I’ve become aware of the fact that the ratio of bad or “meh” TV to solid, good TV in the entertainment industry is becoming increasingly skewed. Remakes and sequels have grown to become the norm in today’s entertainment industry; originality is slowly dying. When we pay for streaming services or pay for a ticket to the movie theater, we take time and resources out of our lives to do so, making those investments all the more precious to us. We’re expecting to enjoy what we’ve paid to see, and it’s frustrating to waste our time and not get our money’s worth. It’s important to mention that I realize this problem isn’t the most concerning circumstance in the world. On the other hand, the surge of this concern will impact society on a deeper level than the majority of people realize. Entertainment can provide inspiration and reflection. Those concepts are likely not the main reason we watch television or theatre, but they are byproducts of witnessing those art forms. I want to ensure that creativity is still valued by writing original plays, movies, or shows without prioritizing profit over purpose. Entertainment and art are not necessities, but they are integral to humanity. Losing such a profound part of humanity’s identity, especially to the external forces of money and AI, would make life feel less fulfilling. As for adversities I’ve faced, I was diagnosed with OCD in seventh grade. My compulsions have typically consisted of excessively checking things, such as doors or appliances. Before eleventh grade, my tendencies and compulsions were manageable enough that they didn’t disrupt daily life. However, at the end of junior year, I not only had six AP exams to complete but was also responsible for watching a couple’s house and their dog. It would’ve been helpful to know my compulsions get worse when I’m stressed. At that point, what used to be quick triple-checks soon turned into much more complex and obsessive tendencies. For example, when I was ready to walk out the door to my house, I would check the stove, the oven, and the dog. However implausible, my thoughts were, “The stove has to be turned off, or the house will burn down, and the dog will die. The oven must be turned off, or the house will burn down, and the dog will die. The dog must be inside the house, or the dog will run away and die.” So, I would check all three things: five times for the stove, five times for the oven, and five times for the dog—in that order and for that specific number of times. (Why? Because that's just how it was.) Often, the voice of my OCD would pop up and say, “You didn’t look at the oven hard enough.” I’d respond, “Yes, I did,” but the voice would say, “You might’ve accidentally turned it on.” I’d say, “I saw it was turned off with my own two eyes, and I wasn’t standing even close to the oven afterwards.” But the voice would retort, “Are you sure that wasn’t just a memory of you checking everything?” So, I’d start all over again; I’d check the stove five times, then the oven five more times, and the dog five more times. This was just one of the many instances in which my OCD had a hold on me. It was like I couldn’t believe myself anymore. Fortunately, I received professional help and treatment, but OCD will always be a part of my life, and I have to adapt to it.

I’m a Roman Catholic Christian, and I’ve been attending private Catholic schools for the past fifteen years now. I’m proud of the education I’ve received and the communities I’ve been a part of as a result of going to these Catholic schools. The intensity of my Catholic faith has shifted over the years, and seventh grade was one of those times when my faith was at its strongest. This was also the same year I discovered I’m bisexual. I don’t remember what made me realize this, but I do know that I was confused and scared. I told my parents and my sisters, and then I told my best friend. All of them have been very supportive of my coming out, and I feel very blessed for the acceptance and love they’ve shown me. However, I was still scared, and it wasn’t until I started writing this essay that I realized why. I was terrified that my newfound sexual orientation would interfere with one of the most important aspects of my life: my Catholic faith. I’ve had times in my life when I wondered if I was making a huge mistake by identifying as bisexual—that I was actively turning from God to follow lustful, human desires. I’ve even wondered whether I was faking being bisexual to fit in with my peers, many of whom identify as part of the LGBTQ+ community. I still have some of these concerning thoughts. Then, I remember what my father, who’s also Catholic, told me years ago: why would God hate something that brings more love into this world? I believe in that reasoning since I also believe “God is love and love is God” is one of the foundational elements of the Catholic faith. Even so, I can’t help wondering sometimes whether these justifications for being Catholic and bisexual are ridiculous and morally wrong. I’m concerned that this challenge of understanding my true self will impede certain aspects of my life, including my dream to become a scriptwriter. I’ve always loved storytelling, but I’m worried that my ability to write will be negatively impacted by this inner conflict. I hope my passion for writing will continue and overcome these future obstacles revolving around my identity. In my Bold.org bio, I express my concern for the idea that originality, including in storytelling, is slowly dying. Entertainment can provide inspiration and reflection, and the majority of it should be treated as such for this very reason. Some may argue this call to action for myself is arrogant and rooted in hate—that I think “I could do so much better than those fools.” While I think I have skills and ideas I could bring to the table, I mainly want to write because I fell in love with the symbolism of stories and with the writing process itself this past fall semester. During that semester, I wrote an original, two-act play about the Furies, a group of demonic women in Greek mythology who supervise the souls of the Underworld. I’ve been fascinated by Greek mythology since I was in third grade, and I believe this has been so because Greek mythology consists of stories that teach lessons, inspire, and reflect on fundamental themes of the human condition. These mythological stories have stood the test of time and have been ways for people to understand themselves or relate to others. Maybe with enough time and practice, my stories will do the same.

Push on the door... Push. Push. "Okay, it’s locked. I’ve checked three times." If only that was enough to appease the voice in my head. - But, Evelyn, fifteen is a better number. Five times three is fifteen, so you get both the numbers five and three. - "I don’t have time—" - Just do it. - I pushed the door twelve more times. I was diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder in seventh grade. My compulsions have typically consisted of excessively checking things, such as doors or appliances. Before eleventh grade, my tendencies and compulsions were manageable enough that they didn’t disrupt daily life. At the end of junior year, I not only had six AP exams but was also responsible for watching a couple’s house and their dog. It would’ve been helpful to know my compulsions get worse when I’m stressed. The morning of the AP Calculus AB exam, I locked the door and made sure the dog was inside. I did two more rounds of checking. I quickly put my things in my car and started driving. I made it halfway to school . . . - Did you check the stove? - "I never even touched the stove." Even so, my mind flooded with images of the house engulfed in flames and the sound of dog whimpers. My stomach curled. I checked the time: 07:25—too late to turn back. I considered calling my parents. I’d never asked them to go out of their way to check something because of my OCD, but my dad hadn’t left for work yet, and the house I was watching was only ten minutes away. I called my dad and, panicking, asked him to check the stove for me. He agreed to help. I thanked him profusely and ended the call. My body relaxed the tiniest bit. I arrived at school, headed to my locker, and started my routine. Phone off? Check. Cards in my wallet? Check. I closed my locker door. Opened it. Checked inside again. Closed the door. Open. Check. Close. I had one minute left. I hurried through the hall, and then the doubts crept back into my mind. - What about the key to the house you’re watching? - "In my locker with my other keys." - Are you sure? - "Yes! I literally just checked three times!" - Okay . . . but if it’s not in there, you’ll have no other way into the house. - I stopped. - And if you can’t get into the house, the dog will starve to death. - I returned to my locker. Opened the door. I looked at the key and stared at it with my own two eyes. "The key is there. So why do I keep thinking it’s not there?" I closed my locker door, then I checked my locker one more time--because checking five times is clearly much better than just checking four times--and rushed to my AP exam. I barely made it on time. The test began, and I endured the first twenty or so questions. "Alright, if f(x) = ln(x^3+10*2+e^x)—" - What about the house key? - "I already checked!" - But what if that was just a previous memory of you seeing the key in your locker? - "Stop!" - If you’re wrong about this, the dog will die! I’m trying to help you! - "The key. Locked out. The dog. Starving…" Two grueling hours later, I finished the exam. Afterward, I raced to my locker to check the key. Again. It was there. That night, I visited my house and had dinner with my family. When my parents asked me how my day was, tears started spilling as I elaborated on my OCD. After that conversation, we decided it was time to seek help again. Today, my new medication has diminished the anxiety that fuels my obsessive thoughts. Being less anxious definitely helps, but medication is only part of the solution. The other part depends on me. I have to learn to trust myself more and know when to ask for help, which will be an even greater challenge this coming year once I'm left to explore the unknown in whichever college I enroll in. I have a feeling my OCD will never completely go away, but I can certainly make it less of a problem. I open the door. Close it. Push. Push. Push. Deep breath. Turn around. Move forward.