On the third day of my seventh-grade Englih class, we had to write a couple paragraphs on the hardest thing we've had to do. We had twenty minutes to write, and the first five I pent choosing which event to use.
I went back and forth between writing about when I found out my dad was arrested or when I had to admit to my counseler and my mom that I had been cutting myself. For some reaon, I found it easier to write about destructing my body than to write about how much I hadted my father.
I tarted writing, and I could feel my teacher watching me as I wrote. With each new word than landed on the paper, my heart ached more and more. I was letting one of my bigget flaws hang out. I was letting someone of power know that I was far from perfect.
At the time, I thought that the reaon writing the paper wa o hard was because it was a painful experience. That may be part of the reaon, but I know know that it was so hard because I was admitting that I had flaws. I was admitting that I wasn't perfect, I didn't have everything under control, and I certaintly wasn't happy. It was so hard to write because I was finally accepting that I am not perfect.