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Hey, I'm Celina, a high school student currently living in Canada! I love dance, music, and reading/writing, especially learning new things everyday. I'm a self-proclaimed geek, intense Potterhead, and advocate for knowledge\/education, women's rights, and human rights. My goal is to work hard and better myself every single day so that one day, along with personal successes, I will also be able to help the world.
As a senior in high school, introspection has become increasingly prominent, and a specific period of time that I have not deigned to think about in detail since its occurrence has been brought to mind. Thus, for the purpose of not only sharing my experience with the reader, I will do so to bring closure to myself. Like many others, my entrance into high school was marked by the formation of opinions of my own and the realization that certain things that I had been taught to believe were perhaps, not so at all. This alone caused a series of conflicts that were both internal and external, and brought about a slew of upsetting personal and family matters. However, it was in the tenth grade when things really started to go downhill. Perhaps my memory eludes me now, but I cannot pinpoint how or when exactly my mental health began to decline: not even an in-depth review of my past journal entries can give me an exact date or play-by-play of how exactly I fell into the grasp of an illness that trapped me for almost two years. What I can recall, however, are flashes of specific memories. For example, if I close my eyes, I can still remember the cold yet vague feeling of the unfriendly bathroom floor digging into my back, increasingly familiar when it shouldn’t be. I can still recall that nauseating feeling of loneliness, sinking into me even when I was around others… I can still remember the overwhelming hollowness that was too much nothing and still not enough substance to fill that ever-growing lump of nothingness... I can still taste the bitter aftertaste of frustration and disgust on my tongue…the sharp tang of metallic anger, a lingering ghost of a memory. There would be stretches of time when it seemed that I was numb to everything including myself. There would be times when I was sensitive to the point that one snarky little comment would tip me over the edge and everything would collapse unto itself. There would be times when I could give a little smile and convince myself that I was doing alright, and then suddenly, I would have a sort of emotional collapse and find myself taking refuge in a bathroom stall, overwhelmed with shame. This cycle occurred again and again, and to be honest, it didn’t seem to make any sense at all. I was fortunate in my circumstances and extremely privileged. I had never once been deprived of my basic needs or individual rights. I had everything, recognized this indisputable fact, genuinely was grateful for it, but the rest of me could not seem to follow my rational mind. I was still completely and utterly desolate, only now, I was only more disgusted at myself for feeling so. How could I claim to be suffering when there were those who were suffering with much less? These questions attacked me everyday, and those who have not experienced this feeling cannot truly understand the terribleness of this personal dilemma where one is suffering, knows that it is irrational to suffer, but still suffers. Now, of course, I know that depression itself is somewhat arbitrary in the selection of its hosts, quite similar to a virus. It’s surprising how many overlook the obvious; that it really is an illness in the sense that it grips you often without much reason and changes you. Like a fever, it leaves you incapable of doing and feeling and enjoying, and the recovery is slow, and often uncontrollable and unpredictable. For me, this was certainly the case. Months crawled by with ups and downs, and often rock-bottoms but slowly, almost unnoticeably so, I improved. This might not be what you expect or want to hear, but I found it significant to accept that I was alone, not necessarily because others were unwilling to help, but because ultimately, they simply did not have the ability to. Though this might seem incredibly counter-productive, and for a while it was extremely debilitating, the realization that no one could truly help me except for myself became strangely empowering over time. In the end, I learned to not only love myself, but to also like myself. I turned my pain into wisdom, directed my focus outwards and focused on helping others, which gave me a greater sense of purpose. My own experience has opened my eyes to the importance of seeking to understand instead of to criticize, and I want to communicate that you must not undermine, or let others undermine your suffering. Be warned; I don’t mean that you should barrel ahead in an oblivious state — you must recognize and have gratitude for what you have, and have deep empathy for those who have less, but suffering is suffering, and through it, we can learn more about the world and ourselves. Yes, my greatest enemy is myself, but in being so, I am also my own greatest weapon.
From the moment I had a conscious perspective of the world around me, I loved books. I would sit in my mother’s lap as she read storybooks out loud, mesmerized by the words. One thing that my mother often recounts with a smile is that I would always seem to be a page ahead; she would be reading one page aloud, but my focus would already be on the page beside it. Perhaps, this was just a child’s natural curiosity, but as I grew older, books became a key part of my life. As I progressed from fuzzy ‘Touch and Feel’ baby books, to chapter books such as the ‘Rainbow Magic’ series, I quickly found myself feeling unsatisfied as I had always been a quick reader, well ahead of my peers in reading. At the age of eight, my life changed. Of course, at the time, I didn’t realize it as this turning point came in the form of seven novels about a boy named Harry Potter. Prior to the series, I had never attempted books thicker than the width of my finger, and imagined my fear when I was presented with books that were, well, virtually all bigger in width than the aforementioned digit. I daresay that I would not have read the series for another year or so if it were not for my mother. She persuaded me to give it a try and thus, I delved into the world that has captured my attention to this very day. As I settled into the story, it seemed preposterous that I had lived eight years of my life already without knowledge of the Wizarding World! I was drawn to the series that spun a riveting tale of a magical world that I wanted to become a part of. In the end, my mother actually ended up regretting introducing me to the series, for I could not put the books down and finished the series in one week —I did nothing but wash, sleep, eat, and read until I was finished. Since then, I read the series annually and as I got older, I slowly discovered that there was more to it than just magic. Even though I had been an overachieving eight-year-old, there had been many things that I didn’t grasp due a lack of experience and maturity. When I got older, I began to understand the books beyond what was written on the pages. I realized that there was something even more magical than Wizarding World itself — the messages that J.K. Rowling had woven so intricately into her tapestry of words. One day I wondered to myself… What makes a book so transfixing? Of course, the plot is very important, but I found that beyond the compelling storyline, it was the truthfulness in which J.K. Rowling portrayed human nature — as if she captured the very essence of it and poured it into each character -- that sealed the deal for me. The realism of the characters with their own individuality and complexity, the way the characters all contribute something significant to the story, the authenticity of the interactions between them… these are the aspects that really make the difference between a children’s story and a timeless work of literature for all ages. Ironically, replicating nature in its simple and truest state is the hardest thing to do, however, J.K. Rowling has done so with flying colours. When the context of magic is stripped away, Harry Potter accurately mirrors human nature, our society, and the world that we live in, flaws included. Harry Potter has taught me many valuable lessons and these ideas have been ingrained into the core of my very being. For one, compassion. Everyone is different in both nature and nurture and to fairly assess ourselves or another, we must seek to understand instead of criticize. Another major theme is complexity — nothing is black and white, no one is solely good or evil. Everyone has done both favourable and immoral things, but it is your choices that show who you are. No matter what sins you have committed in the past, if you feel sincere repentance and make better choices, redemption is possible. Last but not least is the true power of love. I think that J.K. Rowling has done an extraordinary job in making this the foundation of her story, because often times, there is a thin line between a prominent message and a cliché. However, in a exemplary display of ’show-don’t-tell’, she communicates that regardless of the kind of love, the underlying essence is the same: a pure and selfless emotion that is power in itself. Overall, Harry Potter has been an indispensable part of my life, though it has caused me sadness due to certain character deaths and despair when I did not receive my Hogwarts letter at age eleven. However, I still like to think that it is not fiction but some sort of biography. Since I have been immersing my heart and soul in the Wizarding World for so long, I thereby consider myself a real witch and not a mere Muggle. Though it may just be a sad attempt to convince myself that this world is indeed out there, must I be denied the right to my imagination? After all, like Dumbledore says, perhaps it is happening inside your head, but why on earth should that mean it is not real?