The Story I Was Made To Tell :: Personal Narrative Depression Papers

The Story I Was Made To Tell This is the story that I am made to tell. I have written pages and pages of other tales, dancing legends and laughing mysteries, choking secrets that fell away from me the minute they dripped on to the page. But I have always, it seems, been working around this one core subject, the one that eludes me and presses in on me at the same time. You see, I think that in the end, we all have one true tale to tell, to tell well, to tell with all the truth and simplicity, honor and respect that it deserves. And that story will live inside of us forever, praying to be let out. But it isn’t easy to unravel the chapters of your one story. For me, it is still quite impossible, but it is time that I try. Nothing I will ever write can approach truth until this story is told. And perhaps it is my job to try. The story — it is my mother’s. And therefore, mine. It is built of nothing less than miracles and tragedy. It is nothing more than the story of one person. It is the only thing that makes me cry, in the deepest pocket of myself, because it is an untold, unfinished story of the highest importance. The story actually sings in me every time I breathe in, breathe out, every time my eyes lift to see the air and its tingly life, every time my hip aches or my hands sing, or my cheeks puff up in sickness or cold. But no matter its majestic significance, its indelible mark on my life, I still have never been able to tell it. That is the hole I am trying to fill. 1994, spring, a school day. My father, for some reason, drove me back from school one day. This was very unusual, since my father spent more than half his time in England during those years, and a great deal of time in other countries, as well, all as part of his job. He was rarely around, and when he was, he certainly wasn’t picking me up from school or anything else. Either way, he drove me home on this particular day, and as we approached the driveway, almost at our house, he told me an interesting piece of news. The Story I Was Made To Tell :: Personal Narrative Depression Papers The Story I Was Made To Tell This is the story that I am made to tell. I have written pages and pages of other tales, dancing legends and laughing mysteries, choking secrets that fell away from me the minute they dripped on to the page. But I have always, it seems, been working around this one core subject, the one that eludes me and presses in on me at the same time. You see, I think that in the end, we all have one true tale to tell, to tell well, to tell with all the truth and simplicity, honor and respect that it deserves. And that story will live inside of us forever, praying to be let out. But it isn’t easy to unravel the chapters of your one story. For me, it is still quite impossible, but it is time that I try. Nothing I will ever write can approach truth until this story is told. And perhaps it is my job to try. The story — it is my mother’s. And therefore, mine. It is built of nothing less than miracles and tragedy. It is nothing more than the story of one person. It is the only thing that makes me cry, in the deepest pocket of myself, because it is an untold, unfinished story of the highest importance. The story actually sings in me every time I breathe in, breathe out, every time my eyes lift to see the air and its tingly life, every time my hip aches or my hands sing, or my cheeks puff up in sickness or cold. But no matter its majestic significance, its indelible mark on my life, I still have never been able to tell it. That is the hole I am trying to fill. 1994, spring, a school day. My father, for some reason, drove me back from school one day. This was very unusual, since my father spent more than half his time in England during those years, and a great deal of time in other countries, as well, all as part of his job. He was rarely around, and when he was, he certainly wasn’t picking me up from school or anything else. Either way, he drove me home on this particular day, and as we approached the driveway, almost at our house, he told me an interesting piece of news.