Winnie the Pooh
Isn't it funny how the actions of our parents impact us for the rest of our lives? Life is funny that way. My father created the false image of me and permanently inserted it into my life forever. "Hey dad, what are you doing?" I asked my father while he was sitting at his desk. "Just writing some stories," he replied avoiding any details about the secret project, "How about you?" "I'm just going to play with Winnie in my room," I answered. At the time I was only eight years old and still unaware to the fact that my life was changing right before my eyes. Everyday my dad worked on those stories, secluded from the rest of the world, which was passing him by. As time went on, I grew more curious as to what those …show more content…
He said it relaxed him. I guess he was good at keeping secrets. On the desk were a bunch of hand written papers titled "Winnie the Pooh". "Why is dad writing stories about my teddy bear?" I asked out loud again. I began reading what was written on the paper. "Here is Edward bear, coming downstairs, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head behind Christopher Robin..." I stopped reading in shock. " That's me. It's not just Winnie in this book. I'm in it too. This book is about me!" At first I thought that it was astonishing that my dad was writing books about Winnie and I, but after I went to boarding school, I began to hate them. I didn't only hate the books, I despised being Christopher Robin and my dad for writing the stories about me. "Hey look it's Christopher Robin," a kid named Andrew said superiorly to his group of friends, when I walked by them in the hallway. " How's Winnie doing today?" I started to feel my face getting red and my hands started sweating. I just kept walking but they followed me. "Where are you going? Are you late for your play date with Pigglet?" They all snickered. After that I began to run and they shouted something after me but I didn't hear it. Everyday they made fun of me about something new, but each day it got more …show more content…
" No you've done enough already. Just leave me alone," I told him angrily. Surprisingly he left, there was no " I'm sorry" or " Let me help", he just left. We didn't really talk after that. The more I talked to him the more I grew to hate him, so I just stopped talking to him over all. Because of the bullying I didn't have any good friends, so the only person I really talked to was Mom. I didn't see her that often because her and Dad were divorced and I lived with Dad. I would call her every night before I went to sleep and tell her how my day went. After that incident Dad was always drunk. Eventually it got the better of him and he ended up in crashing his car, killing himself and the other driver. After that I got to move in with Mom. Even though I despised him, I still missed him, but I was glad that the stories were not being written by him anymore. Time passed and everything was stable for a while. I forgave my father for writing the stories and I regretted not forgiving him sooner. As I got older I grew to enjoy the stories, not only because they were the only things that I had left of Dad, but because they truly were enchanting stories that made children
Isn't it funny how the actions of our parents impact us for the rest of our lives? Life is funny that way. My father created the false image of me and permanently inserted it into my life forever. "Hey dad, what are you doing?" I asked my father while he was sitting at his desk. "Just writing some stories," he replied avoiding any details about the secret project, "How about you?" "I'm just going to play with Winnie in my room," I answered. At the time I was only eight years old and still unaware to the fact that my life was changing right before my eyes. Everyday my dad worked on those stories, secluded from the rest of the world, which was passing him by. As time went on, I grew more curious as to what those …show more content…
He said it relaxed him. I guess he was good at keeping secrets. On the desk were a bunch of hand written papers titled "Winnie the Pooh". "Why is dad writing stories about my teddy bear?" I asked out loud again. I began reading what was written on the paper. "Here is Edward bear, coming downstairs, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head behind Christopher Robin..." I stopped reading in shock. " That's me. It's not just Winnie in this book. I'm in it too. This book is about me!" At first I thought that it was astonishing that my dad was writing books about Winnie and I, but after I went to boarding school, I began to hate them. I didn't only hate the books, I despised being Christopher Robin and my dad for writing the stories about me. "Hey look it's Christopher Robin," a kid named Andrew said superiorly to his group of friends, when I walked by them in the hallway. " How's Winnie doing today?" I started to feel my face getting red and my hands started sweating. I just kept walking but they followed me. "Where are you going? Are you late for your play date with Pigglet?" They all snickered. After that I began to run and they shouted something after me but I didn't hear it. Everyday they made fun of me about something new, but each day it got more …show more content…
" No you've done enough already. Just leave me alone," I told him angrily. Surprisingly he left, there was no " I'm sorry" or " Let me help", he just left. We didn't really talk after that. The more I talked to him the more I grew to hate him, so I just stopped talking to him over all. Because of the bullying I didn't have any good friends, so the only person I really talked to was Mom. I didn't see her that often because her and Dad were divorced and I lived with Dad. I would call her every night before I went to sleep and tell her how my day went. After that incident Dad was always drunk. Eventually it got the better of him and he ended up in crashing his car, killing himself and the other driver. After that I got to move in with Mom. Even though I despised him, I still missed him, but I was glad that the stories were not being written by him anymore. Time passed and everything was stable for a while. I forgave my father for writing the stories and I regretted not forgiving him sooner. As I got older I grew to enjoy the stories, not only because they were the only things that I had left of Dad, but because they truly were enchanting stories that made children