This was an awesome class...thank you to everybody for making my 9am class especially entertaining....Dr. Strong, I can only hope to have teachers as passionate and effective as yourself in the future....Thank you for this incredible semester...............good luck to you all
Robert Munroe
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Self Assessment Essay
One thing I have learned in my years as a writer, is to write what you know. Most of my pieces
are what I would consider creative nonfiction. They are based on personal experience and fact. I have tried to enliven them and make them more meaningful by use of imagery, setting, voice, and humor. I am an avid reader and most of what I read and enjoy are memoirs with a hint of sarcasm. I am especially partial to David Sedaris, his use of creative nonfiction in Dress Your Family in Courderoy and Jeans, is definitely what I try to aspire to when I write my pieces. My essay Fatal Disease, was written after I read his book.
During the course of this semester, I have learned a lot. I have learned to read things without judgement, I have tried to read each piece first before I scrutinize it and made sure I ignored spelling errors till I was done reading it thoroughly. I also found it interesting how different some pieces were when they were read to me and or sung to me in someone else’s voice. Being able to workshop such a wide variety of pieces and hear what a group of very different individuals had to say about them, opened my eyes to a whole new way of reading and thinking about pieces I have written or read. I now read and write as objectively as I can.
I try to write, paying special attention to imagery and character as if I wasn’t the writer. I read it as if it were written by someone else and how it may relate to them, taking into consideration they are not always privy to the information I take for granted. This seems to work and makes me a stronger writer as well as reader. This class has opened my eyes and brought me closer to myself as a writer and reader. I have enjoyed this class immensely. Thank you.
One thing I have learned in my years as a writer, is to write what you know. Most of my pieces
are what I would consider creative nonfiction. They are based on personal experience and fact. I have tried to enliven them and make them more meaningful by use of imagery, setting, voice, and humor. I am an avid reader and most of what I read and enjoy are memoirs with a hint of sarcasm. I am especially partial to David Sedaris, his use of creative nonfiction in Dress Your Family in Courderoy and Jeans, is definitely what I try to aspire to when I write my pieces. My essay Fatal Disease, was written after I read his book.
During the course of this semester, I have learned a lot. I have learned to read things without judgement, I have tried to read each piece first before I scrutinize it and made sure I ignored spelling errors till I was done reading it thoroughly. I also found it interesting how different some pieces were when they were read to me and or sung to me in someone else’s voice. Being able to workshop such a wide variety of pieces and hear what a group of very different individuals had to say about them, opened my eyes to a whole new way of reading and thinking about pieces I have written or read. I now read and write as objectively as I can.
I try to write, paying special attention to imagery and character as if I wasn’t the writer. I read it as if it were written by someone else and how it may relate to them, taking into consideration they are not always privy to the information I take for granted. This seems to work and makes me a stronger writer as well as reader. This class has opened my eyes and brought me closer to myself as a writer and reader. I have enjoyed this class immensely. Thank you.
Robert Munroe
“Experience as a writer”
I can remember being in the 6th grade, having Mr. Mackenzie as my teacher. He was awesome. I wanted to go to class, with him as my teacher. He did things unconventionally. We had a garden outside the window where we grew carrots and lettuce, and documented the different stages of growing. Mr Mackenzie also helped me get into a group called “Olympics of the Mind”. We solved problems as a group and put on plays based on our findings. I was so very inspired and trusting of him. I can remember being overly excited to have him read a story I had written. It wasn’t an assignment, I did it because I wanted to. I was proud of the story as well as my initiative to do something on my own. I waited with a big smile and baited breath looking up at Mr Mackenzie, looking for a reaction and anticipating his response. I can remember vividly as if it were yesterday, him saying “You really should think about doing something else with your time, writing is not your thing”. I felt a physical transformation, a permanent loss, I was changed. I have been scared of writing ever since. I don’t even remember what the story I wrote was about. I forgot it permanently. The power that grade school teachers have, should be wielded like a deadly weapon.
“Experience as a writer”
I can remember being in the 6th grade, having Mr. Mackenzie as my teacher. He was awesome. I wanted to go to class, with him as my teacher. He did things unconventionally. We had a garden outside the window where we grew carrots and lettuce, and documented the different stages of growing. Mr Mackenzie also helped me get into a group called “Olympics of the Mind”. We solved problems as a group and put on plays based on our findings. I was so very inspired and trusting of him. I can remember being overly excited to have him read a story I had written. It wasn’t an assignment, I did it because I wanted to. I was proud of the story as well as my initiative to do something on my own. I waited with a big smile and baited breath looking up at Mr Mackenzie, looking for a reaction and anticipating his response. I can remember vividly as if it were yesterday, him saying “You really should think about doing something else with your time, writing is not your thing”. I felt a physical transformation, a permanent loss, I was changed. I have been scared of writing ever since. I don’t even remember what the story I wrote was about. I forgot it permanently. The power that grade school teachers have, should be wielded like a deadly weapon.
My Name is Robert and I AM AN Addict
My name is Robert and I am an addict. As a consequence I landed myself in a halfway house, having no idea what was in store for me. I quickly learned to let go and ask for help. Letting go is letting others do for you what you cannot do for yourself. If you’re thinking about, or interested in knowing what a halfway house is or what it can do for you or someone you love? You should know they are great places of healing and personal growth. Halfway houses are an essential and useful tool for anyone wanting sobriety.
I don’t consider myself to be what you think of when you think of a drug addict. I have never been arrested, I don’t steal. I am educated and generally well liked. I don’t come from a broken home nor was I abused as a child. Still I came to be a drug addict the same way all drug addicts before me. I thought I was invincible. I could never get addicted. I thought my willpower was good. Couple that with the naivety of youth, and a drug addict I became. It consumed me and destroyed my life and relationships with family and friends.
So after many rehabs, I found myself at the doors of a halfway house. A halfway house is the next step an addict takes after completing a 3 to 4 month stay at a drug rehabilitation facility. It’s name says it all. Your halfway to being independent again. Your still in a very restricted environment where your every move is monitored, but you are able to slowly integrate yourself back into society.
I was scared to death. I was about to reside with 12 strangers and had no idea what was in store for me. Will they like me? How long will this take? Will I fit in? All these thoughts raced through my mind.
I was greeted with open arms. I immediately felt safe. Safe from myself and my addiction. The first thing I heard from the house manager was “I am here to love you , until you can love yourself”. I started to cry. The power in that statement was overwhelming. I knew I was in the right place.
It wasn’t all easy; in fact it was hard as hell. I had to learn to trust and share everything about myself, and I mean everything. I had to acknowledge resentments and then let them go. I learned about my irrational core beliefs. Irrational core beliefs are negative views we have of ourselves, gained by a lifetime of influence and self loathing. Not everyone in the house liked me and that was ok. I did fit in, even though everyone in the house came from a different background, we all shared a common bond. We created a makeshift family. It worked. I learned to let go and ask for help when I needed it. It was an emotional journey. A journey I believe everyone, addict or not, should take.
8 months later I left . Now I’m not saying I’m cured, but I have a better understanding of myself and why I do the things I do. With that knowledge I know I will be fine. The halfway house saved my life. I am 18 months clean.
My name is Robert and I am an addict. As a consequence I landed myself in a halfway house, having no idea what was in store for me. I quickly learned to let go and ask for help. Letting go is letting others do for you what you cannot do for yourself. If you’re thinking about, or interested in knowing what a halfway house is or what it can do for you or someone you love? You should know they are great places of healing and personal growth. Halfway houses are an essential and useful tool for anyone wanting sobriety.
I don’t consider myself to be what you think of when you think of a drug addict. I have never been arrested, I don’t steal. I am educated and generally well liked. I don’t come from a broken home nor was I abused as a child. Still I came to be a drug addict the same way all drug addicts before me. I thought I was invincible. I could never get addicted. I thought my willpower was good. Couple that with the naivety of youth, and a drug addict I became. It consumed me and destroyed my life and relationships with family and friends.
So after many rehabs, I found myself at the doors of a halfway house. A halfway house is the next step an addict takes after completing a 3 to 4 month stay at a drug rehabilitation facility. It’s name says it all. Your halfway to being independent again. Your still in a very restricted environment where your every move is monitored, but you are able to slowly integrate yourself back into society.
I was scared to death. I was about to reside with 12 strangers and had no idea what was in store for me. Will they like me? How long will this take? Will I fit in? All these thoughts raced through my mind.
I was greeted with open arms. I immediately felt safe. Safe from myself and my addiction. The first thing I heard from the house manager was “I am here to love you , until you can love yourself”. I started to cry. The power in that statement was overwhelming. I knew I was in the right place.
It wasn’t all easy; in fact it was hard as hell. I had to learn to trust and share everything about myself, and I mean everything. I had to acknowledge resentments and then let them go. I learned about my irrational core beliefs. Irrational core beliefs are negative views we have of ourselves, gained by a lifetime of influence and self loathing. Not everyone in the house liked me and that was ok. I did fit in, even though everyone in the house came from a different background, we all shared a common bond. We created a makeshift family. It worked. I learned to let go and ask for help when I needed it. It was an emotional journey. A journey I believe everyone, addict or not, should take.
8 months later I left . Now I’m not saying I’m cured, but I have a better understanding of myself and why I do the things I do. With that knowledge I know I will be fine. The halfway house saved my life. I am 18 months clean.
I have lived my life up to this point out of fear. Fear has been a great motivator. It has been a friend, companion, and enemy. Feat has given me solace. Fear has created who I am with comfort, sorrow, misfortune, and distress. It has wrapped me in its miserably warm blanket of forgiveness. Fear has bent all my other emotions to fit it. They all bow in its glory. They have become serfs in its feudalistic state. Fear rules with an iron fist. I do what I do out of fear. I know nothing different.
I can’t remember life before fear. I’m sure there must have been a time when I wasn’t afraid of something. A time when all was good, and by good I mean ignorant. I envision that time as a small infant, snuggled between my parents. Well fed and loved. A time when there was no judgement. How can one judge an infant? The vision is brief.
As far back as I can remember I have felt different. I am different. With difference comes fear. People fear difference. They fear what they don’t understand, or won’t understand. With that fear driven ignorance they cast out. They try to right what they believe is wrong. They use the fear that motivated them to do it. They create fear from fear. It is a powerful tool both in its damage as well as its produce. I am a production of that fear.
I am gay. I have know this since I was five, and found my father’s Hustler magazines. I was more interested in the men than the women. It is not a phase, this is who I am.
I wanted people to know me. So I told my parents. I was called horrible things and sent to a psychiatrist. I was five. My first taste of fear.
I learned quickly that me being different brought out the worst in people. People want others to be like them. It gives them a sense of belonging and purpose. I have been shaped by that. My every thought and action has been based on what will happen to me if I don’t act like everyone else.
I was still gay, I just didn’t tell anyone, let alone act like it. I lived a lie, a huge lie, that ate me alive like a great cancer. I pretended to have a girlfriend. I even went so far as to have sex with this girl to show I was like everyone else. So now this lie born of fear, infecting me, has affected someone else. She loved someone who wasn’t real or true and she got hurt. All this from fear.
My life could have been so different. I often wonder what it could have been like had I not lived out of fear. Would I have done something great? Could I have been famous?
Fear created enormous resentments. I had resentments towards everyone including my parents, siblings, the kids in school, teachers, humanity in general for letting this happen to me. I turned to drugs to dull the fear. It worked for a short time, but it wasn’t a cure. I needed something different.
Someone finally told me once to “let go”. I had to come to grips with my life and forgive. Forgive those who have wronged me, and most of all forgive myself. A thick fog cleared away and I could breathe. How simple, yet so hard to do. Just forgive.
I did. I made a list of all my resentments and the people I held them against. I read them out loud and said “I forgive you”. I ended it with forgiving myself.
Letting go has made me a much happier, healthier, more fulfilled person than I ever could have dreamed of being. I am now on my own path. My life is still driven by fear, but it is a fear of not being myself.
I can’t remember life before fear. I’m sure there must have been a time when I wasn’t afraid of something. A time when all was good, and by good I mean ignorant. I envision that time as a small infant, snuggled between my parents. Well fed and loved. A time when there was no judgement. How can one judge an infant? The vision is brief.
As far back as I can remember I have felt different. I am different. With difference comes fear. People fear difference. They fear what they don’t understand, or won’t understand. With that fear driven ignorance they cast out. They try to right what they believe is wrong. They use the fear that motivated them to do it. They create fear from fear. It is a powerful tool both in its damage as well as its produce. I am a production of that fear.
I am gay. I have know this since I was five, and found my father’s Hustler magazines. I was more interested in the men than the women. It is not a phase, this is who I am.
I wanted people to know me. So I told my parents. I was called horrible things and sent to a psychiatrist. I was five. My first taste of fear.
I learned quickly that me being different brought out the worst in people. People want others to be like them. It gives them a sense of belonging and purpose. I have been shaped by that. My every thought and action has been based on what will happen to me if I don’t act like everyone else.
I was still gay, I just didn’t tell anyone, let alone act like it. I lived a lie, a huge lie, that ate me alive like a great cancer. I pretended to have a girlfriend. I even went so far as to have sex with this girl to show I was like everyone else. So now this lie born of fear, infecting me, has affected someone else. She loved someone who wasn’t real or true and she got hurt. All this from fear.
My life could have been so different. I often wonder what it could have been like had I not lived out of fear. Would I have done something great? Could I have been famous?
Fear created enormous resentments. I had resentments towards everyone including my parents, siblings, the kids in school, teachers, humanity in general for letting this happen to me. I turned to drugs to dull the fear. It worked for a short time, but it wasn’t a cure. I needed something different.
Someone finally told me once to “let go”. I had to come to grips with my life and forgive. Forgive those who have wronged me, and most of all forgive myself. A thick fog cleared away and I could breathe. How simple, yet so hard to do. Just forgive.
I did. I made a list of all my resentments and the people I held them against. I read them out loud and said “I forgive you”. I ended it with forgiving myself.
Letting go has made me a much happier, healthier, more fulfilled person than I ever could have dreamed of being. I am now on my own path. My life is still driven by fear, but it is a fear of not being myself.
Deja Vu
The sun came down in cascading ringlets of auburn and hughes of ethereal violet to land directly on the bells of the flower. A pure white gateway to another world. One touch to this heavenly flower and you will be transported to another place, another time, possibly a different reality. I’m telling you this because it happened to me exactly like that. I reached out and touched those bells and was immediately if not forcefully taken from my present to the past. Not just the past in general, but my past. In particular to a pivital point in my history, one that surely sculpted me into the human I was to become. The extremely sharp chisel of a child’s past that shapes and molds and tears at them to make them themselves. It happened to be the first day of school.
I was not me, I was another. I had been brought back to myself at that time, yet as sure as I know myself, I knew my younger self. I knew the look on my face of fear and loathing. I didn’t feel what I felt at that time, but I certainly remembered it as if it had been branded on my brain. Well not “as if” It had been branded on my brain. I still bear the scars of those hideous bus rides.
I’m 40 years old, and only recently have I come to terms with what happened, the mental abuse I absorbed and kept like a dirty little secret. I held onto that little secret so hard it became one with me, I grew around it and engulfed it. Now it was part of me. I now have a chance to change all that, here I am back where it all began, and I could change the past, my past. I could make it all ok, I could make it different.
Oh just look at me, well look at the younger me. How frail, fragile, naive, unsuspecting. So full of fear and so full of hope. There is a brightness to my eyes I never knew existed before. Had it been extinguished before I became self aware? So beautiful, so full of life and possibilities. I’m taken aback. Was I really ever that innocent? Was I really ever that young?
I know I was, but my mind is still mine, it grew with me, so I have always known it. Ageing takes such slow paths, I only remember adult thoughts, even as a childhood memory, they are adult thoughts. As I look into this child, this self, I am experiencing a guilt an overwhelming guilt. I was a child, those bright blue eyes tell me so. No amount of adult tainted thought can wipe that away. I buckle to my knees. This is truly a revelation, an epiphany. I for so long thought it was my fault, that I did something to make myself the way I am today. I am overcome with grief. Any sane person would say “Be happy, it’s not your fault”, but its been my irrational belief for so long, that I made others act towards me the way they did. I was the freak and they did what they did because of me, they couldn’t help themselves. I am the bad one, and they are normal. These are words comforting to me in their self defeating way. They are like a warm blanket on a cold rainy day. How dare my blanket be ripped away. IT WAS MY FAULT GOD DAMN IT!
I need to settle down, I need to walk, I need to think about this. I have the power to change myself forever. To change the way I look at things, how I feel things, how people react to me. Is this something I want to do?
I have decided not to interfere. I am a good person and have learned a lot from my experiences, I don’t want to change that. I am happy with what I have become and the struggles I have gone through are a part of who I am today. If I interfere with the past, what will I become? I look at myself again and realize, I will make it through. I don’t relish the trials and tribulations this “me” will have to endure, but I know the outcome, he will be fine, I will be fine. Its good to love yourself.
The sun came down in cascading ringlets of auburn and hughes of ethereal violet to land directly on the bells of the flower. A pure white gateway to another world. One touch to this heavenly flower and you will be transported to another place, another time, possibly a different reality. I’m telling you this because it happened to me exactly like that. I reached out and touched those bells and was immediately if not forcefully taken from my present to the past. Not just the past in general, but my past. In particular to a pivital point in my history, one that surely sculpted me into the human I was to become. The extremely sharp chisel of a child’s past that shapes and molds and tears at them to make them themselves. It happened to be the first day of school.
I was not me, I was another. I had been brought back to myself at that time, yet as sure as I know myself, I knew my younger self. I knew the look on my face of fear and loathing. I didn’t feel what I felt at that time, but I certainly remembered it as if it had been branded on my brain. Well not “as if” It had been branded on my brain. I still bear the scars of those hideous bus rides.
I’m 40 years old, and only recently have I come to terms with what happened, the mental abuse I absorbed and kept like a dirty little secret. I held onto that little secret so hard it became one with me, I grew around it and engulfed it. Now it was part of me. I now have a chance to change all that, here I am back where it all began, and I could change the past, my past. I could make it all ok, I could make it different.
Oh just look at me, well look at the younger me. How frail, fragile, naive, unsuspecting. So full of fear and so full of hope. There is a brightness to my eyes I never knew existed before. Had it been extinguished before I became self aware? So beautiful, so full of life and possibilities. I’m taken aback. Was I really ever that innocent? Was I really ever that young?
I know I was, but my mind is still mine, it grew with me, so I have always known it. Ageing takes such slow paths, I only remember adult thoughts, even as a childhood memory, they are adult thoughts. As I look into this child, this self, I am experiencing a guilt an overwhelming guilt. I was a child, those bright blue eyes tell me so. No amount of adult tainted thought can wipe that away. I buckle to my knees. This is truly a revelation, an epiphany. I for so long thought it was my fault, that I did something to make myself the way I am today. I am overcome with grief. Any sane person would say “Be happy, it’s not your fault”, but its been my irrational belief for so long, that I made others act towards me the way they did. I was the freak and they did what they did because of me, they couldn’t help themselves. I am the bad one, and they are normal. These are words comforting to me in their self defeating way. They are like a warm blanket on a cold rainy day. How dare my blanket be ripped away. IT WAS MY FAULT GOD DAMN IT!
I need to settle down, I need to walk, I need to think about this. I have the power to change myself forever. To change the way I look at things, how I feel things, how people react to me. Is this something I want to do?
I have decided not to interfere. I am a good person and have learned a lot from my experiences, I don’t want to change that. I am happy with what I have become and the struggles I have gone through are a part of who I am today. If I interfere with the past, what will I become? I look at myself again and realize, I will make it through. I don’t relish the trials and tribulations this “me” will have to endure, but I know the outcome, he will be fine, I will be fine. Its good to love yourself.
Crash
She was driving her new car down riverside drive in New York City. “The smell, the smell so intoxicating”, she said of her new car scent. As she peered out the window, she saw a grouping of beautiful white flowers, and thought, I know what their scent would be ambrosia to my soul. The Carpenters Rainy days and Sundays always get me down was playing on the radio. She thought, It’s not raining and it’s not Sunday, why so blue Karen? She looked down for a split second to grasp her bright stainless steel and hard black plastic coffee mug from the ergonomically correct cup holder. Looking up, horror shot through her veins like bleach. She screamed “Oh my god!”, and hit the car in front of her.
She was driving her new car down riverside drive in New York City. “The smell, the smell so intoxicating”, she said of her new car scent. As she peered out the window, she saw a grouping of beautiful white flowers, and thought, I know what their scent would be ambrosia to my soul. The Carpenters Rainy days and Sundays always get me down was playing on the radio. She thought, It’s not raining and it’s not Sunday, why so blue Karen? She looked down for a split second to grasp her bright stainless steel and hard black plastic coffee mug from the ergonomically correct cup holder. Looking up, horror shot through her veins like bleach. She screamed “Oh my god!”, and hit the car in front of her.
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