Matthew Walters

UWRT 1103-066
2/16/16
Narrative
Writing Peace
At some point, everyone looks to find a hobby or activity that they can call theirs.
Every person looks to fit in or find their niche. We do this because it assists us in making friends
and in some instances, starting a career. More importantly, it gives a person an escape. It
provides a way to put all of the craziness of life aside for a moment and relax. Having that escape
and that outlet allows people to stay sane and keep composure in the most stressful of times. It
isnt uncommon for a person to have a change in hobby either. I went through something very
similar.
In high school, I found my escape in soccer. I loved everything about it; the universality,
the flexibility, the simplicity. The sport acts as a universal language that can unite not only
individuals, but entire nations. A nation ravaged by poverty and corruption can find solace in the
game. It does not matter whether youre a novice who has been playing only a short time or an
expert who has been playing all their life; soccer doesnt discriminate. There is not a set type of
play. You can be a softer type of player who uses finesse and bends the ball around his opponent
or a power player who uses brute force to smash the ball into the bell, neither choice is wrong.
The simplicity that accompanies the sport brings a whole different sort of beauty that cant be
seen in many other sports; all you need is a ball. In some form or another, soccer can be played
anywhere. Children can play pickup games in the backyard, a solo player can juggle in the

garage. When all of these differences come together, the game develops a flow and players are
connecting with each other flawlessly, it is almost poetic. Just as one can admire a painting or
piece of writing, one can admire skillful soccer. In a way, soccer is a form of art.
Unfortunately, due to an injury, I was forced to resign from all soccer clubs I was
associated with. During a late season game, I jumped in an effort to head a corner kick. As I
leapt, my feet were swept out from under me and I landed flat on my back. Immediately I was
forced to exit the game and I was taken to the hospital. After reviewing X-Rays, doctors
concluded that I suffered a fractured vertebra while simultaneously nursing a preexisting bulging
disk. I was instructed that if I continued to play and were to reinjure my back, I would risk
becoming paralyzed. After much thought and contemplation, I even came to the tough decision
that it would be best if I stopped playing. Though I can still juggle and participate in small sided
pickup games, I still desperately miss playing in full, 90 minute games.
All of these events occurred in the second semester of my senior year in high school. The
summer following, before my freshman year in college, was my first without soccer to fill my
time. I was forced to find other activities to fill the void but with most of my friends either out on
vacation or off at a soccer tournament somewhere, I struggled. Unwisely, I filled the spare time
with work. It was the only thing I knew how to do and I could do it well. I worked nearly fifty
hours a week at the local Pizza Hut while I operated my own lawn care service and ended up
over extending myself. I would wake up in the wee hours of the morning and cut roughly three
or four yards in a day. At round four in the afternoon, I would conclude with yards for the day,
run home for a brief shower and a small something to eat, usually no more than an apple.
Following the short dine and dash, I would go to work, working usually five to close, which is
around 11:30. Assuming I woke up at seven, taking minimal breaks, by the end of the week I

worked over 100 hours. I didnt take care of myself and I nearly worked myself into the hospital
a number of times. In a matter of thirty days I dropped twenty pounds of mostly muscle and
suffered from heat exhaustion. In no way was I well.
As the summer progressed, I grew increasingly impatient and irritable. Just as any person
would when they are exhausted, I became angered at the smallest of things and came to hate
almost everything. To make matters worse, I couldnt sleep. It wasnt for lack of trying, but as
work responsibilities piled on and stress levels rose, the amount of sleep I was able to get
plummeted. Sleep deprivation soon set in and my mental capacity for dealing with stressful
situations and other individuals diminished. I did my best to hide my anger from others,
especially my parents but on numerous occasions it would become uncontrollable. At work, I
broke supplies, threw things, and smashed stuff against the table. Over time began punching
things, such as the freezer, and became volatile towards coworkers. In moments of reflection, I
had seen the terrible person I had become and I genuinely hated myself.
It is said that in order for any person to grow they must reach a low point, rock bottom
and in late September, early October, I hit mine. During a busy Friday night at Pizza Hut, one
where we were short staffed, the kitchen grew progressively further and further behind on orders.
Once the rushed concluded and the stress of making orders dissipated, a coworker of mine and I
got into an argument over something that, in hindsight, was absolutely ludicrous. If I recall
correctly he insinuated that I was a lazy worker would needed to learn how to pull more wait in
the kitchen after my usual blow up I went about my business. As I clocked out and went to gather
my things to go home, I glanced back into the kitchen and noticed that same coworkers sitting
down chatting and laughing. For some reason, witnessing that just rubbed me the wrong way. I
confronted him about it and yelled at him for having no place to call me out for something that

he does himself. Very quickly, the argument grew heated. I cannot recall what exactly sparked
him to grab my shirt however when he reached out for me everything went red. Again, I cannot
recall what all happened but we were promptly asked, by my boss, to go home for the night.
Thankfully, neither one of us lost our jobs; the coworker and I settled our issue and moved on. It
was at this point the realization was made I needed a chance in my life.
I started seeing a therapist soon after the incident and did my best to open up. However,
Im not one for sharing personal feelings or openly speaking in general so progress was slow
going. Due to the fact I dont open up, my therapist suggested that I try a way to open up without
actually speaking. He suggested I start a journal and make a point to write in it at least once a
day. I have never been one who has been excited about English, writing specifically. I hated
reading in high school and despised writing. However, as I looked deeper at myself, I grew to
understand that I needed to be open to suggestions if I were to have any hope at saving myself
and changing for the better.
As silly as it may sound, I am convinced that starting a journal was the smartest decision
I have made. It took a little bit of time to truly understand how to keep a journal and be able to
comprehend how it can be beneficial. Initially, I was impatient. I didnt see any quick changes in
my behavior and I found the idea of setting time aside to just write to be absurd. In addition, I
was annoyed at the shear time that writing took. I wanted everything to be on the page
instantaneously and not physically write out every word.
There was one day in particular I can remember that everything just clicked for me. Late
on a Saturday evening I found myself super stressed. I had a rough shift that morning at work
and things at home werent the best. Without thinking, I drove home, took a deep breath and

started writing and continued for a while. In that time, I experienced almost every emotion I can
imagine. Initially I was angry, but as I dove into what made me angry I was saddened because it
brought up all of the regrets and terrible memories I had buried. My emotions shifted towards
guilt as I began to feel bad that I was complaining over things I felt I really shouldnt be. As I
finished my final thoughts, I experience a monumental sense of relief. I felt as if a huge weight
was lifted and for the first time in a long time I felt happy and that night I slept and I slept well.
My eyes were opened to a phenomenal world. I used to gag at the notion of writing for
pleasure. I now see what power writing can really have on a person. It provides that escape
everyone needs. Though writing itself may not be the proper escape for a person, I can now see
how it is for some. Writing, like soccer, doesnt discriminate. You dont have to be this fantastic,
published writer to participate. Writing is this beautiful, universal language that anyone can read
and understand. Like Stephen King has mentioned, you dont even have to be in the same room
or time period as the author to feel what they have experienced. As a writer gets in a rhythm the
word and emotion pour on to the page and a masterpiece is unveiled. It may sound ridiculous but
this art, if you will, saved me and probably prevented me from doing something I would have
regretted.