This is my favorite quote: "One day, your whole life will flash before your eyes. Make sure it's something watching."
When I spend time reflecting on my life, my experiences, and what I see others go through, I often end up at the same question: for what am I living for? I recall troubling situations that I've encountered and all the great times I've had. All of this, in the long run, is helping me define myself.
I will, obviously, not live forever. Inevitably, all of these moments will define me at a singular point in my life. When I am lying on my deathbed after a long, joyful life, how will I be remembered?
I share the common hope of being remembered as a great person. It's a realistic goal, but I have a lot of work to do. I try to help those who need it. I try to be a good friend and spread laughter. Sometimes I go to far, but it's part of the learning process.
I received the best advice from the deepest internal struggle I've ever had. One day I realized that I am the only person who is responsible for what I do. I cannot blame anyone else. I cannot let the past bother me. I am the pilot of my own life.
I realized at that point that every day has to be a new memory. If I allow one moment to escape, that's one moment I've wasted. Time here is limited; I need to make the most of it.
Death is the scariest reality I have to face. By creating fantastic memories, I believe I can live my life to the fullest. In a way, I will have achieved such a level of contentment that I win. I beat the game of life.
So, every morning, I wake up to my newfound love: electronic dance music, put an honest smile on my face, and face the world knowing that I'm preparing myself for an unbeatable opponent. The most feared, well-known enemy on Earth.
Death will not deprive me of life until I am ready to go on my own accord. When I've drained every last bit of love and laughter out of my system, I will face Death and allow it to do its bidding. I will close my eyes and watch a condensed autobiography of a great man's life. One who turned tears into laughs and hate into love. It'll be one damn good movie.
I've got a long way to go until I reach that point. Every step is preparing me for an inescapable end, but I'm going to love every step of the way.
February 23, 2012
February 14, 2012
A Little Reasoning
Mrs. Howsmon asked us to create a blog on anything we wanted. I had no clue what to write about. After a few days' pondering, I finally settled on a topic: life. It's such a simple word that means so many different things to so many different people. Rather than narrow my blog down to a single topic and risk running out of steam, I decided to pick a broader subject and base all my blogs around a central idea: life, with all its struggles and debacles, is worth living.
Creating a blog about life fancied me for many reasons. I often think about my life and where it's headed. I often think about decisions I have made and how they have effected my life. But there is one defining reason, a more personal reason, that led me to this decision. Here is my story:
I had a fairly normal childhood up until age seven, when I entered first grade. I was doing middle school math and had a high school reading level, so classes were pretty boring for me. My teacher pressured the school who, in turn, recommended to my parents that I should be tested by a third party and considered for skipping a few grades.
My parents weren't fond of the idea, but they decided extra testing couldn't hurt. After a few weeks spent outside of school working with a specialist, the results were given to my parents and my school. School recommended that I skip first grade and try out second grade. If I didn't like it, I could return back to first grade.
I hated it. Upon returning to first grade I began to develop serious Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), depression, and anxiety. I was seeing psychiatrists and put on 2 or 3 different medications. This was extremely uncommon for a child, especially one in elementary school. I spent every night crying myself to sleep.
My anxiety had gotten so bad that I was losing touch with reality. I had developed the strange fear of being arrested despite my young age. One night, I went to Olive Garden with my parents, and a woman had her purse stolen. I had not touched the purse, let alone take it, but I spent the entire night crying in terrible fear that the police would be knocking on my door at any second. It's hard to understand how I could convince myself that I had done something I clearly hadn't, but I had no control.
On top of the anxiety, my OCD was raging. I washed my hands so frequently and feverishly that they bled every day. Strangely, I wasn't worried about contracting a virus myself, I was worried about passing one on and hurting someone else. This was partially due to a fear that someone else's sickness could be attributed to me, and I would be blamed.
Anxiety and OCD weaved a complicated web out of every facet of my life. They slowly took over my mind. I felt scared, I felt alone, and, worst of all, I felt helpless. It was almost as if I was watching myself slowly lose my own mind from outside of my body, but there wasn't a thing I could do to intervene. It was the worst feeling I have ever experienced or imagined. I wanted out.
At age seven, I threatened my life to my mother's face. (I can't imagine what that must have felt like for her or more father. I wish I could have stopped myself more for how I hurt them then for how I hurt myself.) I knew exactly what I was doing at an age when I should have been more concerned with Legos. As the years of internal struggle piled up, so did the seriousness of my thoughts on suicide. At one point, my parents walked into my room and I was tying a sheet around my neck.
I got a brief break from all of my problems in third grade, but they returned again in fourth grade and lasted through fifth grade. In middle school, they returned in seventh grade and lasted through eighth grade ending, thankfully, before high school. When I found out I had to have surgery in spring of my junior year, I had a slight relapse, but, I've finally broken the chains. Inevitably, I made it out alive.
The reason for not killing myself eluded me for awhile. But, after putting a few regular years between my new self and my old self, I finally realized the answer. Despite the helplessness, the pain, the struggle, I wanted to live. Deep down inside in a place I couldn't quite find when I needed it most, I was a regular person. I just needed to be found.
Without my parents, I never would have escaped my internal prison. They never gave up and did whatever they could to help me. They gave me a reason more important to me than myself to conquer my problems. They gave my a reason to live.
Because of my struggles, I have a great appreciation for life. I try to keep a positive attitude and a genuine smile on my face at all times. I try not to dwell on negative things and let the bothersome things go. I try to spread joy and help others stay positive. Most importantly, I realized that life has it's obstacles, but the reward for living is great. A person whole lives in contentment will be happy. And a happy life is a good life.
Creating a blog about life fancied me for many reasons. I often think about my life and where it's headed. I often think about decisions I have made and how they have effected my life. But there is one defining reason, a more personal reason, that led me to this decision. Here is my story:
I had a fairly normal childhood up until age seven, when I entered first grade. I was doing middle school math and had a high school reading level, so classes were pretty boring for me. My teacher pressured the school who, in turn, recommended to my parents that I should be tested by a third party and considered for skipping a few grades.
My parents weren't fond of the idea, but they decided extra testing couldn't hurt. After a few weeks spent outside of school working with a specialist, the results were given to my parents and my school. School recommended that I skip first grade and try out second grade. If I didn't like it, I could return back to first grade.
I hated it. Upon returning to first grade I began to develop serious Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), depression, and anxiety. I was seeing psychiatrists and put on 2 or 3 different medications. This was extremely uncommon for a child, especially one in elementary school. I spent every night crying myself to sleep.
My anxiety had gotten so bad that I was losing touch with reality. I had developed the strange fear of being arrested despite my young age. One night, I went to Olive Garden with my parents, and a woman had her purse stolen. I had not touched the purse, let alone take it, but I spent the entire night crying in terrible fear that the police would be knocking on my door at any second. It's hard to understand how I could convince myself that I had done something I clearly hadn't, but I had no control.
On top of the anxiety, my OCD was raging. I washed my hands so frequently and feverishly that they bled every day. Strangely, I wasn't worried about contracting a virus myself, I was worried about passing one on and hurting someone else. This was partially due to a fear that someone else's sickness could be attributed to me, and I would be blamed.
Anxiety and OCD weaved a complicated web out of every facet of my life. They slowly took over my mind. I felt scared, I felt alone, and, worst of all, I felt helpless. It was almost as if I was watching myself slowly lose my own mind from outside of my body, but there wasn't a thing I could do to intervene. It was the worst feeling I have ever experienced or imagined. I wanted out.
At age seven, I threatened my life to my mother's face. (I can't imagine what that must have felt like for her or more father. I wish I could have stopped myself more for how I hurt them then for how I hurt myself.) I knew exactly what I was doing at an age when I should have been more concerned with Legos. As the years of internal struggle piled up, so did the seriousness of my thoughts on suicide. At one point, my parents walked into my room and I was tying a sheet around my neck.
I got a brief break from all of my problems in third grade, but they returned again in fourth grade and lasted through fifth grade. In middle school, they returned in seventh grade and lasted through eighth grade ending, thankfully, before high school. When I found out I had to have surgery in spring of my junior year, I had a slight relapse, but, I've finally broken the chains. Inevitably, I made it out alive.
The reason for not killing myself eluded me for awhile. But, after putting a few regular years between my new self and my old self, I finally realized the answer. Despite the helplessness, the pain, the struggle, I wanted to live. Deep down inside in a place I couldn't quite find when I needed it most, I was a regular person. I just needed to be found.
Without my parents, I never would have escaped my internal prison. They never gave up and did whatever they could to help me. They gave me a reason more important to me than myself to conquer my problems. They gave my a reason to live.
Because of my struggles, I have a great appreciation for life. I try to keep a positive attitude and a genuine smile on my face at all times. I try not to dwell on negative things and let the bothersome things go. I try to spread joy and help others stay positive. Most importantly, I realized that life has it's obstacles, but the reward for living is great. A person whole lives in contentment will be happy. And a happy life is a good life.
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