Essay on My Letter On Growing Pains
My dad always told me, when I was in high school, that my “friends were not my friends, they were acquaintances”. At the tender age of 16, I thought I would have those friends for the rest of my life. To my surprise, my best friend of three years stole from me, several boyfriends lied to me, and one boyfriend physically beat me every day for about six months. On several occasions, I was nearly killed in various car accidents. By the time I was twenty-six years old, I had graduated from the School of Hard Knocks. Living independently in the world, away from my parents, taught me that people can and will be cruel.
The last straw was when my boyfriend, with whom I was living, strangled me because he was disillusioned by a lie that I was cheating on him. I passed out. Moments later, I woke up in the tiny hallway of that dingy little apartment exactly where he had left me. I began looking for my boyfriend only to find him trying to commit suicide in the kitchen with the belt from my robe. Forever true to my naïve nature, I had already forgiven him for what he had done to me. I loosened the belt from around his neck. I never pressed any charges for attempted murder. Shattered into a million pieces like a porcelain doll on a ceramic tile floor, I moved back home for the fifth time in less than four years.
My parent’s house was always a place where I felt loved and safe from the hatred of the outside world. As I sat in solitude basking in the…