At first, I didn't know what to write for this. I always thought of my life as not that meaningful or noteworthy, but I have a story I want to tell. I had a friend, someone I cherished above many people. At that point, we had been friends for many years, nearly five or six I think. Lets call her Vivian, since I would rather not use her real name. Vivian's parents had told me to stay away from her. I could not visit anymore because of my sexuality. They have a belief that every person is gay or straight. You like one or the other, not both. We found a loophole and still messaged each other when we could. However, I am not a patient person and I really wanted to visit her, to see Vivian and enjoy all her sarcasm and humor. So, I came up with the brilliant idea to message her parents without consulting her first. A stupid and impulsive decision. I gathered my courage and sent a message to her mother from my mother's phone since they were friends on the social media platform I used. I got a reply quickly since she had not yet left for work. I was hopeful that maybe I could change her mind, since I know I really couldn't change the father's mind. At first, the conversation was rather light, not what I was expecting. But it got tense quickly, when I sent her a message she misinterpreted as me being rude. I had not meant to be rude or tell her how to punish Vivian, I just wanted her to listen to me and then decide if I was worthy to mingle with their daughter. By the end of the conversation, both myself and Vivian's mother were upset at the other. And Vivian was beyond angry with me. She told me very blatantly that I should have been patient and waited. All I did was upset her mother before work. I felt bad, I knew Vivian had the right to be upset and scold me a little. My own mother, however, did not agree. She started to argue with Vivian, only making her more upset. At this point, I went to the bathroom to calm myself from the nerves I had knotted in my stomach and veins. Within those few measly seconds, I lost my friend. The only person I really depended on and talked to. My world crumbled. My mother had said some very mean and hurtful words to my friend, which made me lose her. I lost my temper. I screamed at my mother, yelled hurtful words that I knew would cause her pain, and walked away. At that point, I did not care about her feelings or my consequences, just as she did not care in those few seconds. I had lost my friend, my best friend. I lost my two lovely cats, and I lost my will to live. All in one summer. Over time, due to the deep emotions that ran through me, I later experienced an emotional burnout. I did not care about anything. I would cause myself pain to feel alive. I had no will to eat, to get out of bed, to do anything other than sleep. Just when I thought, for a few days, I was getting better, my depression and anxiety started pumping throughout my body. I could not stand to be in public or I would start to cause self-harm to relieve the stress in my body. I would scratch and bite my arms and twist my fingers nearly to the point of nearly breaking. I could never stay in class because that alone would cause me to panic. My depression caused me to loathe myself. I hated my very being. If it were not for my therapist and medicine. My friends and family. I don't know if I would be here. I have a different cat named Stella, who is pigeon-toed on her back feet. I also have a guinea pig named Brutus, from Julius Caesar. I am on a different medication. I am finally starting to feel better. I am starting to feel alive again. To everyone else like me, these feelings can be handled. It is not easy to deal with these feelings, it won't just go away, but over time, you will feel better. So just keep marching through the dark, you will find the light.

I read an article recently about burn-out and how to heal from it. It suggested seeking out a sense wonder. The feeling of wonderment is the salve to the wound of burnout. When I get sad or feel weighed down by life's burdens, I like to visit my happy spot. It involves mental time travel to a real place I have visited in the past. Whenever I “go” there, I feel calmer, and I feel awe; profound, unadulterated awe. Once, when I was sixteen, I took a trip with my family. We went up north, to the Himalayas. We went to holy places like Varanasi, Haridwar, Mathura, and Vrindavan. We went to picturesque little towns like Mussoorie, Almora, and Ranikhet. I saw with my own two eyes, Mount Kailash, Lord Shiva's abode looming through a telescope and the Nanga Parbat (Naked Mountain) so-called because no matter how hard it tried, snow could never blanket the peak. That trip was breathtaking in every sense of the word. I experienced snowfall for the first time and even kissed a boy for the first time. I ate juicy oranges to quench my thirst and scrumptiously warm dal-roti to satisfy my hunger. I admired and understood the beauty and wonderment that nature is. But none of these places are my happy spots. My happy place was an unplanned halt in the town of Kausani because our car broke down and it was too late and cold to get a mechanic. We stayed at a little, rustic cottage with two rooms and a giant bathroom. It was New Year's Eve, and our host took us to an exceptional dance performance by the local Kumaon tribe. We stayed up late but somehow I woke up early in the morning, before sunrise. I stepped out on the verandah, draped in a warm blanket when the most stunning sunrise I have ever witnessed unfolded before me. I was on a mountain. In front of me flourished a vast, verdant valley with little homes strewn all over. It was still dark in the valley, but I could see smoke rising from the embers of the previous night. Behind the valley stood a line of mountains. Even more mountains towered over the first mountain range and behind this second layer stood the snow-clad, expansive fold mountains called the Himalayas. Confetti of light spread through the sky, and the first rays of the sun fell on the top-most peaks of the Himalayas. There was a riot of colors bouncing off the stark white snow; a disco ball of reds, yellows, greens, and purples. Slowly, gently the light spread over the entire range and then the two mountain ranges below. A few minutes later, the light had glided into the valley, and it was suddenly bright. People were up and went about their daily lives, and I went back inside drenched in astonishment at this spectacle I had been allowed to witness. That is my Happy Spot. I go there often. What's yours?

It was ten o'clock which was bedtime. It had always been our bedtime. The time where lights went off, phones away, and our minds were left to drift astray. I share a room with my younger sister, who I would chat with until her words became slurred, and her quiet snores filled the silent air. The clock hit 10:20pm. While she slept soundly, I stared at my ceiling. My mind is not capable of being calm, my eyes not capable of closing, and my body not capable of sleep. Sometimes, I feel exhausted. Other nights, I don't feel phased at all. Tonight was an even mix of the two. I felt slightly tired but could not sleep because I know the monster under my bed and it's name is Insomnia. The clock hits 3am. It's different each night. Sometimes, time flies. Others, not so much. The hours felt like decades this particular night. I spent the endless hours pondering my mistakes because not only was Insomnia under my bed, but anxiety was peeking out of my closet. I lay there powerless, not able to drift off into the world of dreams that my sister would tell me about in the morning. Instead of being stuck in a nightmare, running from an imaginary creature, I am stuck in my horrifying reality, running from my mental illness. Instead of wondering “is this a dream”, I'm wondering “when will this nightmare called life end?”. I'm going over every worse case scenario of how tomorrow can go. Four AM. I'm still awake. Who knew my ceiling had so many dots? 6,000 in counting. That's only in my peripheral vision. 5am. I have to be awake in an hour for school. 5:30am. I still haven't gotten an inch of sleep and the light of the sky is peeking through my blinds, reminding me that even when I feel empty, or stuck, the world around me still goes on. 6 AM. My alarm is beeping, my sister now stirring in her sleep. I hear her bed creek, signaling that she's getting up, so I pretend to be asleep. No one knows about my Insomnia. If I were to tell them, what could they do? Take me to therapy, put me on pills? I know that scenario all too well because when I told my parents about my anxiety, those were the exact steps they took. After therapy failed to work, they claimed I was faking, and never picked up another prescription again. I hated that, and I refuse to let that happen again. My sister wakes me up and I pretend as if I hadn't been up all night. I later went to school. I worked hard, took tests, and acted as if I'd gotten sleep. When someone asks how I am, I'll say “I'm fine”, but I really do wish they could read my mind.

August 12, 2018 at 4:09 a.m. was the day my world was turned upside down. That was the day that my daughter was born. The moment I saw her my life a new purpose, which was to love, nurture, and care for this tiny human being. Hearing her cry for the time made me overwhelmed with emotion. I completely broke down. At that point in time I was looking at this human being that was so new and perfect. Her fingers so tiny and shiny. Her hair so curly and black. Her chubby cheeks with a flush of red the color of a rose. In that moment she was absolutely perfect. In that moment I was the happiest that I have ever been. Nothing could ever explain how happy I was in that moment.

From Shakespeare to Mary Shelley, the English language is home to a fantastic amount of excellent literature. So much, even, that many English speakers never need to read anything translated from another language. However, there are a number of great epics that most English speakers at least know about. The Iliad, Epic of Gilgamesh, and even The Bible are just a few. Translators of these works have several problems they must figure out how to work around. They must figure out how to retain the basic rhythm of the story and retain the meaning of words that do not have an English correspondent, all while keeping the plot intact. The Armenian epic, Sasna Tsrrer poses a unique challenge to any translator. First of all, there are over 150 different versions, all written in different dialects. Many versions are not even complete and are missing various plotlines. However, one of the biggest problems in translating Sasna Tsrrer is the word "tsrrer." Many people believe Sasna Tsrrer to have ancient origins, but people only wrote it down first in the late 19th century. Between then and 1915, more and more versions got recorded, all from different areas of Armenia and all in different dialects. Many versions are missing one or multiple parts of the story. However, the most troubling thing for any translator is that many of these dialects became extinct during the Armenian Genocide. A lot of old Western Armenian dialects used to utilize a wide variety of Turkish and Arabic words and grammar in a way no language really does. Leon Surmelian's translation, Daredevils of Sassoun, manages to avoid some of this untranslatability by utilizing footnotes. At the end of each chapter, Surmelian explains a few words by telling the reader about both the possible meanings of the word and how he decides to use it in the book. Even so, Surmelian's translation is based on the "official" version published by the Soviet Union in 1939 with a unifying use of the language. Of course, this would be the easiest to translate, but if one wanted to translate many of the other versions, he or she would not only have to understand Armenian and English but probably Turkish and maybe some Arabic too. Until someone decides to attempt this task, sadly, many of the most dialectal versions will remain untranslated. Obviously, so many versions of a story recorded from so many sources will not remain consistent throughout. However, many versions of Sasna Tsrrer do not even retain the same story structure and plotlines. Some versions have different characters playing different roles, some versions are obviously pre-Christian and pagan in origin, and some versions simply do not contain certain cycles and storylines. While the Soviet Union did publish an "official" version in 1939, that does not make it right to suddenly disregard the other versions. Some versions are so different that some people argue that they are not from the same story, but part of a larger Armenian folk genre (Hambardzumyan 2). Still, the perceived incompleteness can deter translators from translating the more obscure versions of the epic. Finally, the word "tsrrer" poses a problem for translators. It does not have an English equivalent, but is one of the most important words in the epic. "Tsrrer" can mean, depending on the context, foolish, brave, or even naive. This is very important in characterizing the main characters. It acknowledges the strangeness and foolish braveness not only they, but the Armenian people are known for. The number of preposterous things the main characters do may seem stupidly unnecessary or overpowered without knowledge of the word "tsrrer". Of course, one cannot translate "tsrrer" as the same thing every time in English, but Surmelian explains what the word means in the introduction and then translates to depending on the context for the rest of the book. Translators really do have a difficult job. Especially translating epics such as Sasna Tsrrer. Luckily, not only Surmelian, but a whole slew of other translator dedicate their time and patience in making the best translation possible so that people all around the world can enjoy this Armenian classic. It is possible that there will never be a perfect translation, but it is still wonderful that people are trying their best. There is so much amazing literature from all around the world, and with the help of translators, it is all getting more accessible to the global population. Works cited Hambardzumyan, H. A. “Some Features of Translation of the Epic: English Translations of the Armenian Epic ‘David of Sassoun.'” Вестник Северо-Восточного Федерального Университета Имени М.К. Аммосова: Серия Эпосоведение, 2017, p. 10. Cyberleninka, cyberleninka.ru/article/n/some-features-of-translation-of-the-epic-english-translations-of-the-armenian-national-epic-david-of-sassoun. Surmelian, Leon Z. Daredevils of Sassoun. Golden Jubilee Publication, 1966.

If there is one thing that I will never be able to forget about my grandfather, it is his voice. The deep and fluid voice that would fill my ears with hundreds upon hundreds of fairy tales as I sat at the edge of my bed with my Princess Ariel blanket wrapped around my shoulders, lingering on the verge of collapsing into the pillows and entering the world of dreams. Under normal circumstances, my grandfather was a man of few words, so when you were granted the priviledge of hearing them, you were expected to listen. But in his time with me, not one second was wasted on silence. He told me the legends of ancient heroes whom sailed the raging waters of the seven seas and endured the deadly winds of blizzards while climbing the highest and steepest mountains. Tales of courageous swordsmen whom rode off into sunsets upon their mighty steeds, taking on dangerous quests, vanquishing the land of evil, and bringing peace and good fortune to the weak and the hungry. Those heroes then returned home to face the thundering of applause and the chants of their names, celebrating with feasts and drinks and songs that may have lasted for days. There, they were embraced by those that loved them, kissed tenderly on the lips by their true loves, and blessed with honor and recognition. Such tales of bravery and nobility my grandfather told, and he told them flawlessly, with animated expressions and vigor. The words spilled from his lips, fluid as a river and smooth as honey, with that voice that had to have been gifted to him from the Divine, a voice created from the music of life itself. This was his purpose, I thought as I listened to his wondrous tales, hooked on every word. To entertain the world and all its people, to touch their hearts with the courage of heroes in hopes that his audience will persevere through their own hardships and come out victorious on the other side. What I wouldn't give to perch myself on the floor at his feet one last time, to inhale the bittersweet smell of his pipe, and to listen to the rhythm and sincerity of that voice. The voice that will guide me through my struggles and my dreams for as long as I live.