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Life's a Beach Oct 2014
WOW
WOW SUCH ESSAY
MUCH WRITE
MANY CAPITALS
CAFFEINE
COURSEWORK
Caitlin S Oct 2014
The greatest of the greatest pieces of art come from grief. The grief of death, absence, lost love, and defeat. Grief is a phase of sadness, a substitute for when just being sad is not momentary and the word not good or strong enough, the sadness from a specific departure from our lives. In a life so full of grief we dread the sadness, it hides in the shadows of happiness when the fleeting moments of bliss are pulled from under us. Even though we expect it, we never expect it.
  Often though, in the dredges of depression brought on by this great and terrible grief it allows us to see something we other wise may have over looked in the moment.
  That is happiness. Even when shrouded in the pitiful emptiness of grief when we look back on that person or thing or idea we so miss, finally we see our happy moments. We remember more fondly, and it dulls our regrets for things not said or deeds not done or ideas that never came into fruition because for someone or something, the clock wound down.
  The gift of sadness is it makes us know which moments were truly good, which memories we will hold dear to our hearts until our own clock, our own heart stops. Just when you think your heart is about to explode in your chest some relief comes from looking back, then going on. It comes from knowing you were happy once.
Beads of sweat roll down my forehead as my fingers fly all over the keyboard
There's not much time, I need to get it done, I need this to be perfect
It's my saving grace for my lousy performance through high school
It's the leap that will take me to the next level

How's my grammar? Did I spell these words correctly?
Will they finish reading it with a lasting impression?
Am I thought-provoking? Too serious? Too unprofessional?
These questions only continue to clog my mind

I handed the type-written output over
And ask the guidance counselor if I'll do fine
She nods and fills my head with reassuring words
I swallowed them down and stiffly said 'thanks'

The car ride home summoned a couple of daydreams
I pictured myself getting into the honoree list
And making my parents' hearts swell with pride
But let's be real: Am I even going to make it?

Here I sit in front of the laptop again, fingers ready
To explore a wide range of prestigious universities
Maybe they'll require me to write an essay again
I swear on everything I'll write them better than the last
I passed the application form for this high-standard university, which required me to write an essay. I'm frankly scared as hell of how the admissions officers will react to my work.
Hanna Baleine Jul 2014
09/29/13
Define Happiness.
      Here I go: I do not believe I know the definition of Happiness. Not because I’ve never truly experienced it before, but because I think of it as a word with a great amount of meaning, such as the word “love”, but is overused and thrown around by mindless children. A boy once told me that he “loves” me. I explained to him that he is sixteen and does not know what love is and neither do I, so please don’t say that you love me. But because I am sure you will not accept an “I don’t know” as a response, I will try my best to define Happiness.
      My kind of Happiness comes in three different levels. First, the top level, the most superficial one of all, is the in between. I am a strange person and one of my strange qualities is that I am the happiest when I am in need of something. Let me explain: I hate being at home. I want to leave the overbearing side of my mother and my desolate home drenched in memories of my ****** past. In November of last year, I needed to clear my mind and visited my brother in Montreal. However, once I arrived in the pale city, I wanted to fly back home immediately. See the problem? I have since then realized that I am happiest when I am in between two worlds: travelling from a city that I hate but grew up in, to a city that I love but am lost in. Another example: there is a boy that I like; and when he leaves my side, I can’t help imagining the moment when he finally grips my hand firmly again. But once that moment comes, I want it to end. Immediately. I want to be on my own. Once again, I am happiest when I am left alone to imagine a scene of being with someone or something that I so dreadfully need but am disappointed when that opportunity comes.
      Second, the next and more profound level of my Happiness is comfort. Happiness here is all about talking about your secrets with people whom you do not truly know yet but share the same history with. You have just met these people and already you speak to them about the spots on your body where you like to cut the most and the amount of weight you lost in a month and the foods you so shamefully enjoy bingeing on and in what ways you’ve thought about killing yourself and the things you were so close to doing such as taking a hammer to your scale because you were fed up with it always admitting that you’re fat fat fat fat fat!!!! However, on this second level, Happiness is also proclaiming that you want Wendy’s because that is what your body is unfortunately craving, and then finishing a chicken sandwich and small fries and diet coke with no ice while sitting in a car, understanding that you will not be able to burn off the hundreds of calories you have just taken in because you are stuck on a five hour drive to visit your dear sister. On this second level, Happiness is putting ******* between your thighs and feeling them touch, pinching your double chin, and rubbing your bloated belly for four seconds then shrugging off your imperfections and driving to school without even thinking about them anymore.
      Finally, the third and most heartfelt level of my Happiness is associated with security. Happiness here is walking through a graveyard and knowing for a fact that you will die soon too so please don’t think you’re stuck like this forever. On this level, my Happiness is the thought shoved in the back of my mind reminding me that there is a blade hidden in a pretty shoe box in the corner of my closet, always accessible and always prepared to cure the pain I can’t seem to rip out from under my flesh. On this level, my Happiness is looking down at my thighs and caressing the scars that I try so hard to hide yet am so attached to because they keep me safe in times of desperation, reminding me that I bleed and feel pain (thank God). On this level, my Happiness is my mortality.
Hanna Baleine Jul 2014
You are lying in a hospital bed. A nurse comes in to take your blood. She tries your left arm, no veins. She stares at your left hand, holding it, turning it over and over, saying, You have some veins here. You hate those veins, you always have. They make you think of when you were younger, when you had to visit your old grandfather. Your mom would always force you to go to his bed and greet him because he was unable to walk. Give him a little kiss, she would say. You didn’t understand why but today you realize it was because he was dying. Yet, you don’t lower your head to his cheek to give him a kiss because you are selfish and scared, scared of his wrinkly skin and green veins that seem to outline the corners of his hands.
After the nurse takes your blood, she asks, Would you like something to eat? You wonder if she knows why you’re in the ER; you wonder if she knows you haven’t eaten in three days, despite your mother’s pleas at the dinner table. All you do is ask for green tea. Lots of it. It is the only thing you consume anymore, including grapes and an apple a day. She brings you only two tea bags. A psychologist comes. She asks you question after question: How many calories do you eat a day? 150 maximum. Do you use laxatives? No (lie). What was your highest weight ever? 126. Your lowest weight? 94. When did your eating disorder start? Two years ago. Do you self-harm? Yes. Where? On my thighs, hips. Have you passed out or experienced any seizures? No (second lie). What is your ideal weight? I’m not sure, 90 lbs seems pretty nice, really just any weight that would **** me. Do you want to get better? No comment. Then, suddenly, before she leaves, you confess: When I use a mirror, I can’t seem to look into my eyes anymore. You can’t bear it? She acts like she understands. It makes you mad. She leaves for a few seconds then comes back with a wheelchair.
You don’t want to attract any attention, so, as calmly as possible, you announce, I can walk perfectly fine, I don’t need a wheelchair. She stares at you with pity lurking in her eyes, We don’t want you burning any more calories, ***. Reluctantly, you fall into the chair, embarrassed as people stare wondering what your problem is. You arrive at the Eating Disorder Clinic. There is a young boy playing a video game. He has a feeding tube; he is the first one to greet you. You look around the room and think, they all look like normal people. While getting to know the other patients you will soon learn who is bulimic, who is anorexic, who has anxiety, who has depression, who wants to get healthy, who is faking their way out of it. You stare at each of their bodies: Are their thighs skinnier than mine? What about their wrists? Do their cheekbones protrude? How much weight have they gained since they’ve been here? Does their arm bone pop out when placing their hands on their hip? Yours does. You are disgustingly proud of it.
That evening, as a night nurse shows you to your room, she explains the rules: Bathroom and drawers must be locked before going to bed, there is a camera in the room, you will be watched at all times, always keep the bathroom door open, make sure to ask us to check your toilet before flushing (you rarely do), every morning you must be weighed in a hospital gown, no sharp objects allowed, the mirrors are made out of metal (in them you can’t see the size of your ****, thighs, stomach). You cry your fist night there. But I’m not skinny yet! you yell into the sheets without making a single noise and you, honest to God, believe that you don’t have a problem. Just give me some space and I’ll figure things out; really, I’m fine, just a bit confused.
      But still, like every other morning, you wake up and stare down at your thighs, collarbones, belly, and think, You pig, you fat *****, you have no control, pathetic *****. For the first few days you have to remind yourself, Feel your bones, embrace them, remember how light and delicate they are, soon they won’t be there anymore. You want to hide.

— The End —