By Chelsey Shannon
Chelsey used to be dealth the unthinkable.
When Her in basic terms Surviving father or mother, her liked father, used to be violently murdered days sooner than her fourteenth birthday, Chelsey's lifestyles used to be endlessly replaced. As she used to be compelled to return to phrases with a brand new domestic existence, a brand new college . . . a brand new identification as an orphan, Chelsey struggled to make experience of her own tragedy. but she stumbled on how to flourish regardless of all of the odds.
"I considered myself in a brand new gentle: a woman, newly fourteen, status in her lifeless father's examine, all in black, a unmarried tear streaming down her cheek. i used to be by myself. My relatives instructed me repeatedly i used to be no longer, yet with no him, i used to be. i used to be now not anyone's child."
Because fact Is extra interesting Than Fiction
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Additional resources for Chelsey. My True Story of Murder, Loss, and Starting Over
As we made our way down the hall, the usually flowing morning banter stilted and unnatural, I wanted to turn and run home, in spite of my earlier insistence on going to school. But this was my choice, and I knew I couldn’t back out. When we reached the band room, my friends dispersed to get their instruments and I walked alone to get my bassoon, attempting to look dignified and strong and collected. But I knew how pale my skin was, how limp my hair, how messy my outfit. I knew they would know as much as I did, the story having spread across newspapers and local news channels.
Spending so much time producing art and riding my bike served as a much-needed escape for me. I didn’t hide from my problems—to do so would have been impossible—but there were times when I required a break. When I did things like methodically teach myself to play the keyboard or spend hours sketching family photographs, I was able to focus on creating something, rather than on what had been taken away from me. Writing became a major refuge, the outlet into which I poured all my emotions of fear, depression, and the occasional dash of anger.
Surprisingly, I had a healthy appetite, in spite of the unpalatable circumstances of the rest of the day. I ate a cheese omelet, a buttered piece of toast, and a small cup of orange juice. Shortly after I’d finished breakfast, our ride arrived. As the others piled into the truck, I made my way to my father’s study. While my fingers tried fruitlessly to fit the buttons of my black dress coat through their holes, my eyes searched the myriad shelves surrounding either side of my father’s computer desk, all filled with expensive-looking hardback books, mostly biographies, with a few diet cookbooks and contemporary classic novels added for good measure.