Sample Scholarship Essays

Descriptive Essay

Descriptive Essay My life has been one struggle after another. Dealing with depression was not as easy or as fun as a ride on a slide. It was more like a sickening spin on the merry-go-round; it felt like I was holding on for dear life and spinning so fast my hands were loosing grip. My therapy sessions were a revolving door. I went in and came out, hoping it to be the last, but only to face another session.

It all started around the tender age of 13-just getting into my teenage years. I battled with my identity. It felt like I was walking against a strong wind. I knew I was adopted ever since I understood what that meant, but I wasn’t happy knowing this. I began going to therapy with my family, only to find myself angrier than a punished child.

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I attempted suicide twice in that few months, and finally manipulated my parents into taking me out of that therapy. For the next two years, I kept any negative feelings undercover, not opening my shell to anyone. By the beginning of my junior year in high school, I couldn’t keep it in. My emotions exploded like an overheated bag of popcorn. More suicide attempts were made.

I was taken to our local hospital where I was put in the psychiatric unit and diagnosed with major depression. This news hit me like a bug on a moving car’s windshield. I didn’t know this was a sickness. I was released and forced to start individual therapy. I became very close to my new therapist-she made me laugh and helped me to solve little problems.

Although things were looking better, there were a lot of problems still hovering over me like vultures around road kill. I again tried killing myself and was sent back to the hospital. This time, I was released into an intense therapy group for teenagers. These sessions were every weekday for either four or eight hours. My self-esteem went down, and I seemed to have made more problems for myself-getting into drugs.

I made it through nearly two months of this intense therapy, and came out happier and feeling less depressed. I went back to bottling up my anger and sadness in order to stay out of therapy, but a gang rape on me ripped apart the barrier. Once again, I was injuring myself and back in the hospital. I returned to the powerful group therapy with even lower self-esteem than before. Not happy with my appearance, I became anorexic.

I lost a lot of weight, and began looking like a starving child from Bosnia. My therapist forced me to slowly start eating again; however, noticing the slightest weight gain led me to eat and then purposely vomit. My therapist caught on to my bulimia and began monitoring my eating before, during and after. I felt trapped. I finally realized if I didn’t want to live, I would have succeeded in my suicide attempts.

I gradually discovered what I had to live for, and I was sick of being labeled as depressed. I decided I wanted help. Today, I still visit a another therapist every once in a while, and I am currently getting off my medications. I finally feel free; I am no longer struggling to hold on to the slippery bars of the merry-go-round. The revolving door is now a one-way door, and I have left the building. Good-bye, depression.

Hello, slide.

Descriptive essay

I ambitiously decided that I would brighten the lives of the elderly by volunteering at a rest home, but discovered that the elderly were being neglected, shoved aside and forgotten. As I stepped into the home a pungent odor penetrated my nostrils, causing an instantaneous gagging reflex. The place was abounded with neglected and subdued inhabitants, yearning for attention. Anybody that passed them caused a sudden outburst of ranting. The negligence and disregard the home displayed appalled me, but helped me to realize that I wanted to make a difference and change the condition people live in.

As I walked down the corridor I noticed a man lying in a hospital bed with only a television, two dressers, and a single window looking out at nothing cluttering his room. Depression overwhelmed me as I stared at the man laying on his bed, wearing a hospital gown stained by failed attempts to feed himself and watching a television that was not on. The fragments of an existence of a life once active and full of conviction and youth, now laid immovable in a state of unconsciousness. He was unaffected by my presence and remained in his stupor, despondently watching the blank screen. The solitude I felt by merely observing the occupants of the home forced me to recognize the mentality of our culture, out with the old and in with the new.

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I then sat with a woman who was gazing out of the window. The woman appeared to be in her early eighties, but youth could still be seen in her angelic blue eyes which illuminated her entire presence. Her face glowed with content and tranquility, and she carried a slight smile that finished her face so completely. Enchanted by her serene radiance, I did not disturb her. Suddenly she began to speak in a whispered hum that was more like a song, unique in a dwelling full of ranting outbursts. She spoke of years long past, swimming in the pond with her sister and dancing in the moonlight. I could picture all in my head, like I was watching a movie. Then she began repeating the story she had just told me, and I realized that she was merely talking to herself. Although this discovery disenchanted me at first, I soon realized that, although the woman was talking to herself, she still had so many fantastic stories stored in her mind. The residents of the home all had some life flittering in them and numerous stories to share; they just need someone to listen to them. After my experience at the home I knew that one of my goals in life would always be o help make sure that people were receiving proper treatment, and not merely stuffed away and drugged up.

Being in the home was like a separate world, one between life and death. When I reached the outside world again everything seemed so fresh. There were bright yellow-green leaves that hung with an arrogant vivacity, cars that sped by with such fervor, wind blowing with verve and energy, lively children playing with a vivacious lust for life, and the vitality that exudes from the air into your lungs. I wanted to bring this energy into the home, or at least bring the residents outside to relive the liveliness that the world can provide. The inhabitants of the home appeared to be completely withdrawn from life and they had no aspirations for tomorrow. I came to the understanding that by that age people were done, their lives were lived, and they only waited. However, it does not have to be that way. I learned from this experience how the elderly are treated in this country, how the advancements of technology making it possible for people to live longer is being wasted to keep people alive but not living.
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