Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Psyche.
A Thank You Letter to My Abuser: This One’s for You, Mom.
Mom... Wherever you may be, Whoever you are now. It’s taken a while (six and a half years if we’re counting), but I think I finally know what to say to you. I’ve started countless letters but could never finish them. I have an infinite amount of things I’d like to say, that I'd like you to know, but I think I’ll start by saying thank you.
By Emma Carver6 years ago in Psyche
The Fight Back
The loneliest road to walk is the road that leads to a place of isolation and an acute loneliness, brought on through the parasite force known as depression. You’re stuck inside a shell that has cracked and is seeping the most destructive emotions, tearing at your body and mind, and no matter how hard you try you just cannot shake it loose.
By Stephen Doheny6 years ago in Psyche
Misunderstood and Misdiagnosed: My Road to Recovery
My mental illness feels like I'm in the midst of a giant, cluttered, shrub. I feel trapped, I struggle to move, and I am almost constantly terrified. Even though I have a mental health condition, none of the labels make sense to me perfectly. I used to think that illness was treated with a straightforward approach, you get ill, then diagnosed, then treated, and then better. I am now realising that my illness—and no illness—is that linear and predictable.
By Jennifer Lyn6 years ago in Psyche
Life After My NDE
It was a hot summer day in North Carolina and the family decided to head out to the lake to cool off and enjoy the day. This was a big lake, with very deep waters and I remember that you couldn’t go out very far before it was over your head. I was around the age of 10, and I really wasn’t that great of a swimmer and got frightened anytime someone tried holding me down or pulling on me in the water, so I stayed pretty close to the shoreline. I remember being on the shore when I noticed that my sisters had all gone to the end of the very long pier, or at least to me it seemed a mile out into the dark water. I decided I wanted to go be with them, so I ran down the pier afraid of missing out on anything fun. I remember almost reaching the end where my sisters all older than me had gathered sitting on the edge when I started to slide on the wet pier floor and flew right off the end into the lake.
By Mark Bacot6 years ago in Psyche
Diary of a Working Housewife
Monday September 16th, 7 AM: This morning on the way to dropping off my children, one at school and the other at grandma's house, I got an article alert from Medium Daily Digest on my phone that caught my attention. "You Might Not Actually Be Struggling with Depression, But You May Be Dealing With Depression's Lesser Known Evil Twin," Written by Benjamin Sledge.
By Azaris Morales6 years ago in Psyche
Why I Am Proud of My Trauma
I was always the "insecure girl." I apologized for everything, changed my personality depending on who was around, settled for any man who would give me attention, and used substances in order to feel accepted and whole. My coping mechanism was to build up as many walls around my heart as I could so that when I let people get close to me, they could never get close enough to actually hurt me.
By Kailey Fitzgerald6 years ago in Psyche
Harlow's Haven (Ch. 2)
HER was succumbed to a mental ward, everyone fearing for the unborn flesh that was growing inside. I was placed in a foster system till the age of seven. Like a rag, thrown from house to house, although the family’s promises were all the same. The euphoria never lasted, they didn’t understand why I couldn’t play a theatrical role of “big, happy family,” even though my caseworker pleaded with them to give me a chance. Her name was Bertha. Anyways, my “stays” never extended a month… as I was quickly labeled the problem child. What did they expect? Most of them failed to understand their own kids were vile. One time I was at a house and the kid told me if I did not leave, he’d tell his parents I’d stolen from him. The audacity! That was not the worst bit though; at another house, the kid threatened to stab me in my sleep. Therefore, I threatened to punch his face and he went crying to his mommy and daddy, he was such a little witch. One day, I was staring at the ceiling... I always loved how it just stayed there. It was faithfully constant. The only thing in my life that was. That I could depend on to stay the same. Enough of that sappy story—we will get back to that soon. Bertha was just about to take me to my fifteenth house when she received a call that would again change my life forever. HER was out of the psych ward, and doing very well. HER had a place in Austin, Texas where she lived with my sisters and my new stepdaddy. HER had finally made the call to get me back. HER moved on too soon. I never forgave HER for that. But as I got older, I learned that people grieve differently. Bertha and I both flew down to Austin that weekend to visit. And there HE was. HE was so charming. HE promised everything, a place to go, to take care of my sisters and I, to honor my mother and us in sickness in health. I thought I’d finally get my fairytale ending like you see in the movies. So cliche, I know. Without any hesitation, as soon as the case work files were doled out, Austin was finally going to be home. And it was for a few short months that I finally had the childhood I so desperately ached for. But there was always a storm a-brewing, and it is dumb to think a perfect family exists.
By Kelsey Lott6 years ago in Psyche
Recovery and Finding Your Passion
This is a painting I did not that long ago. It symbolizes many things for me, but that's another story. This one is about Recovery from addiction. Many people think, "Once an addict, always an addict," and while that is true in some ways, its not true in all. I am four years clean. I never thought I'd see the day. I wanted to die at one point in my life. But little by little, after I was done with rehab (which I checked myself into without being forced), I began to rebuild my life. I started as a waitress—a waitress with a bachelor's degree. I used to be so bitter about that fact. I thought, "Why am I waiting tables when I could be doing so much more? I mean, I'm EDUCATED." But then God told me that I needed to humble myself. There are a lot of people out there with college degrees they aren't using. So what makes me so special? It was just my ambition and determination talking. So I did humble myself and I realized that I didn't get into the terrible shape I was in overnight, and I definitely wasn't going to undo all of that damage overnight, or in a day, or a month, or maybe even a year! I began to just explore. I ended up finding a "desk job," which made me realize even more that I do NOT want any desk job or confining job. I want to spread my creative wings and use my soul to do whatever it is I decide to do. I finally left the office job scene altogether, and decided one day that I am going to be a Copywriter. Because if I work hard enough at writing for others, maybe one day I will get to write about what I am SO passionate about: recovery. I just want that person out there struggling to get clean, stay clean, or rebuild to know that it IS possible, and I am living proof. I want to put together a group of people with a testimony to go to the schools in my area and talk openly and candidly about drugs, and what type of life comes along with them. And most importantly, I want to let them all know it CAN HAPPEN TO THEM. It is so easy to fall into addiction, and the street drugs these days are seriously lethal, and your chances are slim of living through it—and if you do, you'll most likely end up institutionalized. That is hell on earth, TRUST ME, I was there once upon a time. SO my short message is that recovery is possible... find your passion and GO AFTER IT and do what sparks your SOUL. Don't settle for anything less because we only get one life and wasting it doubting yourself is a tragedy.
By Hayley G Moore6 years ago in Psyche
Post-Party Crash
This past Wednesday, I had what would be considered a mental crack. Not a complete breakdown, but I had broken down throughout the day. Waking up on my day off, I had experienced a series of fluxes in my emotions that all lead up to me feeling empty and overflowing with tears. You may be wondering why or even when did I figure out that I was mentally cracking. Through the tears and anguish, I had begun to search out, to figuring out the reasons why. Why was I so damn sad when everything around me has been going well? Why was I feeling so empty that mustering the feeling of being "full" was a difficult task, especially in the things that had been going very well for me?
By Jay Williams6 years ago in Psyche
Harlow's Haven
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Birds made their rounds around the clock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You awaken from a brief sleep. The clock shows 3:15 AM. You hear HE yelling, obscenities again. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It’s way too early for this, HE must have stayed awake through the night again. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You can hear HER running up the stairs, her muffled pleads overshadowed by HE’s fit of rage. You hear the faint sound of glass breaking, the sound becoming more clearer with every step you take towards your bedroom door. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Your grandfather’s clock seems to stop in the moment of time. You wish it all would stop. You wish your dad was still here. Your real dad. The dad you’ve never known, he died protecting the country… a single gunshot wound to the heart, the obituary read. So senseless, and short, that damn obituary. All he did for our country, and all the favors he did for people he thought were his friends, no one even bothered to show up. No one, except my mother and I. Holding HER hand, I did not yet understand that when I lost him, I lost HER too. Now he’s buried in a vat of dirt in the ground. I was three when it happened. I recollect a man in a bright blue suit, knocking on the door and giving HER a letter. I remember her tearing the crease, to a single piece of parchment paper reading over it with her trembling fingers, and then falling to the ground. I remember HER being hysterical. HER was pregnant with my baby sisters at the time, as she rolled on the floor, a carticuare of her own body. I could not help but giggle, for I could not understand what was happening. It was then that my mother shooed the men out the door and then ran up our spiral staircase and locked herself in her room. I could remember it was days of isolation for I fed myself with what was in the pantry, and when I had eaten the last piece of bread, I walked towards the nearest house I could find with my stuffed bear in hand, knocked on the door and asked if I could have something to eat. I remember the sound of flashing lights, the blue and red sirens seemed like they were dancing in my eyes. The men in suits came and took her from me. I was just five years old. Just a few years ago, when I was old enough to understand, I learned that she had tried to kill herself the first night she was stolen from me.
By Kelsey Lott6 years ago in Psyche
