Student or Learner
This text is really importent for my english-grade, but i am not so good in english and could really need some help. I would be so gratefull! The biography is not finished yet, so don't think about that.
The Good Girl Syndrome
Let me just begin by saying that there are two sides to every story, and this is my side. The right one.
In my opinion were 9’th grade sort of a setback for me. I think the hole good girl syndrome got a little out of control and took over a little too much of my life (that is just my opinion, though). I think I was trying to be a little too perfect and felt an unknown pressure on me. Whatever it was, made it my grades go down with my mood, and for a while were I in a pretty bad shape. I most not blow things out of proportion here, it was not like I was beeing suicidal or anything, but for a long time my life did not seem to make as much sense as it used to. All the effort I put into my grades and everything else did not seem to pay back. I have tried to find a way to explain it, but I have not yet. It was like my head started asking all these questions. Why do I bother? What good does it make me? Why don’t I just give up? And for a while I did just that. Give up. Did not work as hard at school, held myself back and did not play a big part in my social life. I sort of crawled down into my own little hole and stayed there for a while, until people started to notice. They wanted to help and I let them. I do not believe that they helped me as much as I helped myself. The fact that they wanted to help, made my realise that I was not a person that wanted to need help. I did not want to feel helpless or
My family background:
Like many other kids, are the people I am closest to in my family my parents. For me is it kind of obvious. I have spend my whole life around them and trough that time have I learned to trust them, and they to trust me. I do however believe that I might have a closer relationship to my parents then others. I can tell my parents everything, and I am glad for it. They are my parents and they love me unconditionally, and so I can tell them everything without beeing afraid of beeing judged. When I talk to my friends about it, I see that they do not have a that kind of connection to theire parents. Even though I am not the kind of person that talk much about my feeling to others is it nice to know that I can.
My mother’s family is a long line of true norwegians. It was that dna that gave me the blond hair and the ligth skin when I was younger, and my blue eyes. My father’s however, is a bit more interesting. My grandfather on that side is Spanish, so that makes my father half Spanish and me a quarter Spanish. It is that dna that given me my now brown hair and exotic tan skin. I do think that it was a pretty good match of dna, even do I would not have said no to an extra does of Spanish dna. But hey, what could I do?
20 weeks into the pregnancy, my mother started having contractions, and she and my father went to the doctor. The doctor confirmed that it was contractions and that there was a small opening. He said that if I came out there would be little chance of me surviving, and that my mom had to go home and rest. If she could delay the birth until two weeks later, they would have a bigger chance at saving me. My mom went home, and laid low for a couple of weeks, and she had no further problems. Well, no physical problems. The day before her termin, she was so tired of waiting that she did everything she could to get the birth going. She ran the stairs, cleaned the windows, every stupid kjerringråd she could come up with. She did eventually run out of ideas, so she went to the pharmacy to by some “medication”. She both something liquid to get the stomach going. At first it just gave here diarrhea, but it was at night it all began. The rest was sort of strait forward. She went to the hospital, the birth began, and I came out. 10:22, 26. August 1996 at Aker hospital in Oslo. That is the amazing story of how I came to this world.
When my parents were gonna choose my name, they made a deal. If I was a girl, my mother would choose the name, if I were a boy, then my father would choose. Pretty simple. My father wanted to name me Mathias, after his father, and my mother wanted to name me Karoline. Somehow, I did not end up with any of the name, though. It turns out there where a street in Oslo who was named Karoline Kristiansen, and they did not want to name med after a street. One night, my mother woke up and the name Celine popped up in here head. My father did not have much to say, and when I came to the world as a girl, where I named Celine Berg (my mother’s lastname) Kristiansen (my father’s lastname).
My first steps:
I took my first steps 21.august 1997, just a couple of days before my one year birthday. My father and my mother’s family were gathered to celebrate. This is how it happened: I was sitting on the floor, playing with some toys, when I suddently got up and walked over to the table where my birtdaycake where. Everyone in my family was shocked. After my parents had broken up, has it always been a questin about where I would to things first. Take my first steps, first time on the pot, and other (what I would look at like) meaningless details of my first years. Would it be at me fathers place, or my mothers? But, as the smart little girl I was, I just chose to do it in front of everybody. My mother says that it was just how I was. I always did these strategically and sensible things that would prevent possible fights and make everybody happy. I guess it was sort of one of the first symptoms of my so-called “disease”, The good girls syndrome.
First day at school:
As that little geek I was (note that it says “was”; and not “is”), starting school was my dream come through. I could not wait to meet new people, get to know the teachers, and to atually start to learn something. I wore a skirt that reached me to the knees, with a leather belt and a white t-shirt. When I look at the pictures today, I can not help but think how I could have chosen a better outfit. Like many others, fashionstyle is one of the things my mother and I do not share the same thoughts about. I was still in my shy stage of life, so I was not the kind of girl that went running to every boy and girl I met, ans started to talk. I kept close to the people I knew from kindergarden. Not that it was a bad thing. Many of them are still my best friends today.
My interest. That is a tough one, since I have always been the kind of person that wants to explore new things. I can not remember all the things I have tried since I was little. I have tried ballet, fotball, takewondo, allidrett, swimming, dancing, theater and it just goes on and on. The one thing, though, that have stayed with me from the day I learned to speak, is my love from music. I started to sing in a choir around the time I started school, but I have been singing since I learned to talk. I do not know how to explain it, but music always made my day. When I am sad, it makes me feel better, when I am happy, it makes me even more happy. When I have questins, music gives me answers, when I just need to forget everything an relax, it makes me forget. I know this probably sounds very cliché and you have probably heard it in every bad hollywood movie, but it is the only way I can explain it.
We have now come to a part of my life that I am really not proud of. I do not think I have dropped to a deeper level than this in my life, but to my defens, I was not older then 3 years old. Lets begin: It started with a little shoplifting. No big deal, just a chocolate here, a lolipop there. I must brag a little. For beeing 3 years old, did I a pretty good job with not beeing caught. In the beginning. But after a while, when I started to get a little sloppy, that is when hell broke loose. One Saturday, my mother and I were out to buy somethings at a mall. My mother went to the changing room to try one som clothes, when I just walked around. I do not remember how it happened, like I said I was 3, but somehow make-up, jelewry and hair ornaments found it’s way down into my pockets. Thanks to what I suppose was a pretty bad alarmsystem, I made it out, without beeing caught. That is when I slipped. The next day, when my mother and I went to Friday’s to meet someone for lunch, were I stupid enough to bring out some of the stuff I stole, and play with it. It did not take to long for my mother to release that it was not mine, and she snapped. She pulled me out of my chair, took me to bathroom, and yelled the c*** out of me (excuse the language). To say that she was not happy would be a bit of an understatement.
On Monday, when she was home from work, we both went to the store to return the stuff I had stolen. I always wondered how I ended up with the most snarky old lady that worked there. She just had to give med two hour lection on how steeling was wrong, and those who did it could go to prisson, and bla bla bla. It is just now recently that I have discovered that my mom had called down to the store in advance. She had wanted to make sure that I got to talk to an old, responsibly person, and not just some teenager who said it was okay, and let me go. Thanks for that one mom.
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