Chapman High School Application: Fill & Download for Free

I am an Asian-American male. I go to a public school in Massachusetts. I applied to 15 colleges as an English and Music Performance major on the Pre-Med Track.Basic InformationGPA: 3.84/5 W; 3.58/4 UWACT: 33 Super Score (34 R, 34 E, 32 S, 32 M), 10/12 on writingAP Scores: World History (3), U.S. History (3), Computer Science Principles (3), Psychology (3), Music Theory (3)Senior Year Courses: AP Biology, AP Statistics, DNA and Biotechnology, Introduction to Calculus, Creative Writing, Wind EnsembleExtracurricular ActivitiesHigh School Varsity Swim Team Captain (9-12)Bassoon Performance: BYSO, Rivers YSO, Wind Ensemble (9–12)Oboe Performance: NEC YSO, Rivers Chamber, Symphony Orchestra (9–12)Alzheimer’s Awareness Club Founder (11–12)Health Advisory Council Student Representative (11–12)Student Council and Student Ambassador (9–10)AwardsHonor Roll and AP ScholarNational Honors SocietyTri-M Music Honors SocietySwimming Varsity LetterOutstanding Merit and Service AwardOutstanding Musical Achievement AwardCommon ApplicationI wrote about the Most Magical Place on Earth and how the idealistic Disney depiction shaped me as an individual. Instead of hiding away in a zone of comfort or being an escapist, I find creative ways to weave reality and my dreams together.Letters of RecommendationCounselor 10/10English Teacher 10/10Chemistry Teacher 10/10Swimming Coach 10/10Assistant Swimming Coach 10/10Oboe Private Teacher 10/10Bassoon Private Teacher 10/10Early Decision IRice University - Rejected. Oh well, life goes on…Early ActionUniversity of Massachusetts, Amherst - Accepted. In-State Safety.Baylor University - Accepted to Honors College with President’s Gold Scholarship and Invitation to Excellence Scholarship. Beautiful campus! Bright community! I got personalized Christmas and Birthday cards from my admissions counselor and the faculty from the Medical Humanities Program…Southern Methodist University - Accepted as a Distinguished Scholar and named 1 of 20 Meadows Scholar. I made a personal connection with my admissions counselor and bassoon professor. Dallas is awesome…Colorado College - Accepted with CC Grants and swim recruit. I had a fantastic interview with an alumni and my admissions counselor. I loved the swim coach and swim team. My tour guides were the quirkiest! Beautiful location and unconventional learning style suited me…University of Colorado, Boulder - Accepted to Honors Program with Chancellor’s Achievement Scholarship and Arts and Humanities Achievement Scholarship. Oboe and Bassoon professors had individualized conversations with me. Probably the best campus I visited! Definitely visiting again…Westmont College - Accepted with President’s Scholarship, Augustinian Scholarship and 1 of 6 Guild Finalists. I loved Westmont College so much. Santa Barbara is amazing! I loved my admissions counselor and music director. I would have attended this institution…Santa Clara University - Accepted. I would have had a great time here. The campus is gorgeous! My tour guide really enticed me. I also would have loved it here…Chapman University - Accepted as a Deans Scholar. The campus was nice, but it didn’t feel like the right fit when I visited…Tulane University - Accepted. I loved New Orleans and the music scene. I made a personal connection with the music director. I had a fantastic interview with an alumni, but it also was not the right fit when I visited…University of Miami - Accepted. I loved Florida and the heat, but it didn’t feel like the right fit when I visited…University of Chicago - Rejected. Oh well, life goes on…University of Texas, Austin - Rejected. Oh well, life goes on…University of Michigan - Rejected. Oh well, life goes on…Early Decision IIVanderbilt University - ACCEPTED and ATTENDING with VU Need-Based Scholarship and Marianne Byrd Scholarship. I was very confused and surprised by the acceptance. I had a terrible live music audition (I literally cried afterward), no interview and very little communication with my admissions counselor. The campus is stunning and the opportunities are limitless. Nashville and Music City is the perfect place for me! I am so excited to join the Commodore family and pursue a Bachelor of Musical Arts on the Pre-Med Track at Vanderbilt University in the fall.Anchor Down!!!

i really despise this subject, but I can add to it, so here goes.I survived daily emotional, physical and sexual abuse as a child. The majority of the abuse occurred between the ages of 2 and 7. At 8, the abuse became emotional and physical only. The physical abuse ended at 14.. but I will get to that in a second.The abuse was predictable. How do I mean predictable? It would start on Sunday night when my mother would leave, and it would not stop until Friday evening when she returned. Literally, I would watch my mother turn around in the driveway and head down the road, and feel my maternal grandfather come up behind me and hit me.The first splitting was reactive. By the age of 4, I was an "expert" at gauging my grandfather's behavior and responding to head it off.He's angry. Stop talking.He thinks i did something bad. Apologize and lower your head.He's standing up. Start crying.He's coming toward you. Drop to your knees. Scream for Grandma.Once the hitting started, at least once I was around 4 years old, I became a vicious fighter. At least, as vicious as a 4 year old could be. I kicked, I scratched. I pulled hair and pulled his glasses off and threw them across the room. I would twist around and crawl under the bed or into the closet, all the while screaming. I take pride in the fact that I always fought back, as much as I could.. or at least, that is what I tell myself that I did.Of course, I lost every time. No child can fight off an adult. Once my pants were finally off.. or down.. and the actual act of rape started... It's really kinda sick when you're four and you have decided that you'd rather have your pants off when you're being raped versus having them at your ankles because you can get your legs farther apart. And i hated corduroy pants because the ridges would cut into my knees.. but that is what I focused on... my pants and the Superman-flying-in-space comforter on my bed. And Superman's smile. He always smiled. Thru the whole thing. He never stopped smiling.I think, if you have read this far... that the conversation in my head is kinda manipulative, right? I mean, it's a child saying or doing whatever a child has to do to survive... but it's still manipulative, right? And that last paragraph.. i bet you're really feeling sorry for me, aren't you? Hold onto that.. it's important.The fact is... at the age of 4, I was already numb. Everything was pretend. Every conversation I had with someone, even my mother on the weekends, was fake. I knew that if I tried to tell someone, I would only be punished more. I would only get hurt more. Beaten more. Slapped more. Raped more. So the little boy acted like everything was fine.Learning to be false is the first split. Silencing the real feelings and pretending everything is fine is the first split.The hurt child.. trying to make himself or herself smaller and trapped in the corner trying to be so small that the fists just barely hit you. That same child pulling his clothes back on and trying to .. quietly.. sneak into the bathroom to wipe the cum and blood off his butt. The second split was the survivor split. The one that cleans you up. The one that comforts you. It's a pretend adult that comforts the beaten child when the real adult doesn't exist.The third split is the one that looked in the mirror and says "I didn't do anything so wrong to be hurt like this..." I remember looking in the mirror and seeing my face.. the red red skin by my left eye.. the washed out beige washcloth with blood... and something else.. by the sink.. and knowing that no matter how bad I am no one should hurt me this bad... And looking to my left, and there is my grandmother.. at the door but looking down the hallway and she asks me if I want green beans or corn.. like its some kind of reward .. i get to choose my vegetable ? oh boy green beans means my ass will stop hurting WHY DIDN'T YOU STOP HIM yeah green beans are okay and there is the first split. Everything is fine i'm just washing up. And even my anger is fake. I know I should be angry. I am acting like I am anger inside. But I'm not. I don't "feel" anything.At 8 years old, my grandfather retired and my grandparents and my cerebral palsy aunt and my mother all move into a house together. The abuse becomes mostly verbal and emotional abuse with the threat of being hit.. but the sexual abuse ends. I am constantly bullied at school and on the bus. Even though I tower over the other boys (I'm a head taller), I don't know how to stand up for myself. I am regularly beaten and tormented by classmates and I do nothing, even tho' I am more than physically capable of beating any of them. All I know is how to cower and cry.While the raping has stopped, there is still an element of sexual abuse in the house. The only working shower in the 2 story 3 bedroom house is in the corner of the basement. Every time I shower, He comes down and watches me. I dry myself and get dressed with him sitting in a chair, looking at me. I learn to hate bathing. I want to take a bath upstairs, and he tells me that I am not "allowed" to, its a waste of water to take a bath everyday.At 14, the verbal and emotional abuse hits a limit. I have my first full "dissociative episode". It's winter. November or December and its cold. I'm running late for school. I remember being screamed at by my grandfather. He is threatening to hit me. I run outside with no shoes on. I hide behind bushes on the corner of the next street. I don't remember how long I was there.. 30 minutes, 45? I decide to go home, and the house is in view but it feels so far away... I can feel the cold pavement and the frost on the soles of my feet.. and I don't remember being this tall...I enter the house. and he's there.. and he slaps me and balls his fist...<and I am gone>I don't come back to myself until sometime in the afternoon.. in Choir class. The choir teacher is saying something about my voice turning into a nice baritone. Which doesn't make a lot of sense to me, as previously she has railed that I am tone deaf and can't carry a tune if it was stapled to my forehead. I look around and see classmates staring at me, and look back down to my hymnal.I get home around 4. The house is empty, which doesn't make a lot of sense with 2 retirees in their mid 60s. Mom arrives at 5:30. She is very upset with me. She says that no, Grandpa shouldn't have been yelling at me like that, but that we don't go into the kitchen, grab a knife, and scream "Touch me again and I will stab you Mother Fucker. You are never touching me again!"As you would imagine, my mother is really curious about this touching business. I lie.At 16, I am having numerous issues. Like a period, I have monthly "angry" episodes, triggered by anything that feels like an attack, real or imagined. I am punching concrete walls with enough force to break fingers, and then crying uncontrollably. The school decides to use "corporal punishment" to deter my anger outbursts. It's almost comedic as they come toward me with a paddle, threatening me with "3 swats". I beg, I cry. It's completely fake. They insist that I bend over to be spanked. NO! <and I am gone>. I'm suspended when I return. It appears that no one is going to hit me. The principal has a black eye and bruised ribs. It appears that bookshelves can easily be brought down on top of people with paddles. Who knew? I broke open a trophy case and threw the objects inside at them, then used one like a knife and threatened to stab them.My days are patchworks of memories. I no longer have any real sense of time. An hour of study hall is 5 minutes. I find my thoughts wandering.. and then realize that the sun has gone down. I keep thinking that I am sleeping, or just not paying attention to what I am doing and then "coming to attention".These 3 splits i carried into my early 30s. The "everything is fine" "hurt child" and "the angry one".(Edit) I've had several individuals contact me about this post, stating that it's incomplete. So, I'm going to edit and add to in an attempt to answer their questions. I also have to admit that I have thought of adding to this answer, but I haven't been ready.In my early twenties, I entered therapy. Appointments quickly escalated to weekly sessions. Sometimes twice weekly. I presented as suffering from Severe Depression. I received numerous diagnoses, such as Bipolar II, High Function Autism, PTSD, ADHD, and others. Nothing really fit.Also, while I had no issues discussing my childhood abuse, when my mental health professional would start to delve into other issues related to the abuse, I would start to miss appointments, stop medications, and exit therapy. I became sexually promiscuous. That is being very kind. I became a complete slut. Every one night stand was a relationship for me. And they never came back.At 26, I developed a life-threatening illness. Nothing that wasn't treatable with medications, but it created a mindset that death hung over me. My behavior escalated.People would complain or at least comment that interactions with me were "intense". But people would also have conversations with me that it was obvious they knew me, but I had no clue who they were. The "splits" we're still happening. I didn't know it.That changed with a videotape. With my medical diagnosis in hand, my behavior was escalating. And I was no longer hanging out with teenagers, but professionals.They taped me at a party. A gathering of friends that lasted at least 6 hours.I had developed a coping mechanism, a belief that I was just terrible at keeping track of time to explain huge gaps of missing hours. That what people said to me just didn't MATTER, and that's why I didn't recall conversations. It was really snobby of me.The tape, when shown to me, changed everything. It showed me in all my splits. Alternating between charming, hurting, angry and back again. People's faces looking at the camera with stunned expressions after speaking with me. I had no memory of any of it. But I recognized everything said. It was ME. All the secret thoughts I had, the fears, the anger, the pain. All on public display.My friends wanted to save me. They showed me my true broken self.I rewarded them by never seeing them again. And starting a 3 year downward spiral that I never recovered from.Had I taken that videotape to any mental health professional, they would have diagnosed me immediately. But I hid it.I found cocaine. Well, I has seen cocaine, been around cocaine, and ignored it. I started using. I skipped recreational use and by 3 months, I was a full blown addict. Binges over weekends spending hundreds of dollars. Numerous sexual partners.Cocaine turned to Crack. And then this happened at the one year mark.I had gone to my dealer Duke's house. Loaded my pipe with Crack. Took my hit. Loaded it again. Hit it. Guy comes in. Doesn't have any money. Asked if he could hit my pipe. Sure, I said. He takes a hit. Hands it back.He hits the ground. His heart stopped.I, a compassionate human being, say aloud, "I'm glad he handed my pipe back BEFORE he hit the ground. Would've lost all my shit on my glass!" and started gathering my stuff together.Without my assistance, after about 2 minutes, he starts to breathe. Me, with my stuff together, don't have to leave, because no ambulance is going to be called. Not that I called one, mind you. And I went back to using.I didn't realize what had happened or what I failed to do until 3 days later. I was horrified and ashamed of myself. At this point, my level of self-hatred was at its maximum. There was nothing anyone could say to me that could dissuade me from believing that I had deserved every bit of cruelty I had survived. I came to believe that all the punishment I had taken so far was because my abusers knew what I was from the very beginning.I entered 12 step recovery. Two meetings a day everyday for 2 years, and finally was able to get 30 days clean. And I met Bud, my first sponsor. And Crazy Larry. These 2 men would save me from myself. And I would fight them every fucking step of the way.People don't know how 12 steps works. You go to a meeting and you vomit out in a stream of consciousness all the stupid reasons you want to use your drug of choice today. And you listen to others do the exact same thing. And when you listen to their bullshit reasoning, you realize your own reasons are just as stupid as theirs.Bud was someone that no matter how bad I thought I was, he could top me. He was also the first person who could stop my disassocation and get me back into my body.He would ask me, "Where are you in your body?" And I would look at him, just completely dumbfounded by the question. "I'm right here! What do you mean ?!?" and he would ask again and again.Finally, after a particularly bad binge, he asked me this same question."Where are you in your body?""I'm not in my body. I'm looking thru the back of my head thru my eyes like they're windows. And I'm moving my body like it's a marionette.""Finally. A truthful answer. We can work with that."The splitting stopped. The gaps of missing time stopped. From that point onward, I could feel the splitting start, and I could stop it. But the trade off was all the crap I felt now came out of my own mouth. Not someone else's.Crazy Larry. It gives you the idea of some random drunk in a trench coat with a bottle in a paper bag rambling. You'd be right about the rambling. Tons and tons of rambling. But Larry was a retired clinical psychologist in his 70s. And if you sit around a table spewing your emotional nonsense, someone like Larry is going to diagnose you. And he did.Larry stopped me after a meeting. Told me we needed to talk. He sat me down and asked me if I knew what Borderline Personality Disorder was. I had heard the term bandied around. He explained it. It fit. Exactly. He brought up the disassociation. I explained the videotape. Disassociative Personality. Goes hand in hand. PTSD. That's part of it too, he says. Addiction. Yup. Abandonment issues, troubled relationships. All part of it.I understand.I started DBT. And quickly stopped it. And started again. Remember, way way back, when I mentioned how manipulative the conversation in my 4 year old head was? I finally got called on it. Every time I tried to direct the conversation away from my fear of Abandonment and More Pain, I would be stopped. I couldn't hide behind it anymore. I wasn't allowed to use it both as a shield and my crutch.The last point I want to make (for the moment) is this. Once the splitting stopped, I didn't suddenly gain the memories of what I said or did in those Disassociative States. Occasionally, I get snippets of events, like taking a few frames out of a movie reel. There was, for me, no "unification" of personalities.I have come to believe that those states were ME, saying or doing whatever needed to get done, to save me.This is my journey. And it's not over. I hope that tripling the length of this gives you a better understanding of my journey.

WHAT business?Rick ChapmanManaging Editor and Publisher, SoftletterAuthor: Selling Steve Jobs' Liver. A Story of Startups, Innovation, and Connectivity in the Clouds""In Search of Stupidity: Over 20 Years of High-Tech Marketi ng Disasters""SaaS Entrepreneur: The Definitive Guide to Succeeding in Your Cloud Application Business"