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TL;DR Edition

The University of Windsor’s 26-100-04 Composition Class

Fall 2014

Windsor, Ontario, Canada

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Copyright © 2014 All rights remain with the authors/artists. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotation in review, without permission in writing from each author of the works within this text that you are reproducing. For information about permissions, write to Laryssa Brooks at brooksq@uwindsor.ca. This book is a sub-publication of the University of Windsor’s English Undergraduate Students’ Association (EUSA) and Generation Intervarsity Magazine, as allowed by Emily Dobson and Kar-leigh Kelso, 2014 EUSA Co-Presidents. The text of this book is set in Leelawadee and Adobe Heiti Std R. Cover photo by Amanda Ingratta. Cover typography by Laryssa Brooks. Images within this book are stock images provided by deviantart.com users jumpfer and WeAreAHurricane14. This book may not be sold for profit. Editors: Zyad Ahmed, Laryssa Brooks, Ryan Brown, Julia Byrne, Alexandru Deva, Nathan Hesman, Amanda Ingratta, Alexandria Jeffers, Tin Lee, Nicole Micelli, Caitlyn Mouawad, Joshua Neposlan, Alexandrea Newton, Zainab Taleb, Holly Thomas, and Allison Wayvon Publisher: Laryssa Brooks Series. ISSN 1911-6446 I. Title. II. Series. Summary: A collection of works written by the students from section four of the University of Windsor’s 26-100 Composition class. Printed and bound by hand in Windsor, Ontario, Canada by Laryssa Brooks, through the University of Windsor’s English Department. For more information about EUSA, visit: eusa-windsor.com twitter.com/EUSA_ facebook.com/EUSA.Windsor uwindsor.ca/english/english-undergraduate-students-association

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“Everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise.

The worst enemy to creativity is self -doubt.”

― Sylvia Plath

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Thank you to Dr. Dale Jacobs, Dr. Louis Cabri, Kar-leigh Kelso, Emily Dobson, the English Undergraduate Students’ Association, and the

students who contributed to this chapbook. Without you, this publication would not have been possible.

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Table of Contents

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The transition from high school to university or college is one of the most difficult things most people will experience in their young adult lives. High school does not adequately prepare its students for this transition. Students entering post-secondary schooling are very young in their first year, usually only seventeen or eighteen. Are they really ready to make the life altering decision about what they want to do for the rest of their lives? The majority of students are not. Statistics show that approximately 20 – 50 percent of students who enter university are ill prepared and undecided about their major, and an estimated 75% of students will switch their major at least once before graduating. The workload from high school to college or university is

extremely different. In high school, you were given a few questions of homework each night, and most of your teachers checked it and cared if you finished. In post-secondary school, you are on your own. The teachers will have a syllabus with the homework on it, or will email it to you with a due date, and expect you to have it done and handed in on that due date. However, they do not care if it is not.

High school teachers might tell you that university is different. They might tell you that

the classes are usually larger, and require a lot of independent work. Since those teachers have gone through university before and know how difficult it can be, especially during the first year, why are they not adequately preparing their students for it?

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University is very expensive, and if so many students are bound to change their major, they may end up wasting time in classes that have nothing to do with it. They may also end up losing money because they lost a semester or a year in classes that have nothing to do with their new major. A solution to this would be to better inform and prepare students in the years leading to university. They should be able

to have the opportunity to attend workshops and programs

during the summer and throughout the year. This will help prepare students for

post-secondary schools and help them to be successful in their first year.

Students are not prepared or knowledgeable about university and college when they first enter. It is important to help prepare them for the most difficult transition they will have thus far.

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As I woke up on June 26, 2014 I knew my life would be changed from that day on. It was the day of my high school graduation. This day is supposed to be filled with wishes of good luck and hope for success; yet it felt like it was time to grow up even more than I already had. As I got ready to go to the WFCU centre I thought about my high school career and how it shaped me as the person I am now. I then met with my friends early in the day for one of our last times together before we went our separate ways. We talked about how things would be different and how that wouldn’t keep us apart. So far, stress was the only word to describe what was happening. I then thought back to starting grade 9 and my feelings about going into an unfamiliar environment. This same feeling was what I was beginning to feel when I thought about university. The transition terrified me. The room was packed with students, parents and faculty making it feel way hotter on that 85 degree day. I could feel the drops of sweat pouring down my forehead, which made the heat even more uncomfortable. I was then handed a yellow rose and a gold cord to wear around my shoulders. Yet, standing around in the black, oversized gowns made everything feel even more real. I could not believe it was already over

and it felt as though I had just started the journey. Walking into the arena was a daunting feeling seeing everyone clapping and cheering. This was the longest ten minutes of my whole life, I felt as though the line was never going to move. As they played the “graduation march” we filed into

our seats and waited for the ceremony to begin. The three hour ordeal was comprised of a mass service, diplomas, and awards (which all the same people won). As I looked around I saw people I had just met four short years before, who were already going to be out of my life. I sat

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towards the front due to alphabetical order, mostly around people I briefly talked to a few times. As we all went up one by one we were given a diploma and a handshake from the principal. I never really got involved with getting to know teachers so it was sort of irrelevant to me. To my surprise it was not even a real diploma! They made everyone a fake “diploma” made out of cardboard which we had to drop in a box on our way off the stage. As I sat back down I knew we still had a long way to go. I zoned out when we got to around the M’s since it was just more of the same. Every so often someone’s family would cheer louder than the rest which would reignite my interest somewhat. They then had speeches from the Valedictorian and other important school figures. As I watched my fellow graduate try to make his point it was obvious he struggled not to offend anyone, especially teachers. He made sure only to point out obvious flaws by tip toeing around the unnecessary. When the time came to move the tassel to the other side of the cap I knew it was really over. I was no longer in high school- I was a university student. This thought made me feel scared and excited all at the same time. I had just gained so much responsibility and independence in one quick motion. The security blanket of high school was ripped out from underneath me in all of ten seconds. I looked up to a sea of blue and gold as all the caps went flying in the air. It played out exactly how I saw in movies. Walking out of the area was one of the strangest things I have ever experienced. I suddenly felt older and like I wanted to just leave it all behind me. Everyone gathered on the opposite side of the curtains as they brought back their gowns. The festivities were coming to a close as everyone was itching to get to the after party. That was the topic of major conversation the whole day. I searched for my family through the crowd, getting stopped along the way by friends and teachers. Once I found them it was a struggle to try to get pictures. My family is quite big so trying to get them all to look and stand still is a miracle. I just wanted to go get something to eat and take off my shoes at this point in time. I

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could feel the heel dig deeper and deeper into my feet. Finally we decided to go and it felt bittersweet although I had already thought about it for a while. Starting university was something I thought about since as long as I can remember. It was a place that “adults” went to. Now I was in the position of trying to choose what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. The

stress of my grade 12 year was relieved as I knew my time at St. Annes had finished. I wouldn’t see half the people I went to school with anymore and I would be faced with many unfamiliar things. Going from one small building, to

having one class in a building and being on a campus would be scary. However, I felt prepped for this new journey of life and graduation was my springboard into that pool. Thinking about it now that day was done in the blink of an eye and here I am getting used to university life. Each milestone in life is meant to prepare you for the next and I feel that this did just that. I will miss my time in high school but I know university will be some of the best years of my life. The transition will take adjustments but it will be the key to my success in the future.

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Photo of Dillon Hall taken by Laryssa Brooks

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Can I do it? Can I win? So much pressure and so little time. Everyone’s looking for me to win, my parents, friends, coaches, teachers, my brother Gideon, and most of all, myself. Worst of all...if I don’t run fast enough...I won’t be able to get a scholarship.

Today is my last chance to prove myself, to run the last race of my high school track career. I have been waiting for this day for years, ever since I witnessed my older siblings running fiercely over the 36 inch high, white, metal obstacles to cross the line in fame and glory. I’ve always wanted to be a part of this family tradition and legacy. When going into high school, one of my main objectives was to be a great hurdler like my older brother; I finally have a chance to do just that. This has been my best year out of my four in high school. Four hurdle records, three first place finishes, and multiple newspaper articles/news coverage have prepared me for this OFSAA 110 metre hurdle championship race. This is also my last chance to prove myself. I’m coming into this race ranked third in

Ontario, but I plan to go for gold. It is now or never and I’m going to leave it all out on the track.

OFSAA this year is in a beautiful university campus in Mississauga. Only an hour and a half left until my race...time to start warming up. The track is circled by low hills covered in luscious green grass with just a

sprinkle of trees here and there. The sky is a deep shade of sapphire blue and there’s not even a cloud in sight. Constantly I’m telling people “Man, what a perfect day for us to compete in”.

As I make my way to the warm up area, I can’t help but notice that this year it feels slightly too much like a prison. The only entrance is composed of a small white tent that is lined with brown wooden tables. Each table is manned by a few guard-like officials that check through our stuff to ensure that we have legal sized spikes and that we aren’t bringing in any technological devices...as if having them would really even change anything. Once I get past them I enter into our warm up

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area, which is actually three tennis courts, I notice that it is surrounded by six metre tall chain link fences...I swear I might see barbed wire at the top. I also witness around 100 other athletes just milling around in wait for their race to start. The only thing missing from the scene are the guard towers and orange jump suits.

Being that there is only about an hour until my race, I start warming up. As I start, I am greeted by some of my fellow athletic friends. We simply nod and almost telepathically organize ourselves so that we are all doing the same warm up at the same time. Our warm up consists of many different swings, turns, runs, stretches, and agility movements. In my case, with my 6’2” height and 6’11” arm span, I also picture myself looking like a drunken giraffe or a human-like ape. This is confirmed when, as I’m stretching and I pass by one of my friends, he comments “Your hand’s still dragging on the ground eh Nathan?”; it’s always been a common joke that people liked to use at my expense, but I’m getting over it.

Fifteen minutes left and each athlete starts to gravitate towards their own even section of the warm up area. I walk towards where the other seven athletes in my race are standing, off to the side by the warm up hurdles so as to not be in peoples’ way. When I arrive, I shake hands and say hi, but I am mostly concentrated on the mind-consuming event that I’m about to take place in. One of the officials comes over to us and checks our pinnie numbers. As soon as she finishes, she herds us to a side entrance like cattle. We follow her along a dirt and gravel strewn path to the starting line. As we walk I reminisce about how we look like 2nd grade elementary school kids walking down the hallway...all quiet and wondering what is about to happen next when we arrive at our destination.

We arrive at the starting zone; my blood starts to pump and I can feel the effect of adrenaline kicking in, greatly increasing the anticipation and mental drive. As the anticipation builds, I feel like a shaken up can of pop ready to explode. It’s really starting to dawn on me...this is it, this is my time, my turn...I can’t believe this is really happening! The starter yells “On your marks!” I feel my heart pound, faster than the tempo of a Relient K song, beating like a drum. I say “Let’s go guys, it’s now or never.” I resort to my pre-run ritual. I measure out the distance and put my starting blocks in place. Now I take three steps forward past the line and thrust myself into the air to get the blood moving and legs attuned. I crouch and take a few bouncing steps backwards, and firmly plant my

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heels into the starting blocks, ready to launch myself out like a horse from the starting gates.

Time feels stretched, just a few more seconds but they feel like an eternity, each millisecond a century goes by. Nausea hits me like a tsunami tidal wave. The sun shines brilliantly across the blood red track, eight strikingly bright white lines cutting through it, dividing the runway into each runner’s personal zone. Sweat drips down my brow as I wait for the last few precious seconds to tick by. I slow my breathing and I feel the other seven athletes all preparing themselves for what is about to take place. The eternity passes by and the start shouts “Set!” Each one of us leans and shifts our weight forward to the tips of fingers that are splayed as close to the starting line as we can get without touching it. This stage always makes me think of balancing precariously on the edge of a cliff; if we lean too far forward and fall off prematurely, we risk losing everything that we have worked for.

“BANG!” goes the gun and all eight of us, completely in sync, take our first eight steps to the first hurdle. I thrust my lead leg forward over the first hurdle and drive powerfully like a lion with my trail leg to gain speed. I pump my arms faster than a hummingbird’s wings to make my legs move faster. I feel every bump and jostle as my arms and hands brush those of the hurdlers to my left and right. I must ignore it and focus on speed, speed and power. I attack hurdle after hurdle, over and over again launching myself over each obstacle like a cheetah chasing a gazelle. All of a sudden I feel myself slow ever so slightly and I realize my fatal flaw has come to bite me in the butt. I would always unintentionally hold my breath for the first few hurdles and it would cost me precious speed as the pressure would build and then release to give the first breath of the race. I let out jungle cat like growl and press on. I need to focus if I want to catch up and win. I see the end draw close and I continue to rush towards it. The guy to my left starts to pull away but I push even harder to stay with him. One more hurdle and I’m on the last few steps of the race. I move my feet like I’m on the run for my life. As I approach the finish line I launch myself forward and lean forward to give myself every inch I can...

It’s over! I know I didn’t win! I can’t take this, not after everything I’ve worked for. I drag myself over to the finish tent to retrieve my warm up clothes and put them back on as the other seven do the same. It is excruciating...having to wait for the results to be posted on the screen to see how bad I did. I look to the screen through blurry, tear filled eyes to try and read the writing, each symbol filling me with dread. Fifth! I know

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I did badly, but THIS badly? I try and hold myself together as to not embarrass myself in front of the other athletes, but I feel like a black cloud right before a storm, full of sadness and ready to just drop.

As I am walking back to my team’s tent, head drooped low and feet heavily shuffling along the ground, people yell my name. I look up and see a mixture of friends, family, mentors, and fellow athletes rush over to me. I am so confused...I hear them yelling...”CONGRATULATIONS?” They continue to say things like “Good job” and “Way to go buddy, you killed it.” I instinctively respond tired and weakly “Thank you, thank you.” I start to realize that I didn’t need to win; simply being there was a feat all on its own and I should be proud of what I have accomplished. It is such a relief to hear this response from my friends and family, but I’m still running a bit low because I wish I could have done better. I come upon my brother who is waiting for me, surprisingly with a huge grin on his face. He grabs me and pulls me into a huge bear hug, squeezing the life out of me. Gideon starts to tell me “Hey man, you did awesome! I know that you wish that you could have done better, but you still rocked it buddy. I’m proud of you!” I hear these words and I feel like soaring like an eagle. To have the respect of my hurdle idol fills me with such a profound joy. This alone is enough to turn my day back around and allows me to appreciate and experience the beautiful day around me. It always raises my spirit to simply gaze in wonder at the beauty that my God has created.

I start to pass by a university coach that has been talking to me about university track and he motions for me to wait up. He tells me “Hey lil man, I just got off the phone with the Lancer track coaches and it is a done deal! They are offering you a two thousand dollar scholarship to the University of Windsor!” I’m now ecstatic and my day is complete! My day has been filled with so much nervousness and anticipation and now it has led me to an amazing scholarship. Today I impressed my brother, created awesome memories that will last a lifetime, and received a scholarship to my intended school. Today was a chance to prove myself, and I was able to follow through; I will never forget it.

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Magazine advertisement: World hunger is not an illusion

Billboard: Stop Hunger Now

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Atlanta, GA 919 839 0689 1000 Williams Drive 919 839 8971 Marietta, GA 30066 info@stophungernow.org

www.stophungernow.org

November 23, 2014 To whom it may concern: Did you know that in third world countries:

1 in 9 people in the world do not have enough to eat The world produces enough food to feed all 7 billion people

who live in it, but those who go hungry either do not have land to grow food or money to purchase it.

Roughly 925 million people go undernourished on a daily basis, consuming less than the recommended 2,100 calories a day.

Aiming at the very heart of hunger, hunger projects are currently committed to work in countries such as Bangladesh, Benin, Burkina Faso, Ethiopia, India, Ghana, Malawi, Mexico, Mozambique, Peru, Senegal and Uganda.

Nearly 98 percent of worldwide hunger exists in underdeveloped countries.

Hunger is often passed from mother to child. Each year, 17 million children are born underweight because their mothers are malnourished.

In developing countries where sanitation is poor, lack of nutrition only makes children and adults more vulnerable to illness.

1 in every 15 children in developing countries dies from hunger Stop Hunger Now is an organization committed to ending hunger by providing food and life-saving aid to the world’s most vulnerable citizens, and by creating a commitment to mobilize the necessary resources. Stop Hunger Now provides meals to support transformational development programs such as school feeding programs, vocational training programs, early childhood development programs, orphanages, and medical clinics. This program helps enhance lives by giving beneficiaries the opportunity to break the cycle

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of poverty through education, skills development, and health care while also receiving much needed nutrition. In hopes of drawing attention to this international issue regarding world hunger, we have generated three different styles of a public service message. These include a brochure, a magazine advertisement, and a billboard. The brochure was designed in a fashion that would suit the setting of places such as hospitals, schools, malls, charity events, and places of worship. It does not overload the readers with facts, however with the chosen color scheme it is successful in luring young audiences to read its information and reflect on making a difference in not only their own countries but in other less fortunate areas of the world. Furthermore, it depicts positive images that show teenagers volunteering in less developing countries, as well as inspirational quotes that draw the audience’s interest on an emotional level to show them that their contribution can make a difference. The billboard is designed to advertise the website from which the driver can obtain further information. Since billboards can be depicted on the sides of main streets and highways, a more neutral effect was chosen so that it would not distract from passing drivers. In addition, the billboard refrains from colors such as blue and green so that it does not blend in with the environment, and thus catches the driver’s attention. Moreover, it depicts less images, has fewer words, and grasps the driver’s eye quickly, as drivers have minimal time to read it. The magazine advertisement is designed to draw an audience’s attention to its focal point. Since a magazine can be crowded with many advertisements, the illusion effect was used to make the advertisement stand out more than the rest. In addition, images and colors were balanced to keep the observer focused on the image of the world. Each of the genres refrain from using complex words and concepts so that distraction is avoided, as people do not want to take the time to read an overstimulated message. Also, since these public service

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messages are displayed in public, appropriate imagery was used since it may be viewed by anyone in any of these scenarios. Lastly, the ideal time in which these public service messages would be displayed is around Christmas and Thanksgiving, when people feel the most generous and are more likely to reach out and give back. Thanks, Amanda Ingratta Foundation Associate

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Over the years, I have been blessed to have the undeniably special opportunity of getting to know my grandmother. Although she passed away eight years ago, there are things about her that I will never forget. One thing that sticks out to me is her past. After all, her past is part of my family history too. My grandmother did not have it easy growing up. Living in a big family with not a lot of money, life was very difficult for her at times. Most of her hardships, however, came from a specific event in her life, which negatively affected her during her childhood, as well as through adulthood. More specifically, it was the loss of one individual (and the method of how he was removed from her life) which changed everything. The following is my take on the stories that she told my father, and what he has told me. To have such a story in my family history is both an honour and a tragedy, and it has made an impact on how I view my life. The profile is written from my grandmother’s perspective.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Heavy, sombre clouds loomed over the small Czechoslovakian country house. Torrents of rain slapped against the tiny front windows making a noise that too closely resembled the striking of bullets. The wind whipped with such vigour that it was hard to hear even the sound of my own breath, heavy and nervous as it was. CRACK! A flash of lightning dazzled the sky, illuminating the small pot of tulips my mother kept on the windowsill. She said that they served as a reminder to her that amidst the horror story we were living in, beauty and life still remained, even in the little things in life. Curled up in a ball, I whimpered quietly. There was only one thing in the world I wanted right now; only one thing that could take away the pain and the fear. I needed my father to hold me close, tight against his large, warm chest. I needed him to lower his head and whisper softly in my ear

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that everything was going to be alright; that we could go back to living a normal life, and that we could continue to make memories together forever. As I thought about him, I was stabbed directly in the heart with the sharp reality that I would never share such a moment with him ever again. A queasy feeling bubbled within me and for a second I thought that I would lose my lunch. Ever since the war broke out and spread across Europe, we knew that there was a chance that my father would be conscripted, but not until now did I truly realize the stark reality of the situation.

It had happened earlier that week. The first sign that something was wrong was the knock on that door at 3 am. It woke all of us; my sisters, mother and my father, who answered the door. The house seemed eerie and empty as we watched him look through the peep hole in the door, droop his shoulders, and quickly give a defeated glance at my mother before he pried open the door, creak by creak. What stood on the other side of that door was a scene that has haunted my dreams to this day. Two men dressed in full khaki-coloured uniform with guns in hand, captain’s hats atop their heads, stood in our doorway. I recognized them as communist officials. I could tell by the look on their faces that they were not messing around. The two men handed my father a telegram; a very official-looking cream piece of parchment, sealed with a bright red stamp. As my father began reading, I studied his face. Well-worn and rough looking, many people saw my father as a tough, monotone individual. However, I saw him in a different way. When I looked at my dad’s face as he read that telegram, all I can remember noticing were his eyes. His always-welcoming eyes that made me feel safe and loved, on that night frightened me. They were stretched wide-open, almost to the point where I thought they would fall right out of his head. And they quivered. His eyes were actually shaking within their sockets, clearly petrified at the sight of what he was reading.

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In a flash, he was gone. He quickly scurried about the house, scrambling together a sorry excuse for an overnight bag. By now my mother was crying, her little eyes puffy and red from their burst of activity. Seeing my

mother cry made me cry, and when I started crying so did my sisters. Soon we were all huddled in the corner of the family room, not willing to believe that what was currently in progress was our new reality. As my father headed out the door, the two men grabbed his arms. My father just started at us, quiet, lips flat, with no facial expression whatsoever. Valour –

that is the word that comes to mind when I think of my father on that last day. He did not cry, but instead chose to maintain his dignity and stare fear right in the eyeball. My mother, on the other hand, looked on helplessly, her shoulders shaking with heavy breaths in between a flurry of tears. As they turned the corner of the house and headed down the driveway, I began to realize that that could have been the last time I saw my father.

I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I should have moved. I should have spoke. And then he was gone.

Two years later, the war was over. People danced in the streets, music blasted from shops, doors wide open. The next few weeks were like a festival. Children ran free in the streets for the first time in a long time, their little shiny shoes glistening as they beat up and down the cobblestone roads. Everyone was happy. On the surface, at least. The reality was that no, not everyone was actually happy. So much remained up in the air. Throughout all of the festivities, my mother sat inside at the kitchen table, staring at the old grandfather clock that stood nobly in the corner of the room. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The silence that she lived in was a stark contrast to the world outside. My sisters and I tried to lift her spirits, but nothing worked. She just sat there. Alone,

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confused, scared...it all described her during those weeks. And that was before we heard the news.

The men were lined up military-style: rigid, cold and wet. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for a roll call in the wee hours of the morning, but three o’clock a.m. was definitely unusual. It was quite dark, but the courtyard was well lit, illuminating the soggy, tired and overused soldiers who struggled to maintain their order. Not many remained. The war was over. They all knew that for sure. It was time to give up. The allies were marching their way through Nazi-occupied Europe, claiming every city as they went. It was hopeless. That was why it was a mystery for my grandfather as to why he was standing in the middle of an abandoned courtyard on a dismal Monday morning. There was no point in having a roll call anymore. “Most of us are dead anyways,” many of the men were saying under their breath. As the two big double doors that served as the entrance to our compound swung open noisily, the commander of the battalion marched out, side by side, smoking fat, expensive looking cigars. The two very muscular “macho-men” (most people referred to them as this as opposed to their real names, which no one could remember) came to a sudden halt at the front of the row of soldiers. The more burly man of the two took a long drag from his cigar, exhaled, and started speaking slowly, obviously somewhat intoxicated. “Rumour has it…” Another drag. Exhale. Deep breath. Coughing fit. He continued, “that some of you have been fighting against your own will.” My grandfather looked around at the other men. Each one exhibited the same mixed expression of relief and confusion. Some twiddled their thumbs behind their backs, some stood silent, head down, and others looked questioningly at the commander. He knew that this described him. He knew that they knew that he was conscripted. So why was it such a big deal? “We suspect some of you are traitors to the Nazi regime,” the commander continued, “and that is not okay.”

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Every heart in the courtyard dropped. Someone vomited. He now knew the significance of the large, looming and freshly dug pit in the corner of the courtyard. He didn’t want to know what it was for, but he did. He knew all too well. After all, he had been at the other end of this situation before: Standing in front of a group of shivering Jews, shivering not because of the cold but because of the sheer terror they felt because of the inevitable. “I guess what goes around, comes around,” he thought.

The commanders signalled to the lucky members of the battalion, who they chose as their favourites, to pull out their rifles. They were sombre but relieved, and trudged over towards the commanders. “POSTURE!” the second commander screeched at them, and pulled out his own pistol to shoot the most unfortunate of the soldiers he had

thought was lucky just a moment before. As the man fell to the ground, he whimpered in pain, like a little child. It was the hardest thing anyone could ever have to watch. Soon, it was my grandfather’s turn at the pit. A fellow soldier gripped him by the shoulders, stared sympathetically into his eyes. The once warm, welcoming eyes of a loving Czechoslovakian father now cold, emotionless and dead. He was turned around to face the pit, and the shot was fired. I will never know what he thought as he fell into that pit, alone and helpless. I will never know how he felt. I will never know what his last words were, nor his last thoughts. Did he think of me? Did the thought of his loving family, anxiously awaiting his arrival, ever cross his mind? I will never know.

One thing I do know for certain, and that is that as he fell, he had no way of knowing that his darling daughter would one day find happiness once again, even if it were in a foreign land. He had no idea that she would have three successful sons. He had no idea that his grandson would have a son. He had no idea that I would exist.

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One thing though he knew for certain: he knew what he believed. Not only did he know what he believed, but he also stood up for that belief. And as he fell on that cold morning, I know that he did not regret that. Because of this, he is to me, a man of courage and honour: a man of valour.

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Over the past two decades, there have been more and more people realizing the benefits and significance of adopting a pet instead of purchasing one. The adoption percentage of dogs from humane societies and shelters across Canada has increased from 39% in 1993 to 48% in 2012; the adoption of cats from humane societies and shelters has increased from 28% in 1993 to 46% in 2012. According to the Canadian Federation of Humane Societies, these numbers are also directly related to the decrease in the euthanizing of animals in the shelters. What is the reason behind this trend? What do people consider when they are acquiring a pet? How is this trend affecting the pet population? And most importantly, how can we keep this trend going? Pets are incredible companions for just about anyone; they love and trust unconditionally. Sadly, some people see themselves as more superior than the pets, and think that they own the animal just as they own a pen, a cup, or a chair, and that they can decide the animal’s fate. This is actually the main reason a lot of pets are surrendered to shelters and humane societies. Humane society staff have explained that other common reasons include but are not limited to: allergies, job relocation, the pet was a gift from an ex, no time for the pet, aggressive behavior, and more. Fricker has shown that there are also countless cases where people purchase “purebred” pets from online animal sellers who provide falsified paperwork about the pet’s health; however, the animals often turn out to be severely sick, and the owner is not prepared for the

trouble. They end up surrendering their pets because the veterinary bill was gets too high. The best way to gain insight on the reasoning behind adopting or purchasing a pet is to interview the pet owners. The author of this article interviewed several people at dog parks and friends who recently acquired

a pet. Names have been changed for confidentiality. The questions asked in the interviews include the following: what kind of pet do you have? Did you adopt or purchase your pet? Why did you choose to adopt or purchase? How much research did you do about the agency or breeder

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before you got your pet? What do you think the pros and cons of adopting and purchasing are? Would you change your way of obtaining future pets, and why? Most of the interviewees have either dogs, cats, or both; about half of them adopted their pets from the street or from a humane society or shelter. Almost all of the interviewees who purchased a pet from a breeder, a friend, or a co-worker made the decision based on an impulse. Examples are “it seemed like a good idea at the time, and all my buddies are getting one from the litter, family reunion would be fun!” (Chris) and “my co-worker’s dog had a bigger litter of puppies than expected, so she was selling them for $50 a pup - and my girlfriend had always wanted a puppy” (Alex). They both decided to purchase a puppy or a kitten because they think the animals are cute, and they wanted one. On the other hand, Fiona, who purchased a golden retriever puppy from a reputable breeder, had been researching the breed for almost half a year before she decided to get one of her own. She first tried to find a golden retriever at the local humane society and failed, so she looked up kennels registered with the Canadian Kennel Club (CKC) and read their websites to view the pet’s parents. She also looked at testimonials, information on how they care for the puppies, and more. Sarah is the proud owner of two Siberian huskies; she purchased one as a puppy and adopted the second one from the humane society. She was like the impulse purchasers mentioned above when she got the first one. Then she volunteered at the humane society and came across the second one. She witnessed the gentle personality of the husky rescued from an abusive owner through spending time with the dog, and decided that it would be a good companion for her first dog. However, she was very cautious about the adoption: she asked the staff about the procedure, and conditions of the adoption; she also followed the recommendation of the behaviourists to let her first dog meet the rescue dog before she finalized the adoption. “Knowing what she’s [the rescued dog] been through, I want to be 100% sure before I make any commitment, so that I won’t disappoint the poor dog again” (Sarah). Katie took in two stray cats that lived under her backyard deck, and when one of them gave birth to a litter of four kittens, she kept them all. She noticed the cats living under her backyard deck when she first moved in, but she was uncertain whether or not they were strays or their owners let them wander the streets; therefore, before she decided to adopt them as

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her own pets, she took them to the veterinarian and put up signs in the neighbourhood for three months. Sherry adopted a lhasa apso from the local humane society: “the best part about getting a pet from the humane society is that the spaying or neutering is covered in the adoption fee. And they have free training sessions for the owner, and they gave me 6 weeks of pet insurance.” When she adopted her dog from the humane society, she asked various staff and volunteers about the dog’s personality, health, and whether or not there were any behavioural issues. When asked if they would change the way they obtained their pets in the future, most of them remain open-minded: “it all depends on what’s available at the time” (Jackson). However, Alex had second thoughts about purchasing a puppy from a co-worker; this is because his dog has some serious issues, including chewing on furniture; aggressive

behaviour towards other dogs, cats, and humans; and not responding to his call. After hearing about what is included in adoption fees at humane societies, he exclaimed, “definitely adopting next time!” The behaviourist at the local humane society

explained that for an animal to be deemed “fit for adoption” or “adoptable,” the humane society would give the animal a full physical check-up upon admission; the behaviourist would observe their behaviour with other dogs, spend time with the animal, evaluate its personality, and do some basic training if necessary. Most humane societies in Canada all stated in their mission statement and vision that they aim for animal protection by preventing cruelty and suffering (Toronto Humane Society); the work to be the voice of animals (Windsor/Essex County Humane Society), some of which even strive to protect wildlife and habitats as well. (Humane Society International/Canada). These organizations across the nation believe in respecting and appreciating animals (Ontario SPCA). Humane societies and animal lovers around the world have been trying their best to promote the idea to adopt instead of purchase pets, and to buy cross breed animals instead of purebred animals. Adoption fees are usually quite low compared to privately bought animals, and it usually includes de-sexing, health guarantee, training sessions, and more. The

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fact that purebred animals have a very narrow gene pool and it allows a higher chance of genetic defect in the animals is also a reason a lot of people choose to adopt cross breeds instead of purchasing purebreds. Overall, purebred animals, especially dogs and cats, are merely created for the satisfaction of a human’s fantasy of having the “perfect dog or cat” (Arman); this is not the right reason to acquire an animal companion. As stated in various mission statements, one of the most common strategies that shelters and humane societies take is educating the general public about the benefit of adopting animals instead of purchasing them. They also work to educate them about the health risks and problems that might exceed the benefit of having a purebred pet - after all, awareness is the first and key step for a cause. In conclusion, all living beings are precious and deserved to be respected and cared for; as more people start to realize this, more animals will get second chances that they deserve. It does not matter how one got his or her pet - the animal should never be treated as a lifeless object. Before acquiring a pet, one should really consider the amount of time and effort that they could and are willing to commit to care for and train the animal. This would, as a whole, reduce animal suffering and prevent pet surrender.

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Alex. "Did You Adopt or Purchase? Why? What Would You Do

Different next Time?" Personal interview. Oct. 2014.

"Backgrounder." Ontario SPCA. N.p., n.d. Web. Nov. 2014. Behaviourist. "Common Problems of Surrendered Animals and

Steps Taken to Make Them Adoptable." Personal interview. Oct. 2014.

Chris. "Did You Adopt or Purchase? Why? What Would You Do Different next Time?" Personal interview. Oct. 2014.

"Comparison of Animal Shelter Statistics, 1993 - 2012." Canadian Federation of Humane Societies. N.p., n.d. Web. Nov. 2014.

Fiona. "Did You Adopt or Purchase? Why? What Would You Do Different next Time?" Personal interview. Oct. 2014.

Fricker, Peter. "Purebred Dogs: A Moral Minefield." Vancouver Sun. N.p., 16 Dec. 2011. Web. Nov. 2014.

"HSI Canada: About Us." Humane Society International/Canada. N.p., n.d. Web. Nov. 2014.

Jackson. "Did You Adopt or Purchase? Why? What Would You Do Different next Time?" Personal interview. Oct. 2014.

Katie. "Did You Adopt or Purchase? Why? What Would You Do

Different next Time?" Personal interview. Oct. 2014. Koharik, Arman. "A New Direction for Kennel Club Regulations and

Breed Standards." The Canadian Veterinary Journal (2007): 953-65. Web.

"Our History." Toronto Humane Society. N.p., n.d. Web. Nov. 2014. Sarah, Pet Owner. "Did You Adopt or Purchase? Why? What Would

You Do Different next Time?" Personal interview. Oct. 2014.

Sherry. "Did You Adopt or Purchase? Why? What Would You Do Different next Time?" Personal interview. Oct. 2014.

Staff. “Common reasons for pet surrendering, and personal experience with adopted pet.” Personal interview. Oct. 2014.

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When I was young, I had always known that there was something out there; something calling to me. I had always heard the sound of my name. I never knew it then, but I was calling for myself. I like to watch, and I’ve seen it all; despair, anger, confusion, joy…hope. I’ve touched my share of the spectrum, but I know it’s worth my time. All this started before I could remember. To this day, I remember the feeling of approaching each dawn with naïve hope, only to have it shattered. Life, or what some would describe as life, came quickly to me. It was minor things at first… disgusting, useless, bitch, whore. I didn’t quite understand and it wasn’t all that bad, so I kept silent. But silence rapidly became my enemy, and I somehow managed to set myself apart. I would cautiously bring it up with my teachers, but apparently, it was just the world and we were just children. I was told it would pass… but I was told wrong. Over the years, teachers would call it “victim mentality”; something about me wanting help was what attracted the pain in the first place. Over the years, I learned to stay silent, but I came to discover that silence wouldn’t protect me. Honestly, I didn’t blame anyone. They didn’t know. These “guardians” believed that youth was to be invincible, not unwritten. Perhaps their generation had truly been “better” than ours; perhaps they were raised to forget. But in the end, I concluded it was simply myself. Days turned to

months, months turned to years, and beyond. For the longest time, something led me to disbelief. I tried to erase what was made of me. In the end, all this was led by sensations from days gone by, urging me to reconsider what I knew. I’d hear something calling to me…

something crying for me to leave the chaos. I followed the pull for what felt like centuries, but it led me nowhere. The world grew endlessly colder, and my life became increasingly less my own. I came to accept that you can’t erase ink. I accepted that the vision was part of me… and that identity was not my choice to make. Bitch, disgrace, whore, slut, die already, cunt, pathetic, intolerable, joke. Everywhere I went… that was me,

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and that was all. I found myself with no one to turn to, and no chance to believe that I was truly someone else. To instructors, it was high time for me to drop the act. To my peers, I was to be owned. I knew in the corners of my mind that some kind of life was out there and waiting for me... but come the end, I lost the strength to be unwritten. Finally, there came the darkest of nights, and I finally knew that my page would never be white again. I didn’t have the strength to drown any longer. I let go. Nothing changes without action, but when you’re in the dark… even the smallest light is a force that can move mountains. I came up in a state of hypothermia; my vision went black and I found myself too numb to realize I was awake. But I had seen the surface, and I was alive. No, this was not some flip of a switch. These things don’t come naturally. But believe me, it takes hope. A reason. As vague as it was, I recall a tearful calm; as if knowing I could act at any time was enough to stay me. But I was alive, and the existence of my option was enough to keep me going. For a while, I was transient; I knew that something was changing, but I had lost so much of myself that I didn’t know what. I heard the voice calling me stronger than ever, but I couldn’t make sense of the words. I could’ve gone forward. I could’ve gone quickly. But instead, I chose to walk blind. I went dark, shut down, held on to my dreams, and sailed through the world like a comet falling home. I knew I couldn’t leave without being sure. And as for me, my light was time. A countdown, to be honest, to the tune of a certain day. I took out my calendar, marked some future in June, and told myself that maybe – just maybe – I’d be in a different world by then. I made my vows, drew my shield, and tumbled forwards into the deep. At first, it all seemed futile… something was changing, nothing was different. But that countdown kept a different track: it wasn’t a measure of going, but a measure of coming. With each day that passed, my strength grew by just a fraction more; each fraction a miracle by comparison to the last. As days turned to years, memory faded faster, yet still I charged through the web of lies that dared to pull me down. As time went on, nothing was my own. No guilt, no assumption, no

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identity… nothing. Time was at a standstill when, nearly ten years after the first, I was torn from the ocean and crumpled on the shore. I had never truly known the world until I saw it all in colour. Life was in the honey-yellow tiles I walked on once more, and one more time only. It was in the final screech of the main door swinging open; I left a week early, too desperate to let go. Life was in the gentle kiss of the wind dancing through my hair, tossing my bangs in front of my eyes as if to keep me awake. Life, as it seemed, was desperate to draw me closer; like a long-lost friend or lover come home. In the days and years to come, I would slowly come to my feet and let the colours make contact one by one. It laughed with me from the long, green grass, soothing my feet in a cool embrace and thanking me for leaving the shoes at home. It walked with me as the rolling waves and sky… have I mentioned how much I love blue? Piercing, soft, rich light, in a million different blends and hues; it’s the colour that’s always there for me, bringing me reassurance and calm when I need it most. And to my own amazement, within the weeks and months that followed my freedom, I came to realize that life was so much more. I found, as soon as I dared, that life was wherever I went. I heard in the sound of my voice in hallways where I thought I was alone. I saw it in the song of the leaves as they brushed against each other in the

morning wind. And I felt it in the satin’s glide on my skin at graduation, swaying on my feet as I left the church. There, in that night… it was in the stars. For the first time in my life, what I saw wasn’t darkness; it was clarity. Piercing the darkness and

setting the sunset’s wake alight, life was in the million points of refuge that guarded the sky so that no one would face the blackness alone. On that night, as the orange burned low, I watched the violet sky draw its shield. As the iridescent blues took their places, I saw them cast their lacelike trains for those below. And I knew it would be okay. As that countdown reached zero, life laughed and danced for a girl in a parking lot who finally knew her life had begun. I’ve seen it all; despair, anger, confusion, joy… hope. I’ve seen my share of the spectrum, and I know firmly where I stand. I’ve traversed the thickest blacks and wondered at the purest of white… now, my canvas is my own,

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and I’ve chosen to paint it however I like. My life is the calm of blue and green; the passion of red and orange. My life is my own name, written in the rich purple and bright yellow that I had been seeking for so long. My life is here – my life is my life – and I’m painting it in my own design. I won’t let the canvas end this time.

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The pillow case was still damp from the tears I had shed in my sleep when I woke up in the morning. As I rolled out of bed, the family house - which was usually filled with the joyful noises of my little cousins running around and the inviting aroma of homemade meals, was empty. The only sound I could hear through the silence was the pounding of my temples. Only one look at my still swollen eyes in the mirror assured me that no amount of makeup would do anything to improve my appearance at that point. Ditching the mascara I dressed myself in the same black blouse and comfortable jeans I had been wearing for the past three days. Today obviously wasn’t a day for keeping up appearances. Not bothering to check if my aunt had left any breakfast on the table, I headed straight for the terrace. As I walked outside, the cool mountain air tickled the back of my neck as the morning sun warmed cheeks. This seemed to be how the village greeted me every morning, but today it didn’t seem fitting. I had imagined the weather as being much more melancholy. Only dark skies and rolling storm clouds could have matched my current mood. A few sparks of lightning wouldn’t have hurt either. Yet, the sun shone with all its tenderness and the day was as beautiful as ever. Looking past the wide olive orchard and across the parish road to my grandparent’s house, I could see that masses of people also wearing black were starting to arrive. While many arrived on foot some parked their rattling rusty vehicles on the edge of the street as tens of people would pour out of cars only designed to fit five people. A group of men even arrived riding a tractor. The village seemed much more populated than usual today. Typically, people only came up to the village on two occasions: holidays and funerals. Today was not a holiday. After spotting my mother’s figure on my grandparent’s terrace, I began making my way down to the funeral service. Walking through the olive orchard, I couldn’t help but think of my great aunt. In a word, she was loving. Yet the word love in itself has so many meanings. When my mom made the difficult decision of leaving her home country and this village to start her own family in a country of opportunities, my great aunt was

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the one who welcomed us into her own family. She offered maternal love to my mom and helped raise my brother and I with all her heart. With her kind-hearted smile she made everyone she met feel welcome. Every ounce of affection she gifted was returned with unprecedented appreciation. Her passing came too sudden. At that moment, remembering her, I would have burst into tears, if I had tears left to shed. As I made my way across dirt covered road, unsuccessfully avoiding the inevitable pebbles in my shoe, I tried to decide how I would try to compose myself today. Since my tears seemed to have dried overnight I assumed that I would be able to take on the role of a comforter. In the past few days I had gained a lot of experience in the art of patting shoulders while the other person cried. Rarely was there anyone there to pat my shoulders. I walked up the steps to my Grandparent’s house and made the ironic salutation of “Good morning” which was received by scattered greetings as I passed the men. The chairs were starting to fill up quickly but I found a seat next to my mother on the women’s side. As I sat down on the spotless cream coloured plastic chairs we spent hours cleaning last week, my mom passed me a fig she must have picked in the morning. I gave her a kiss on the tear stained cheek which she received with a sad smile and held her hand as we settled down again. Her eyes were still bright red and it looked as if she had not gotten any sleep. It was the same story in the faces of each member of my family. With each new guest that walked in, we would stand up to greet them. It was the same conversation each time. “I’m sorry for your loss”, they would begin. What do you say to that? Thank you? No response feels right. Eventually we ended up nodding our heads through most of the conversations. I had come to the realization that many of the things people say in time such as this they say merely for the sake of saying something. At funerals everyone feels the need to make it clear that they appreciated the person who has past. It’s only sad that it is until the person has pasted until they are truly appreciated.

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Seeing no answer the person would then give our hands a small, reassuring squeeze and say “May she rest in peace.”

The only thing left for us to say is “God bless you.” With that, the guests felt that they had finally done what they came to do and made their way to their seats The day seemed to go by unbearably slow, yet it was so

hectic at the same time. When the casket arrived that afternoon many people crowded around in order to pay their final respects. I, on the other hand, opted to remember her as she was when she was still alive and well. While the women wept for what seemed like hours I assumed my role of comforter and patted the trembling shoulders of my relatives. In their raspy, aching voices they all prayed for her as there was nothing else left to do. While everyone around me cried, I could not find my tears, for exhaustion had taken over. In a strange way, seeing the scale in which she was loved was almost a happy sight. I don’t know if it was hysteria, or honest happiness, but in that moment I began to smile.

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Snacks come in all types and sizes, but the most eaten kind of snacks are chocolates and sweets (sugar filled). Although most of us know the risks of sugary snacks, we tend to get weak and lose control of our curve -- but I'm not asking you to give up the chocolate. It can be good for you. There are, however, some things you need to know about the sweet craving you experience.

We were always told by our parents when we were young that chocolate makes teeth decay, but recent studies show that chocolate helps prevent it. It was the best thing I read in a while, until I knew that almost all chocolates that are on the market contain a large amount of sugar. Sugar, unlike chocolate, is well known for causing tooth decay.

When blood sugar levels drop below 65 milligrams, a sweet tooth and sugar cravings are the

result. If the blood sugar level continues below 65 mg, headaches, weakness, and even heart palpitations can occur. Thinking becomes slowed and confused, which leads to grouchiness and irritability.

Many scientific studies show that wellbeing and a positive disposition result when the blood sugar levels remain above the fasting level.

The average human begins his day with high sugar content food.

Stop. Think about it, and imagine yourself. Waking up late or running late for work. You skip breakfast, which is the most important meal of the day. You stop at the nearest convenient store or you drive to a Tim Horton’s. You take a cup of coffee filled with sugar, and maybe a couple of donuts, or if you’re in a hurry but not late, you will probably eat one of the

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frozen products that will be likely filled with sugar.

All that food you consumed can cause the blood sugar level to increase a lot, but in a period of an hour or two, it lowers again. The result is inefficiency and fatigue! The real function of sugar is to efficiently produce energy -- not to make you fatigued.

The key to maintain an even, healthy blood sugar level for hours is to add protein to your breakfast. Drink a glass of juice or milk, or eat some yogurt or cottage cheese with breakfast. This food helps your body maintain its metabolism, and it contains many vitamins that will help you stay healthy all day.

Studies shows that chocolate is healthy and has many positive factors. It is a mild stimulant and mood elevator. However, chocolate may always be harmful, if consumed in a great amount.

This leads to the question, what is the perfect amount of

chocolate to consume and stay healthy? Well, there is no specific answer here. Every human body has its own metabolism ratio.

Sugar is a simple, raw ingredient that we can add to anything to make it sweeter and taste better, but what we do not know is that it can be very dangerous and very addictive. Sugar has an

effect on the brain similar to caffeine and some kinds of drugs.

People who take drugs may get addicted to it, and the same thing may happen with eating an unhealthy amount of sugar.

In summary, chocolate and other sweets can become addictive for two reasons: one, low blood sugar levels; and two, nutritional deficiency.

You should always keep track of your sugar consumption to decrease the probability of heart disease by 78% -- this way, you will keep your body away from any health risks.

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I’m lying in the hospital bed with the curtain open for me to see everything happening behind the scenes. The sound of voices and EKG machines surrounds me. Nurses, doctors, and family came in and out of my room in the emergency department. How do I feel? I feel broken, bruised, and hopeless. After about an hour of lying in bed listening to different people telling me that they’re there if I need them, the rest of my night became black. No memory, no clue as to what happened after I was discharged. The mystery of what happened puzzles me to this day. Let’s rewind to earlier that evening. After returning home in the afternoon on a beautiful day, I sat at my kitchen table attempting to organize my school schedule for the next week. I had midterms, skills testing, and a paper due within days of each other. The pressure had gotten to me and I couldn’t handle it. I withdrew from every class I was taking that semester. I sat there staring at my computer screen crying, wondering when the pain and hurt would go away. I told my Mum five minutes after I had withdrew. I didn’t know how she would react, but the way she did react made me realize just how much of a mistake I thought I was making. “Why would you do that?” “Don’t you realize what will happen now?” “What are you going to do? You can’t just sit around all day and do

nothing.” Each of her words cut me like a blade, going deeper and deeper into the skin until finally the pain became unbearable. Numbness in my entire body is what I felt,

and at times like that, all you want to do is to feel something. So what exactly did I do? I decided that taking some pills would make me feel something. I thought ‘this sure will show her.’ Little did I know that the only one suffering in this situation would be me. I texted my mom telling her I had taken the pills – and of course I lied about just how many I took. She asked if I was serious and to come downstairs immediately. I stumbled down the stairs trying to gain balance until I finally walked into

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the living room where she was sitting on the couch staring at me. In that moment, I felt weak, defeated, scared and most of all, disappointed. I felt like let down my Mum, Taylar, and myself. We sat in complete silence for about a minute until she finally spoke up and said “I’m calling an ambulance.” It wasn’t until then that I realized how real and serious my actions were. But I told her not to call it, because that meant I finally had to face the truth and acknowledge the pain I had bottled up for years. The paramedics arrived at my house and began their assessment – what happened? How do you feel? Where are the pills? What did you take? Are you on any other medication? These were just the initial questions they asked. As soon I answered, they walked me out to the vehicle. I sat on the bench in the back of the ambulance thinking ‘how did I end up here?’ The paramedic told me they were not going to turn the sirens on and that they wanted to take my vital signs and heart rhythm before arriving at the hospital. The blood pressure cuff suffocated my arm as it assessed my blood pressure and pulse, while the oximeter assessed my oxygen saturation, and the thermometer assessed my temperature – all being done at once and when finished I was told everything was within the normal range. After minutes of my chest throbbing in pain, I finally spoke up and told the paramedic. This threw up several red flags. My heart rhythm was checked once again and it was normal – however, I was told that if the pain worsened, I would be placed on the stretcher and hooked up to a heart monitor. We arrived at the hospital and it was a bit of a wait to get a bed, but the paramedics were kind enough to wait with me. I sat for an half an hour, tapping my toes, listening to the background noise of people talking to each other. I was walked to my room, and again waited for a nurse to come and assess me. After my Mum, sisters, and Aunt arrived by my bedside, I knew I was safe. The security of knowing that people are there for you and care about you shows a lot about their character and love for you. Eventually my family had gone to the cafeteria to get something to eat and drink and to relax after the chaos. My Aunt Christine decided to stay to talk to me. I don’t remember a whole lot of the conversation, other than her telling me that no matter what I feel, I need to get it off my chest and if I ever needed to talk she would be there no matter what.

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After seeing the crisis team, mental health specialists, and the emergency room doctor I was finally discharged. I remember waking up the next morning still feeling nothing but numbness. Imagine this: feeling every emotion possible then having every single one of them being stripped away from you until you’ve got none left. This is how I felt. I would try to feel by self-harm, alcohol, and binging and purging. The first time I ever took a razor to my skin I was scared. I kept thinking how much will this actually hurt? I finally stopped thinking and sure enough the razor was on my skin, slicing it open as though it was a piece of thin fabric. There wasn’t that much blood, but enough to get the point across. The area of my upper thigh just above my knee is where I first cut myself. I did it at least five times. I don’t have any physical scars to show, but I do have mental scars. After that, I cut myself on my thigh a few more times. Then I got bold and brave and decided to cut my wrist. That hurt more than anything. I have visible scars to this day. Along with self-harm came alcohol. I was never the type of person to be seen at parties and drinking – I never saw the point. What’s the fun in consuming a drink

that makes you feel worse the following day? I did it because it made me feel alive, until it didn’t. Alcohol is a depressant, and someone with a mental illness that deals with depression shouldn’t be consuming alcohol. At the time I didn’t know what was actually happening to me. The alcohol made me feel even more depressed – I wouldn’t leave my room, I sat in bed all day staring at the wall or on my computer,

avoiding all duties I needed to accomplish that day. Along with self-harm and alcohol came an eating disorder. At a young age I had been bullied at school, and my home life wasn’t picture perfect. My parents consistently fought and my biological father emotionally and verbally abused me. My self-esteem, confidence and worth spiralled away at this point. I was always bullied for my weight. Growing up I had always been a bit over-weight, and a world that idolizes and promotes model-sized images and standards for women (-and men-) didn’t help. Every magazine I picked up had what looked like skinny, pretty, and flawless girls and women. I always questioned: Why can’t I look like that? I wish I was skinnier, prettier, and had more clothes. Eventually I began restricting myself from

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eating certain foods and exercising to burn off the calories I had just eaten. For a year I was a vegan – someone who doesn’t eat any animal based products. For example, vegans do not eat any dairy or meat products. I had also exercised to the point that I couldn’t walk anymore because I had severe shin splints in both legs – yet I still managed to find a way to exercise. I sat with my arms around the toilet seat, hugging it, crying. I put my finger down my throat to throw up my dinner. Bulimia, binge-purge type, was what I was diagnosed with. So, what exactly do self-harm, alcohol and an eating disorder have to do with my trip to the hospital? Simple: they all are indicative of a mental illness – in my case, depression. I was treated for almost two years until I finally said the medication wasn’t working. My symptoms of depression escalated, quickly. My psychiatrist tested me, theoretically, for bi-polar disorder. Within a day I had noticed the mood swings escalate and change within minutes. A week later I saw my psychiatrist again and low and behold, I was officially diagnosed with bi-polar disorder. This was some of the most relieving news I ever received. There was a legitimate reason for my behaviour and actions. Since my diagnosis, I have been in and out of counselling, maintained a healthy weight and diet, and have been focussing heavily on my sobriety. Recovery has been one of the best things that has ever happened to me. In the future I hope to raise more awareness for mental health as well as eliminate the stigma towards those who face these challenges. Mental illnesses are just as serious as any other illnesses and should be treated the same. I have become a huge advocate for those who have been bullied and, - dealt with self-harm, eating disorders, addictions and mental illness. I have shared my story with many people and hope to continue to do so. I hope to be a positive role model for others and I hope that my story may inspire someone to seek the help they deserve.

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