Learning About Myself Essay Example For Students

Learning About Myself Essay I realize that I don’t fully know who I am. I am still learning about myself as time passes. I could probably even name a person or two that could say they know me better than I know myself. What I do know is this: I am 22 years young and I have made a lot of mistakes in my life. And I may be naà ¯ve about some things, but, I have experienced a lot as well. I want to start with the fact that I love to learn. You might find me in my spare time with a book in hand. I also love to write. I have a bunch of kin, some I might not know but, most I love to spend time with. I share a bond with a soul that will not ever change. But I do not have any kids of my own. I am 22 years old and I was born In Minneapolis, MN on a cold winter Monday in November 2nd 1992. My grandmother raised me and my 3 siblings. I was always told that I’ve been with her since the age of 2. However, I was never all that interested in the details for certain reasons. My mother and father always existed somewhere in the back of my mind but they were never â€Å"there. Whether their absence was due to drugs, prison, or both I’m still not sure. I was always kept sheltered from it. I was faced with what at the time I considered to be one of the most life changing decisions of all time. I was going into junior high and my grandmother had decided out of nowhere to move back to her home state of Mississippi. Of course you can already guess how I felt about it. I really had no choice in the matter. After all, I really didn’t have anyone else at the time. I still like to refer to it as the worst decision ever. Everything was different. It was kinda like a culture shock for me. There weren’t any lights, no tall buildings, or regular neighborhoods with sidewalks. The fields went on for miles and miles. Full of cotton, corn and other crops. The people talked with a country accent and made fun and picked with me for being the new girl and talking proper as they liked to call it. I was always depressed. In my opinion some of the worst moments in my life happened to me while living in Mississippi. And I know its kinds selfish of me to dislike a place based on personal opinion but that is how I feel. I didn’t know anyone and my grandmother kept a tight leash on me. I didn’t have many friends so I had nowhere to go anyway. I was alone. The family I had there I didn’t know and I actually felt like most of them didn’t like me anyway. I even had to experience the pain of feeling a car crash into me. I remember coming crashing down on the windshield, cracking it, and getting rushed to the ER. I was lucky because there was not too much damage other than a few bumps, bruises, and a missing tooth. This somehow made me feel even less welcomed and liked. I hated Mississippi a little more because of it. I graduated high school and was saved by my mother who surprisingly came to Mississippi to bring me back to live in Minnesota with her. I never actually expected my mother to step up the way she did. She has been in my life and clean for 6 years. And I couldn’t be any prouder. I regret the fact that I can’t say the same about my father. I was always told that I shouldn’t be so judgmental towards my father. That I should give him a chance and not dislike him so much. I really tried I promise I did but he is the reason that I’ve learned that â€Å"Trust of the innocent is the liar’s most useful tool. † – Stephen King. I had to learn the hard way that I can’t trust anyone, especially not my father. He is everything I despise and I have no respect for him. .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac , .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac .postImageUrl , .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac .centered-text-area { min-height: 80px; position: relative; } .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac , .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac:hover , .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac:visited , .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac:active { border:0!important; } .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac .clearfix:after { content: ""; display: table; clear: both; } .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac { display: block; transition: background-color 250ms; webkit-transition: background-color 250ms; width: 100%; opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #95A5A6; } .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac:active , .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac:hover { opacity: 1; transition: opacity 250ms; webkit-transition: opacity 250ms; background-color: #2C3E50; } .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac .centered-text-area { width: 100%; position: relative ; } .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac .ctaText { border-bottom: 0 solid #fff; color: #2980B9; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; margin: 0; padding: 0; text-decoration: underline; } .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac .postTitle { color: #FFFFFF; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 600; margin: 0; padding: 0; width: 100%; } .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac .ctaButton { background-color: #7F8C8D!important; color: #2980B9; border: none; border-radius: 3px; box-shadow: none; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 26px; moz-border-radius: 3px; text-align: center; text-decoration: none; text-shadow: none; width: 80px; min-height: 80px; background: url(https://artscolumbia.org/wp-content/plugins/intelly-related-posts/assets/images/simple-arrow.png)no-repeat; position: absolute; right: 0; top: 0; } .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac:hover .ctaButton { background-color: #34495E!important; } .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac .centered-text { display: table; height: 80px; padding-left : 18px; top: 0; } .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac-content { display: table-cell; margin: 0; padding: 0; padding-right: 108px; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 100%; } .ua24f33ba58c0b2f88b63e57b4b3829ac:after { content: ""; display: block; clear: both; } READ: Father Damien And His Journey EssayI never had a relationship with my father. So the last time he got out of prison in June of 2014 I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I trusted him. He started coming to see me. We even went places. He even helped me get my license. I thought we were a work in progress and I honestly still don’t know what went wrong. I had the worst day ever. It started with a toothache and having to get my wisdom tooth surgically removed and ended with me in handcuffs in the back of a police car because of dear ole daddy. I go home to lie down still coming down off the Novocain or whatever. And my father calls me in distress. He got into an altercation with some guys and ended up leaving his car somewhere and needed me for a ride back to his car. I knew it was bullshit because if I you are in an altercation the last thing you will do is leave your vehicle but I did not question it because my father is very secretive. I stupidly go to his rescue. I pick him up from his house to take him to his car and the moment I turn the corner I get cut off by a pickup truck. I thought it was just another driver going through road rage but once I look in my rear view mirror I realize that it’s not. Surrounded by police with guns drawn and K-9 in full beast mode. The whole time my father said nothing. I get pulled out of my car, put in handcuffs, in the back of a squad car with all of my possessions seized. After being forced to sit on the corner of Plymouth for hours I was finally told that my father had robbed a bank. I wasn’t released until after I was transported to my father’s house while they raided it. And even then it took for my mother to come looking for me and to confirm my story for them to let me go. Because he was not talking. He wouldn’t even tell the police I was his daughter and that I didn’t have anything to do with it. And I haven’t heard from him since I have learned to move on. I will never forgive him and I will never forget what he has done to me. I will not live my life in regret or blaming myself for something I have no control over. I will not let that situation hinder me. I have learned to be a better person because of it. I see myself ten years from now as a paralegal, correctional officer, or parole officer, married with at least three children. I am still learning about myself but I hope that by reading this you know a little more about me.