down his throat. I will never forget the look in his eyes when they were preparing to intubate him. I think in that moment he felt one of the deepest moments of heartbreak in his entire life, feeling his heart absolutely breaking, seeing his faith in goodness and happiness and hope completely get violently stripped from him. He saw the worst happen instead of something better, a nightmare becoming real instead of a triumphant story as he had hoped he would experience. I think he experienced medical trauma that he had no idea existed before that moment. I think in that moment he realized he possibly was not going to get better and that his suffering would get only deeper. But my fathr was so brave, he did not cry at that moment, and he did not cry often in the hospital. My father fought so hard for his life, even in that moment he gave it all he had. After he passed the doctors said that he was incredible for lasting as long as he did despite the cancer and sepsis, that he only lasted as long as he did because of the amount of sheer, inner brute strength he possessed.
Thereafter every day was like a medical emergency, a nightmare scenario that was my life instead of something I would watch on TV. I was extremely sick at that time. I was battling panic disorder with agoraphobia and Lyme Disease acutely, and the stress made my symptoms worsen severely. Since my father chose me as his power of attorney, I was in charge of making his medical decisions and going to the hospital most days. Only people who have gone through exposure therapy for phobia’s can understand how excruciating it was physically and emotionally to go to the hospital every day despite being agoraphobic. So many times I would vomit outside, sob, have panic attacks, etc., but I would just keep pushing, moment by moment, day by day because my Papi needed me. My love for him was greater than my suffering. His need for me was greater than my anguish, and it felt worth it all just to sit next to him and kiss his forehead and hold his hand. To grieve every day, on top of battling the phobic thoughts and compulsions, my spirit and mind felt shattered and broken beyond comprehension. I felt like I was just focused on functioning one tiny bit at a time, to just keep breathing, just swallow this food, just take one more step, just breathe one more breath. Because Papi needed me. It was at this time period that besides when I was begging God to let my dad get better, bargaining with him, etc., I stopped praying for Him to help me on an individual basis. I didn’t see how God could exist and allow me to be diasbled and agoraphobic and watch my dad die at the same time.
For several months my dad lay in the ICU, too fragile to be moved downstairs or sent home. The doctors wanted to take him off all of the life support and have him pass, but he staunchly refused, wanting to stay on it and keep fighting and hoping for enough improvement to get better enough to do some kind of treatment for the cancer. What the doctors understood implicitly was still something he and my family and I couldn’t seem to accept. Our religious beliefs were in overdrive then, convincing us that a miracle was imminent and we would be rewarded for our faith. Sometimes I would catch my father in moments of sheer agony and exhaustion, seeming to want to give up, to want to ask for peace and to let go, but whenever we asked he would say no, that he couldn’t and wouldn’t leave his children. And that he didn’t want to die, he wanted to live so badly. My dad fought off the sepsis, endured the dialysis, did not eat for months due to being intubated and the cancer having grown too much, and breathing through machines, defecating on his bed, with tubes and IV’s all over his body. He would beg for ice, for water, for food, but his body couldn’t process food anymore and we couldn’t give him any because of all his tubes, and he couldn’t even do simple tasks anymore.
There was one day where I realized my dad wasn’t going to get better. I asked the doctor why my dad couldn't do cancer treatment if the fungal infections and bacterial infections triggered by sepsis had been fixed. He essentially told me, look at your fathers body, look at his stomach, it is impossible for him to recover. Cancer was everywhere. I really saw him in a bare naked way at that moment that perhaps I was too numb to have noticed before. I saw his skeletal frame, his massive tumor-ridden stomach, his beautiful, precious body full of disease and saw that he was too far gone. The doctor was right. There were too many tumors and the cancer had infested into his body beyond any hope. I broke down weeping in the hallway, because I knew mentally at that moment that the battle was over, my prayers weren’t answered, and I was going to lose my precious Papi.
It wasn’t long after that that my dad’s moment of passing came. One day I was alone with him with my twin sister and best friend. My mother and siblings had left to eat something for dinner and so that my mother could finally get a break from watching him. She and my Aunt Goya were his constant companions, especially my mother. She was his constant support and best friend while he was dying. On that early evening I read to my father from the Bible, and I prayed for him and to him. I told my Papi to not be scared, that God loved him and he was so loved by Him. I told him through prayer that God didn’t want him to be scared, that God was going to show him right now why he shouldn’t be scared, and that his father and his aunt and everyone he loved that passed before him were right there with him. And I kept telling him again and again, to not be scared, that God loved him, and that he was safe and would be okay. I imagined in my mind while I said it that he was seeing God behind his eyelids, showing him light and peace and happiness, and that he saw his father and loved ones who had passed there too. Right when I finished the prayer and said amen, all of my father’s machines started beeping and going off, and then there were nurses and doctors everywhere, moving me away from him and starting CPR on him. I remember crying and screaming, feeling like I was outside of my body looking down. I remember feeling the confused mixed up emotions of not wanting to let him go but also wanting him to leave his tortured body and not suffer even a milli-second longer. I wanted my Papi to be free, I wanted him to no longer have to live this God forsaken existence. I felt or saw a bright light flash up towards the ceiling. I knew immediately it was my Papi. The doctor’s kept doing CPR, but I knew he had left. My father passed on December 1, 2019.
His death was devastating to me because there was no way I could fix it, no hope it could get better. He was just gone. After his death I suffered from nightmares and flashbacks. I received PTSD treatment for trauma, and it helped immensely. That along with therapy for grief and allowing time to pass has allowed me to gain peace even though I will never be okay with the fact that this happened to my father, and I miss him always.
Since his passing my health has gotten significantly better to the point where I have been able to return to school and am almost done with my bachelor’s degree. I have never returned to the Jehovah’s Witness religion. The mixture of my illness, my father’s death, and the ensuing pandemic resulted in me being able to sort of wean myself off socially more and more from the religion in a gradual way. This gave me the opportunity to leave without having to be questioned, investigated, or shunned. Many family members who identify as Jehovah’s Witnesses no longer speak to me, as even though I am not officially shunned as I no longer attend meetings I am seen as “worldly” and thus a bad influence. The elders of my congregation thankfully pretty quickly forgot about me and stopped checking in on me very early on. The vast majority of “friends” either disappeared when I got sick or slowly cut me off when I stopped attending meetings and being responsive. For many of them I do not hold any anger, as I don’t expect them to give up their families and their entire lifetime worth of friends and community just to be able to talk to me. I understand that for them to psychologically survive they have to stay in the religion, and for that I feel sad for them. The few friends who have kept in touch have done so in secret and privately; I will never share their names because I do not want them to get in trouble or suffer consequences in the religion for continuing to be my friend. If I ever go public with my experiences I know that I will be shunned and my name will be announced in my old congregation as someone who is no longer a Jehovah’s Witness and is ex-communicated. I truly don’t care about that, although I do worry that it would cause suffering for my family members still in the religion. For the most part though, I have mostly just let the religion fall into the past and don’t really think about it or let it interfere with my current life and current movements forward. I have started seeking therapy for cult survivors, as I have found that there are some lingering effects from being raised in a cult, especially with difficulties with intimacy and feelings of safety. Regardless of the difficulty of confronting that emotional trauma, I feel so thankful for leaving the religion. I would do it one hundred times over, and I know that my father understands why I had to leave from where he watches me and loves me regardless.
In a lot of ways I feel lost in figuring out my career and my path in life. But I have so many dreams and so many hopes in particular for my dad through me. I dream of becoming successful at whatever career path I choose and never changing my last name, so that when people hear of things I have accomplished it is his last name that they hear. I dream of opening a clinic after him, or naming an academic scholarship after him in his hometown high school in Mexico. I dream of making him proud, of taking care of my siblings the way he would have; I dream of just making him smile and experience happiness wherever it is that he is now. I can’t spoil him the way that I always planned and hoped to, so this is the best that I can do. And I know that he will be happy and proud of me because he loved me unconditionally, and that will always be the way that I love him.
#fatherr#father#fatherdaughter#love#caretaking#spoonie#chronicillness#caregiver#cancerr#cancer#stomachcancer#adenocarcinoma#essay#personalessay
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𝒫ℯ𝓇𝓈ℴ𝓃𝒶𝓁 ℰ𝓈𝓈𝒶𝓎
Describing myself is one of the most difficult tasks, but it’s also one of the most fascinating. I believe that our characteristics, whether positive or negative, shape who we are in the world. People may have different perspectives on my personality because they see what they want to see in me, and that’s fine. So, in various aspects, I would describe myself using the paradigm in which I see myself.
As a person, I believe that life is an art form, and that I am the creator of my own life. Whatever life throws at me, I try to keep it as colorful and cheerful as possible. I am an enthusiastic and inquisitive person. Curious about what life is all about and what the future holds.
I try to keep a smile on my face no matter what, and that smile is what keeps me going. Besides, I grew up in a multicultural neighborhood. As a result, I am an extrovert who enjoys meeting new people and learning about their cultures and traditions, which makes me happy and cheerful.
Furthermore, I am dependable but short-tempered. If I am not properly understood, I lose my cool. I’m irritated on the inside, but it doesn’t show in my behavior. However, I would like to modify this personality trait slightly because my friends and family members frequently fail to notice that I am experiencing difficulties. As a result, they do not offer assistance when I require it.
This is me, for better or worse, trying to contemplate the world as it is, revealing its true colors. I believe that life is a gift that should be treated as such, with love, care, and respect.
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Ivy League Career Counseling by Dr Anil Khare - Anil Khare
#ivyleague#careercounselling#ivyleaguespecialist#students#unitedstates#extensiveeducation#approach#ensure#success#admissionprocess#sat#act#personalessay
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Business Essay Writing Made Easy!
This checklist will help you to make your essay more appealing to the readers.
Follow on Instagram for more tips!
#essayhelp#essayhelper#essaywritingservice#essaycompetition#essaywritingservicesedmonton#essaytips#essayist#essaywritinghelp#essaydue#essayservice#collegeessay#englishessay#essaytime#essaycontest#essaywritingtips#essaystress#essaywriters#personalessay#essaywritting#essaydone#businessessay#businessstudies#businessstudent#studybusiness#studyinaustralia
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#3amblackpoetry in July, Day 3: Applying the Courage Balm and Accepting Submissions
Is it possible to be a writer who wants to have her words read while also being a person whose soul and self-worth occasionally wither until sunbeams hit again? There are many creators around the world who will confess to existing in both poles - needy yet shy, attention-seeking yet hermit-adjacent. In fact, it is likely for this reason that historians and anthropologists find and showcase what becomes famous written and artistic work of others after finding them in journals and private archives. I, too, know this challenge. I want an audience or readership, I've told myself since childhood, but is this piece of writing worth sharing? Is this body of produced work worth anyone's attention? Would it be better to just discard it all or start all over?
Questioning your virtues, values and contributions is normal, in general, but as a writer it is dangerous. Perfectionism and peculiar preoccupations when working interrupts creativity, dampens individual progress, and slows growth that emerges from repetition and a track record of completion. How I've come to deal with self-doubt and oscillating amounts of courage is by creating digital spaces where I upload and, from time to time, share my work.
Yes, I consider myself a digital storyteller, which means that now, when showcasing my creativity, I often include video, visual and audio elements alongside my writing. But to be clear: forcing myself to post work and building a "library of me" means I have become my own, personal archivist, and that means that very little that gets written or produced stays hidden or private. Some might call this a portfolio, and maybe it is, but to me, it is far less intentional.
Yes, in my most confident and productive times, I frequently curate, assemble collections, and share works through online and physical exhibitions, live and digital performances, and through juried contests reviewed by teams of professionals. But even in my darkest hours, and even if there's an internal storm wrought with thundering doubts, I remove the emotions, dig through "recent" pieces, and post my writing. Does that mean that I forgo editing my work? Well, as a matter of fact, the process of transferring my writing from one format or medium to another is the exact step-by-step that also helps me proofread, and, if I daresay, find peace, though not necessarily perfection, in my work.
At this point, if self-doubt rears its head, like an old muscle injury that comes and goes, posting my work and building a personal archive is the balm or bandage that keeps me moving forward.
Do you have a personal archive or "library of me" housing your work? Have you built a strategy for overcoming self-doubt as a creative? Feel free to share your process, AND/OR if you want to, feel free to submit work you might want to see this month during our #3amblackpoetry in July series. Although there is no guarantee, I do promise that every submission makes submitting easier, so if you haven't yet, try it with us!
Sunshine and laughter,
Reza Rites
Educator - Writer - Artist - Cultural Savant
And Publisher/Editor of 3 AM IS THE NEW BLACK
#3amblackpoetry#3amblack#rezarites#ambitiousblackfeminist#poetry#blackgirlmagic#carefreeblackgirl#vanity4themovement#joyisthemovement#nationalpoetrymonth#personalessay
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The Gangs All Here; Living, Laughing, and feeling like I'll never amount to my full potential...
Hi! If you’re a college dropout like me, sometimes we slowly enter our 20s and watch our peers around us get their degrees and move forward in their beautiful, educated lives while we occasionally sit back and wonder “what if?” Don't get me wrong! 90% of the time I regret nothing and I’m very proud of how far I’ve made it on my own but sometimes I wonder how long I can work jobs and feel like I’m being taken seriously with no technical “degree” in anything. I know that work experience is the most valuable part of getting a job and trust me, I have a lot of that, but lately I’ve been struggling with what I want to do with the rest of my life. I mean, I’m currently working as a line cook and the idea of spending the rest of my full time career surrounded by bitter single dads doesn’t sound SUPER appealing to me. I don’t have the desire to open my own business, I guess I’m missing the girlboss gene. But, I don’t want to be working under people for the rest of my life. I’ve always been pretty good at managing stress, but I also think that comes from the privilege of yes; I would have big stressors in my life, but it was never life or death. One thing I would do when my brain starts going crazy about the future is to only accept what I can control at this exact moment in time. For example, lets say Im worried about, oh I don’t know, being stuck working in kitchens for the rest of my life and never fully amounting to my potential (Just a random example for the class) I simply just accept that working a job in a kitchen is what I’m currently doing yes but I can change that, I have the power to, even through small actions. I think something that brings people down is the immediate gratification mindset. As technology progresses, we as a society have gotten pretty damn used to being able to get whatever we want, whenever we want. Entertainment? Just go on your phone and start scrolling. Hungry? You can get anything delivered these days. Sex? Download an app. What I’m trying to say is that I think we’ve gotten so used to being able to have any need satisfied in a very short period of time. However, when it comes to long term goals in life, things do NOT work that way. My big dream as of right now is to become a bartender, it sounds simple I know but unfortunately I have no bartending experience and I’ve realized that it’s not easy to be taken seriously without anything to show for it hahahahahahahaha. So yes, I am really struggling with that and I keep wanting to just give up BUT I also know the only reason I want to give up so damn bad is because I’m not getting that immediate gratification that I’ve become so terribly conditioned to. Long story short, if you went to college, cool. If you didn’t, also cool. Everyones dreams and desires in life are all equally valid; we just need to start adapting long term mindsets to prevent us from getting too discouraged. This turned out to be way more inspirational than I meant it to be and it’s pretty ironic because I am struggling with the same exact thing I am currently preaching about. Regardless, thankyou for reading, now go chase your dreams, cowgirl, or cowboy, or cow person.
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Cigarettes and Cereal Milk
I was 12 when I started working at the Jersey Shore grocery & deli. It was old school with no air conditioning, some pinball machines and Ms. Pacman with only a counter and stools that would be filled in the morning with old men. They’d sit reading Racing Form and the Bergen Record - slugging down their coffees, smoking their cigars or cigarettes and eating the State Delicacy of Pork Roll, Egg and Cheese on a hard roll.
Ran by a fiery Italian couple from Brooklyn (or the Bronx?) and partially by their two adult children, I was initially hired to work Saturdays and Sundays to stock and stuff the then-thick Sunday newspapers with inserts: comic pages, circulars, auto, arts and classified sections that made the weekly paper as big as a Bible or the yellow pages phone book.
For me, summer and a job at the deli was jubilant. It was freedom. I’d leave for our 1950′s era seaside bungalow with my family the day school ended and hardly go back “north” (about an hour and change away from our home in North Brunswick) the whole summer. Like clockwork, every Saturday afternoon I would race down our lane of bungalows across Central Avenue to get to work and do the same at the crack of dawn on Sunday mornings.
Along with my newspaper responsibilities, I had the pleasure of refilling the coolers with cans of Coke, Tab and Dr. Pepper. I’d wipe down the pinball machines, replenish the Milky Ways, Gobstoppers and Fun Dip. I even got to venture behind the counter to restock the cigarette display cases.
Everybody smoked cigarettes or so it seems. It was the late 80’s and although the Surgeon Generals Warnings were in full effect – nobody seemed to give a shit. Cigarettes at the deli cost $1.50 a pack. I remember when a new tax was introduced that pushed them close to $2 and it was like someone canceled Christmas. Angry brows and hard scoffs abounded.
In those days – cigarette packaging and marketing was an art form. A literal science! The shiny, little packs of smokes were like works of art.
Shiny, snazzy and colorful rows of greens, beiges, reds, blues, pinks, gold, silver, and bronze with dramatic names that sounded like television soap operas or westerns or legal dramas:
Bel Air
Salems
Winstons
Benson & Hedges
Parliaments
Kent
Chesterfields
Capri
Lucky Strikes
Virgina Slims
Camel
Newport
Vantage
True Blue
Carlton
Kool
Lark
Tareyton
Marlboro (duh)
Viceroy
Merit
I was enamored. Ripping open the fresh cartons of vibrant sophistication and stacking them neatly in rows – it was like a tobacco Tetris. Seemingly, everyone smoked. The surfers, the lifeguards, the boomers, the Greatest Generation, the beach badge checkers, the cops, and the kids that also worked at the store…all puffers. My father was also a smoker. A secret smoker. The worst kept secret ever. Despite a massive heart attack that required open heart surgery at the age of 37…he couldn’t shake it. He’d have to slip away to go tend to “yardwork” and come back smelling like an ashtray and the family (me, my brother, sister and mother) would pretend to not notice the waft of smokey perfume that he’d come back into the house with…for decades!
I don’t remember when I picked up the habit definitively but it was between
middle school (8th grade) and high school (9th grade). Eerily, I mimicked the actions of my dad. Stashing packs of cigarettes deep within drawers or in my little lockbox adorned with childish stickers. I’d keep handy a bottle of cologne (probably Drakkar Noir or some ilk of it’s day) and whisk outside the minute the parents left the house and crouch down outside against the side of the house near the BBQ grill to fume a Marlboro.
I was in my early teens but looked like a contradiction…tall, superskinny and blonde but self-consciously young for my age. How did I purchase these vile decks of cancer sticks? It was shamefully easy. In those days, there was no legal age to buy them. During the off-season and away from the seaside store, I could hop on my bike and ride to any number of convenience stores in the area of my “northern” home. For $2 (and change as the prices rose higher), I could satisfy my physical and mental cravings usually without a hitch.
If the purveyor did have some tinge of guilt serving cigarettes to a pubescent-ish Ricky Schroeder lookalike…I had a cover story in my back pocket:
“My grandmother (or aunt or step-sister) hurt her legs and can’t get around real well, kind sir” was a standard lie. If I was really organized, I’d have a friend waiting by their landline telephone to pretend to be said relative and say to the clerk, “She said you can call her.” 99.9% of the time that worked like a charm and only once did a phone call actually get made and “Kim” – an older girl by a couple of years magically performed the part of the ailing kin.
Freshman year of high school, I took the bus – having not yet made friends with anyone with a drivers license. The bus would pick me up on the back street parallel to mine. I’d wake up (usually with a teenage attitude fueled by nicotine withdrawal) and eat some breakfast before the bus. In order NOT to miss my ride, I had the timing down like a Swiss watch maker.
Breakfast consisted of a Benadryl (allergies), a cup of coffee (light and sweet – and yes the Stankovits kids were all early coffee drinkers…) and usually some cereal. We weren’t allowed real sugary cereals so we had to “settle” for Rick Krispies, Chex or Raisin Bran and the occasional Cap’N’Crunch. Depending on the sugar content, I’d pour the milk over the cereal and dollop a spoonful of sugar in the bowl. After the crackles of crispy rice or soggy lumps of bran were consumed, there was the sweet reward of the leftover cereal milk. It was like breakfast’s dessert.
I’d slurp that down and head out the door, towards the end of our dead-end street where there was and still is a section of woods where I could cut through to the next street where the bus would pick me up.
Lighting up, I would get my fix and mentally prepare for the day ahead standing in the woods next to the wooden fence that captured the backyard of the last house on our block. It was meditative. Who the hell knows what I was thinking about…”Algebra quiz! Fall Dance! Fuck, am I queer? I can’t wait to drive and get the hell out of here?!”
The bus would come and I’d hop on with a waft of smokey aroma and cheap cologne enshrining me like Pig Pen from Peanuts. Usually, a pack would last a week or more. I’d check my pack to see how many cigarettes I had left before I had to begin another hunt…hiding away my Marlboros in my duffle bag (those were in style...) until the last school bell rang…ready to repeat another day. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
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Post: He Never Came Home is a collection of 22 personal... https://www.blaqsbi.com/5qfS
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