Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Psyche.
Eating Disorder
So, my father is from a big family and a fairly new country (this year, it is only 70-years-old). In its early years, food was scarce and was not to be wasted. He was the primary cook in our family and boy was he good at it! However, with his upbringing, I think it stuck with him that you always need at least, "One more scoop,” of food and everything on your plate should be finished. I really did cherish my dad.
By Melissa Weakly8 years ago in Psyche
Self Harm
Someone once told me that self-harming is a coward thing to do. They said that it is selfish to do. That it's a choice. It isn't always a choice. I don't remember what day I picked up a razor blade for the first time. I remember the reason why I did, though. I remember the sting of the blade cutting into my arm. I remember the overwhelming feeling of relief that washed over me after each cut. The same relief I felt each time I picked up the blade and touched it to my skin. I got that same relief with the snap of a hair tie or rubber band against the skin of the wrists. You can't take a razor blade to school, especially when the school itself upped its security measures after a bomb and gun threat was found in the school. You can, however, wear a rubber band or a hair tie on your wrist, in your hair, or even just put it in your backpack or purse. No one thinks anything of it. I remember I used to discreetly snap it on my wrists between classes and sometimes during classes. It was so easy to hide the marks with a jacket.
By Tori Quintanar8 years ago in Psyche
Becoming My Mother
Most women say if they become even half of the woman their mother was, they'd be happy; knowing their mother was a wonderful, compassionate woman. Someone who would kiss their "boo boos," a best friend, a confidante...Well, in my case, being half of my mother terrifies the daylights out of me. I'm sure she had some good in her, but I was hardly a witness to those parts of her. Finding good memories are few and far between. She wasn't an alcoholic or drug addict. At my young age it just seemed like I was her problem. I was the reason she was upset all the time. I was sure that I deserved all of her "discipline." Waking up as a six-year-old and asking her if I could have a bowl of cereal, I was positive it was totally disrespectful to wake her up and ask. I was sure I deserved being called “stupid little b****" after being yelled at and the bowl of cereal was practically thrown at me on the table. I was sure I did something wrong. There were times where she was happy to help me with my homework and after a few minutes of frustrating her, I felt the sharpened end of a pencil into my scalp. She would often use many devices or any to display her frustration with me. We lived in a one bedroom house and we slept in the same bed until I was 11. To me, it was a dungeon and I hated it. She finally died when I was 13, and it didn't bother me one bit. I never cried once.
By Melissa Weakly8 years ago in Psyche
Spiralling Downwards
In everyday life, there are good moments and bad moments. These moments can be anything; passing or failing a test, finding or losing love, or maybe even getting accepted or rejected to that school you really wanted to get into. Every day there are good moments and bad moments. For “normal” people, these good and bad moments pass like hills and ditches; small bumps along the way, but nothing they can’t handle. But what if you “aren’t normal?” What if the good moments feel like you’re on top of Mt Everest, and the bad moments feel like you’re in the bottom of the Mariana’s Trench? How do you cope with these emotions?
By Hailey Gumbley8 years ago in Psyche
Obsessed with Obsession
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It’s a blooming curiosity; a deadly flower that plants itself in the back of your head, continuously flourishing, and overfilling the room as it grows bigger. The roots stem directly into your veins and you feel it raging through your body. It is the puppeteer. Words often began to vomit out of your mouth because a voice, which sounds an awful lot like your own, tells you to say everything that is on your mind. No matter who you hurt. Because the consequences of ignoring your compulsions is worse than you blurting out that you hate your sister’s hair or your friend’s outfit is unpleasant to the eye. Nothing can truly be as hostile as living in your own head, with no control over the chorus of impulsivity that spews from your lips. And when the paranoia starts to set in and the edge of reality blurs, you have to make sure to ask your friend to repeat what she had just said…again and again…because you didn’t hear it the first time. Or the second time. Or the third. It has always been imperative that you can validate a conversation, word for word, because that means it actually happened. OCD is a gun and you are the loaded bullet. It is impossible to stray from the shot being taken and you land where it wants to you to land, the consequences too often be damned.
By Vanessa Salemi8 years ago in Psyche
The Depression No One Talks About
In our society, I often see depression portrayed as "extreme sadness" or people who attempt to end their own lives. I know that there are people who reach that low and find that their will to climb the ladder of happiness is wasting away. Some people have the ability to overcome it, if they are given the resources (enough money, enough time, love, etc). And then, some people are too good at playing pretend.
By Digtzy Dog8 years ago in Psyche
Suicide May Not Be the Answer, but It Also Isn't Selfish
Let me preface this article by saying that I do not condone suicide, but I do understand it. I do not want someone to read this and then say that I encouraged them to partake in the act, because that is not my purpose. I do believe there are other ways out of pain, but I do understand why someone may be unable to find those ways.
By Zellie Wicker8 years ago in Psyche
My Emma
I measured my year in linoleum floors. In fluorescent lights, in the smell of rubber and artificial lemon air freshener; in narrow hallways silent except for the faint buzz of the heater. I measured my year by counting the beds occupied and the pairs of sheets needing to be changed over once morning came. I counted the clipboards thrust into my hands, tearful retreats to the stark, institutional public restrooms; in pitying eyes staring at my 2 AM, mascara-streaked, dark- circled face while I slumped over in the near-empty waiting room.
By Kaylyn Buckley8 years ago in Psyche
Depression
Depression is not something we choose to have. Depression is not a choice. Depression is an illness that lots of people suffer from, including myself. I have dealt with this illness for many of years and nothing seems to help. I was told to go talk to a therapist. Maybe they could help. So I tried it and I didn’t feel judged at all but a little part of me wondered what they would think when I walked out of that room. Would everything I just expressed to a total stranger just not matter anymore? I deal with problems every day and everything I do affects the way I feel and my mood and my presence. There are lots of girls and boys, women and men, anyone out there that knows exactly what I’m talking about... we just are calling for help from people that really care. Not just for a moment but forever and won’t stop until we feel ok. Depression is a disease. Please don’t ignore someone when they are reaching out for you for help. Look at the symptoms. Be a good listener. That’s all we really want: for someone to really care, so we won’t feel alone.
By Tiffany Romaine8 years ago in Psyche
