Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Psyche.
Esmerelda, Pt.1
The pain was like nothing I had ever experienced before. I was doubled over in my bed, on top of the blanket, with my knees tucked in close to my chest and my arms wrapped around them. My knuckles were white from gripping so tightly. Seconds later, I released my legs and laid flat on my back, staring longingly at the ceiling through the blurry window of my tears. I rolled onto my left side, again tucking my knees into my chest, and for a moment, I gave into the pain, letting my head lull on the pillow, feeling the tightness in my chest increasing. It was three in the morning and I knew I had to get up early for work, but nothing would make the pain stop, or even ease. I had experienced this same pain on two other occasions in the last 6 years, and I think it could be likened to heartburn, but I imagine much, much worse. It felt like there was something trapped inside of my rib cage, right at the bottom, where the left side meets the right. This ‘something’ seemingly wasn’t sure whether it wanted to be in or out, because it would tighten one minute, and then the next minute it felt like it was pushing against my rib cage, almost to breaking point. The scariest part is that it was so painful to inhale, and every breath seemed to become shorter and more strained. I had tried heartburn relief when I experienced this pain before, with no luck. During this specific episode, I was blinded by pain and must have dosed myself with a questionable number of ibuprofen tablets, but nothing helped. It was mid March in England, absolutely freezing, and yet I had droplets of sweat pouring out of my skin at an alarming rate. The last time I experienced this same pain, I was with my ex-boyfriend, who was aware of what I was going through, and so I felt safe knowing that if I needed to go to the hospital, he was there to take me. This time, I was alone. I had moved to the UK late December in a ‘quarter-life-crisis’ fashion, hoping to see some of the world while gaining some career experience. I guess I was technically not alone, as I lived in a dark and dingy share house with 6 other people who I barely knew (constantly closed bedroom doors never did lead to building those ‘lifelong friendships’ that people always rave about after going traveling). Regardless of the other inhabitants residing in the High Wycombe icebox we called ‘home’, I had never felt more alone and terrified. I was conflicted; the rational part of me knew that the pain would eventually subside, as it had done in the past, and that I had to ‘stop chucking a wobbly’ (classic dad term for throwing a tantrum) and get on with it; the two other sides of me were arguing back and forth between calling out for help from one of the sleeping strangers in the house, and just accepting that I was going to die. None of my thoughts won that battle. I am not entirely sure how I got to sleep, whether the ibuprofen eventually did its job or I passed out from the pain, but either way I have a vivid memory of seeing the numbers 5:49 light up as I tapped my phone before drifting off and thinking...fuck.
By Kelly Lindsay6 years ago in Psyche
Excerpts of Torture
“Bulimics- weak. Over-exercisers- very weak. Diet pill takers- the weakest. None of them have shit on us. We’re the ones with discipline. We’re the ones with strength. Why? Because we combine all three of them and then add another, stronger component to it. We starve. We are the ones who stare into the refrigerator with sunken eyes and a weak heartbeat, longing to put one morsel into our mouths, even the healthiest of foods, and cannot bring ourselves to consume anything. It’s at that point we punish ourselves for even walking into the kitchen. “Ok, you, stupid weakling,” we say to ourselves. “It’s time to repent.” That means we’ll go even longer without a single bite, take twice the number of pills, and do twice the exercise we normally do, just because we walked into the kitchen and even contemplated eating. Hell, at least the bulimics vomit the food up. The other two actually consume it completely and let it nourish their bodies, even if it’s only temporary. Us, we don’t even swallow, which, to be brutally honest, doesn’t come in handy at some point in life when you’re staring up at the face of a guy eagerly awaiting you to consume him while your knees ache from the pressure of the floor beneath them. But that’s another story altogether; I simply say it to further explain how our road is more difficult, but, oh, the triumph is greater, the results more permanent. Yes, we anorexics have a hard line to tow, but when you can walk into the children’s section of a clothing store and buy a smaller size than a child years younger than you, it’s all worth it.
By Kayla Evans6 years ago in Psyche
I don't know.
Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. Forcing myself to hear the keyboard clicks that refuse to let me sleep even if I could. God knows I want to - or do I? I don't know anymore. That's my answer for most things; sometimes I feign ignorance and other times I don't. I just don't know.
By Hannah Marsh6 years ago in Psyche
A Mother's Story of Addiction
There are so many stories by addicts, by wives or girlfriends/boyfriends of addicts, by children of addicts, but few from a mother's perspective after her child has died from an overdose. Oh, you can find those stories, but they are on social media pages that are FILLED with grieving mothers. We, in effect, on these pages "preach to the choir."
By Kathleen Elizabeth Comfort-Steinbaecher6 years ago in Psyche
