For this assignment we were prompted to assess our personal beliefs. We brainstormed and based our essays of of the NPR project that was continued from Edward R. Murrow’s concept in the 1950’s. Not only did we explain one of our beliefs, but also point out the process in which it came to be. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I believe in facing the truth.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n When I was twelve years old I had over 2,000 cuts on my body in the span of a year. This overt display of self harm was one of many symptoms of childhood trauma, resulting in adolescent anxiety and depression. Consequently I was admitted into an outpatient program for teens, specifically the program for middle schoolers. To say the least, I did not like it there. I spent three hours per day three times a week with kids who I found impossible to connect with. The adults were worse. I wasn\u2019t their favorite either. They didn\u2019t like what I had to say, and half the things I said or did were \u201ctriggering\u201d in one way or another. As this continued, I didn\u2019t hesitate to challenge their methods as they didn\u2019t make sense or align with the supposed goal of the program. How are we to heal if we\u2019re not allowed to talk about the things that really hurt us? Sitting in a small room facing the program director, tears running down my face, barely able to get a breath in, I expressed this to him. He dismissed me and told me to \u201cput this in a box on a shelf\u201d to deal with later. That day he discharged me from the program, claiming that I wasn\u2019t a good fit.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I then joined another program geared towards older teens, I being the youngest one there. This program was much less hands on and allowed space for reality. There they taught us that no words are off limits, that we had to address our truth rather than \u201cput it in a box on a shelf.\u201d I wasn\u2019t better yet, but I finally felt heard. Matched.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The truth is uncomfortable, and sometimes that\u2019s how it\u2019s supposed to be. I\u2019ve had to fight for the truth, my truth, for my entire life as others try to challenge it.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Growing up, and even in recent years, I was made to feel crazy. My truth was manipulated in the name of power. Through all of the family disparity and abuse I was forced to define my truth and stick to it. Family court will do everything that it can to control you, and it is far from an honest setting. I will admit that there were times where I strayed from the path and ignored what I knew was true. Once I lost track of that, I lost myself. It was a traumatic and ugly process, but in the end I sacrificed my childhood and comforts for my truth.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The truth truly does set us free. It\u2019s rarely easy or pretty, but necessary for knowing yourself and others. After all, who are we without it? As a truth seeker and truth speaker, I encourage you to define your truth and stand by it. Not to say it cannot change, but don\u2019t let anything or anyone but you determine it. Take the box off the shelf, unpack it, and inside you will find the truth.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n This unit was the first time that I was given the opportunity in school to self reflect. We asked ourselves the simple yet daunting question, “who am I?” We were challenged to look within to determine values, order them in importance, and many more exercises to get to know ourselves better. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I often find myself trying to decipher what I actually remember from what I\u2019ve been told or seen in old videos and pictures.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n At 10 years old I decided to teach myself a song on the guitar for the first time. I had just received my first guitar from my grandparents and planned to perform a song for my upcoming fifth grade graduation.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I was the only kid with divorced parents in my class. At the time I was living equally between two households.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Like most \u201cgifts\u201d that stemmed from my dad\u2019s house, I was not allowed to take my brand new prized possession to my mom\u2019s. This wasn\u2019t new as this was the rule with my dad regarding most things, even going so far as writing his name on the tags of my clothing to prove that they came from his bank account. My first guitar was now made to be a weapon to wield power, yet another casualty in the battle that my life had become.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n With my upcoming debut but no instrument to prepare with half of the time, I grew more discouraged as the stakes increased. No matter how hard I begged he would not allow me to use the guitar at my mom\u2019s house. After weeks of distress my mom turned to me and instructed me to get in the car. We pulled up to a large building with a black and white image of a crazed-looking man on the front. The words \u201cThe Starving Musician\u201d were written around it. We entered the store and were directed to a small room. I walked through the doorway and looked around to see guitars lining the walls from floor to ceiling. Countless hues and textures filled the space.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Just like in the movies it jumped out at me, crafted of cedar wood with a matte black finish. It wasn\u2019t very big, which was perfect for my small self. I continued to scan the room, but I already knew that guitar was mine. It was priced at $300 – used. The employee discouraged my mom from purchasing such a nice guitar for a 10 year old beginner, but she knew that she wasn\u2019t going to take his advice.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Before I knew it I was on that stage, guitar in hand, singing my heart out. As I strummed one final time a roaring applause enveloped the room. As I exited the stage hands extended out towards me as if I were a real rockstar. I made sure to meet each one with a high-five.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t know it yet but that was the start of something big. I had found my passion in its true form for the first time and my fire was fueled. This turning point forced me to also realize that I was going to have to fight for myself, and that\u2019s exactly what I\u2019ve been doing since.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n When I was 12 years old I had over 2,000 cuts on my body in the span of a year. For me it was a way to express how I felt in a way that was real, tangible. This overt display of self harm was one of many symptoms of childhood trauma, resulting in adolescent anxiety and depression. Consequently I was admitted into an outpatient program for teens. To say the least I didn\u2019t find the program helpful and was eventually discharged. My saving grace was the one hour each day when I was allowed to play my own music during art therapy (but they eventually found a reason to silence that too).<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Throughout my adolescence music was and still is my safe place; my therapy, best friend, and passion all in one. When I couldn\u2019t figure things out I could put my earbuds in and simply feel. It\u2019s inexplicable how a bunch of sound can help to subside the noise going on in one\u2019s head.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n In my sophomore year of high school I discovered that I could make my own music and began songwriting. I couldn\u2019t tell you why or how it happened, but the next thing I knew I was filling page after page with words, drawings; anything to get down on paper what I was going through and how it made me feel. I now realize that I was harnessing the pain that I once expressed with a blade on my skin, but now rather with a pen on paper.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Sometimes music has the power to convey what cannot be expressed with words. Musical expression is it\u2019s own language that is way more specific yet simultaneously universal. What a power it is to be able to be a voice for those who may not have one.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Music chose me; called for me. Now it\u2019s time for me to explore how to best answer that call. It\u2019s my turn to choose music.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n This I Believe Essay For this assignment we were prompted to assess our personal beliefs. We brainstormed and based our essays of of the NPR project that was continued from Edward R. Murrow’s concept in the 1950’s. Not only did we explain one of our …<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-449","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/freestyleacademy.rocks\/~AmaraL\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/449","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/freestyleacademy.rocks\/~AmaraL\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/freestyleacademy.rocks\/~AmaraL\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/freestyleacademy.rocks\/~AmaraL\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/freestyleacademy.rocks\/~AmaraL\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=449"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/freestyleacademy.rocks\/~AmaraL\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/449\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":507,"href":"https:\/\/freestyleacademy.rocks\/~AmaraL\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/449\/revisions\/507"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/freestyleacademy.rocks\/~AmaraL\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=449"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}College Personal Essay<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
Honors Memoir Essay<\/h2>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"