My OCD became incredibly acute around the time my Grandfather passed away. It was always there, but I never took strong notice beyond my liking of cleaning. After his passing, it truly became a burden and something I felt I was forced to do to protect others. I would wake up feeling sick every morning before school because of the dread I faced about what surfaces I would have to interact with, and how much cleaning supplies I would have to take to school. I remember using a whole bottle of Clorox wipes and my teacher getting upset with me over the waste. To me it was never a waste. I was simply making sure that others weren't going to get sick or possibly myself. As I began to go to therapy, my OCD spiraled into an obsession with relationships, specifically with my Mother. Our relationship is as strong as it has ever been, however, it is strained because of my OCD. As I progress in my education, I recognize how limiting my OCD is to my education, and to a certain degree, I've always wanted to find a way to help others. Sometimes I remember that time I was told to stop wasting the Clorox wipes, to stop spraying down my backpack with Lysol, and every time someone touched me and I felt as if I had no choice but to yell or perform a compulsion. And I remember my hands rubbed raw with soap and hand sanitizer to the point it burned. I don't want to let others live their lives like that. My career choices change daily, I'll be honest. The uncertainty of not knowing what I want to do for college is frightening, and it leaves me with a sense of dread simply thinking about what I'd like to do after school. However, one thing is for certain: I'd like to become an activist for OCD. I'm sure everyone has heard the term "I'm so OCD" or "I'm a little bit OCD". While this isn't an inherently bad thing to say, it is a very poor choice of words because these words belittle OCD as if it's not a big issue, but it also downplays on the struggles of people who have it. I hope that through activism for OCD, I will be capable of helping others learn more about the disorder, but to also break down the stigma of mental health.

I remember being a young child and hearing about Studio Ghibli for the first time. My friend, Sophia, had introduced me to the Japanese production studio with 'My Neighbor Totoro', a movie she held dear to her heart. The basis of the movie is that 2 young girls move into a 'haunted house' in the countryside with their Father to accommodate the lengths of travel to see their Mother who is housed in a hospital for unknown reasons. The youngest girl, Mei, meets a giant forest spirit by the name of Totoro who can only be seen by young children. Totoro shows himself at times when the girls need him most such as when Mei is lost and her older sister must find her. I was infatuated with the movie after watching it. My eyes filled with child-like joy every time I watched the movie. The fluffy Totoro became a character I loved to draw and collect items of. After watching, I needed to see more. There was something so captivating about the movie...And there were plenty more. While not related to 'My Neighbor Totoro', movies such as 'Ponyo' and 'Castle In The Sky' dazzled my imagination, and kept me captivated by their slow-moving pace that I was unaccustomed to. Since I watched the movie in the mid-2010's, there have been countless pieces of merchandise created alongside an entire theme park. Regardless of the fact it's been over 10 years since I first watched the movie, I find myself with small trinkets laying around my room that remind me of the furry creature that captivated my childhood. I remember my Father was greatly thrilled by my interest in the movies. He would buy the DVDs and we would watch them together until I would fall asleep. It's bittersweet in a way that I can't explain. Before I began to explore my gender identity, my Father would make it apparent about his thoughts on the LGBTQ+ community, specifically transgender people. When I socially transitioned coming up on 5 years now, I never came out to him. I feel a greater sense of dread every day that passes as I know I eventually will have to tell him. I regret to inform my younger self that he, my Father, won't be there every step of the way to support me as he had supported my childhood fascination with the production and creation of Studio Ghibli movies.

Typically the only story about being transgender is one of knowing from a young age. With my blonde pigtails, they swished back and forth to the rhythm of my navy dress as I would skip around the playground. My friends and I loved to play a game we called 'Cats', and as the name relays, we pretended to be a family of cats. I first began realizing I didn't enjoy being attracted to the opposite gender when I was very young. Of course I had crushes on the boys in my class, but I was intrigued by the long hair of the girls in my class. I was always told that other girls were envious of my curls and golden locks, but I was truly envious of their ability to stare at me with golden-brown eyes. Talking about my past self is painful in a bittersweet manner. I want to remember being there. I want to remember skipping rope and making pigtails and braids in my hair, but it hurts. I wish that I grew up as a boy, but it's hard to explain that to others because it's seen as a selfish request. "Shouldn't you be happy with yourself, even though you're a boy now? You were a beautiful little girl." That's what's the most painful. Hearing the fact that they would rather me be a little girl forever, encapsulated in a box of pristine pink. When 2020 came about, I was in the 7th grade. This was the first time I had truly considered being a boy, and choosing a name and coming out to my Mom were the hardest moments I can remember. It felt as if I was constantly in a state of disassociation with myself as I dug tirelessly into my thighs that would leave lasting scars. If I was a boy, why didn't I feel like one? When I came out in the 8th grade at school, the response was poor. I had been everyone's perfect angel of a girl, and now I'd become a monster of hyper masculinity trying to pass, trying to fit in. My hair was cut far too short and my style was nothing as to myself as I am today. I would continue to dig tirelessly with knives, scissors, and razors into my thighs. The perfect angel had fallen and had his wings cut. I imagine that within the world, there is a place for us all, and I believe my place is within the field of criminology. Sipping on black coffee with a dash of sugar just like they do in the investigation TV shows. I want to be the guy they come to for help, and the guy where I can talk to people all day and understand their perspective and their livelihoods. If we merely listen to one side of the story, we never see the full picture. I like to imagine it as painting half a canvas, or scribbling words on half a sheet of paper. What is the reasoning to not fully demonstrate your capability to cover the world with your art? Understanding others comes with a level of reasoning one must confront themself with. If you are to allow your emotions to dictate the flow of the story, you will begin to cry before you reach the next chapter where the main character passes tragically. I believe that it is incredibly important for majoring in criminology because our emotions, while valid as anyone, deserve not a dictatorship role, yet one where we are in control. We merely allow influence to gather within the balls of our hands and cry out at the sound of injustice.