Essay by AEKCollege, UndergraduateA+, February 2005

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No...I repeatedly whisper to my self between each gasp of breath. I will not let the tears deceive me, I will not let anyone get any satisfaction of seeing me hurt.

In spite of that, I cry

Each silent tear that cascades down gives me a moment to ponder about the occurrence and the closer I get to an answer, the tears on my cheeks freeze.

A broken heart...I never believed the cliché that a heart could break. Or that heart could die. My heart is breaking and dying.

Growing up in a small town wasn't always easy for me. I felt that I was constantly hiding and denying the person that I was and the life that I lived. I was forced to be someone that I really wasn't due to the fact that I had a "family secret" that I was withholding in order to protect the well-known, family name, McDonald.

Denial was the first, and probably the hardest stage of the grieving process. It seemed as if denial overwhelmed my entire life, even from childhood. It was hard, at times, to admit that living with an alcoholic parent was a part of my life. I didn't want to accept the fact that this was a definite part of who I really was. I was ashamed and humiliated. I remember being embarrassed to tell Dr. Bell the whole truth. I also felt like by doing so, I was dishonouring my family and degrading my father. However, after I came to terms with the truth that I had been denying for so long, I felt like a ton of bricks were lifted from me.

The second stage of the grieving process is anger. I can remember being so mad at Dad for putting our family through this. There were...