Essay about My Memoir

Submitted By Mcosio
Words: 639
Pages: 3

Melissa Cosio-Martinez
Period 1 American Lit.
April 26, 2013
How It Feels To Be Colorful Me . What truly makes me who I am? There are many things; from the way I was raised to traumatic events. So, why not start from the beginning?
My childhood is like a rainbow of a thousand different colors,
Full of different memories, Good & bad,
These are the colors that were made permanent scars on my skin.
The colors that created memories, Thus leaving the incisions of those remembrances in my heart.
Blue, the color that cause depression and sadness in my childhood days.
Red, the color of anger that was caused by unwanted drama.
Burns, Cuts, Scrapes, and Tears.
Green, the color of peace and security given by the people that truly care for me the most.
Purple, the color of love that creates warmth in my heart and soul.
Passion, Faith, Security, and, Hope.
But, what created these different colors in my life? What made the colors of Blue, Red, Green, and Purple such significant symbols in my life?
The colors Blue and Red came into my life when I began to have sadness and experience hard situations in life while at the age of 7 or 8. I went through something in which I cannot name but it left a lot of hurt in me. I thought of myself as less and I truly hated myself. I began to think that I would never get married or that anyone would want anyone like me when I got older or even try to be my friend. I would torture myself by drowning myself in ugly thoughts. I started being by myself at school, and then I would get bullied and pushed around because of that. But, I’m really good at hiding things and keeping a smile on my face. I cover up my pain by pretending to be happy all of the time, by being loud and pretending that I don’t care what people have to say. But, I do care and it really hurts deep down. People’s words really began to affect me in Middle school, and that brought me to cutting in eighth grade. It wasn’t just what had happened when I was 7 it was everything that was just building up so much. The cutting wasn’t to kill myself or anything but it was just the feeling. For those 2 seconds of my life I didn’t feel everyone else’s fingernails cutting into my sensitive skin. For those 2 seconds it’s a different pain