coping
Life presents variables; learning how to cope in order to master, minimize, or tolerate what has come to pass.
Finding Calm Through Crochet
I grew up surrounded by crafty women. I don't mean crafty in the sense that they were sly or devious (though, sure, one or two of them could be). I mean in the sense of being skilled at crafts like knitting, sewing, and crochet. When I was a child, all of the doll's clothes in my toy box had been crafted via the creative endeavors of my mother, grandmother, aunt and great aunts.
By Jupiter Grant4 years ago in Psyche
xHomeSweetHomex
I’m in a checkout line. I’m sweating. The two go hand in hand. But this checkout line in particular is worse. To start, it’s long and I’m at the front. The cashier is overwhelmed and so am I. Being here makes it hard to breathe. It’s time to pay and I miscalculated the cost. I don’t have enough cash, and my card is in the car.
By Bailey Chambers4 years ago in Psyche
Number twelve
1 Pear. It is a plentiful word. So many variations. Without the ‘r’ you are left with pea. Write it down and you think of a squishy little vegetable. Loved by some, hated by many. Say it, and you think of a wee. Then you have the word left without the ‘p’ - ear. Most of us have two. Some work. Some don’t. Mine don’t hear like they used to. Come to think of it, my ears don’t really work anymore and I struggle to ‘pea’ and, just to add another layer of confusion, my name is Bee.
By Shannon O'Hara4 years ago in Psyche
How To Manage Mood
Occasional full of feeling issue (SAD) is a type of discouragement that happens simultaneously of the year as winter. Pitiful can influence your temperament, rest, craving and energy levels and influence all parts of your life - your connections, public activity, work, school and confidence. Otherwise called occasional miseries, SAD can influence all parts of your life. The most widely recognized type of SAD causes gloom throughout the late spring months however can likewise happen in harvest time and winter if the days are more limited and more brilliant than the days in spring and late-spring. Show Sources
By Alekzendar Hums5 years ago in Psyche
On Grief
The Story: The Story: I had a friend die the other day. I had another friend die back in the day and then another friend and then another friend and then another... Many, many, others. Dead. I have no idea why I am still alive. Well, actually, I have some idea why. Whether it is God, the Universe, the ocean, my cat, or my pet rock, somebody out there has a plan for me. Back to the story. I had these two friends, great friends. I had a feeling that we shared the same struggle. That is why I held so much love for them. I cannot explain it. Nobody can really explain it unless they have been through it. We all battle demons, however, there is a specific kind of pain that hovers in the realm of deep internal turmoil. I can speak to this pain. I have lived this precise pain. I have laid in hospital beds listening to the doctors tell my parents that they do not know if I will ever wake up. I remember not being able to move or open my eyes but still praying, praying hard, to anybody that would listen to me. Please, please let me wake up. Just wake up. I did. Every. Single. Time. The struggle. I cannot express the pain of lingering in limbo hoping I do not wake up but at the same exact time not wanting to inflict pain onto the ones I love so, so dearly. I want to try but it is so hard. So, so, hard. Back to my friends, I see you and I pray for you. I understand this pain and I love you for feeling it with me. I remember the first time I smoked the green, weird, weird, skunky smelly stuff (that is sometimes-most, MOST times-where it starts). I was sitting in the attic of some neighborhood friend’s house. We were listening to Bob Dylan, Subterranean Homesick Blues. Trying to remember all of the lyrics, which now, I absolutely still can do. These boys, these beautiful, beautiful boys were in the room at that moment (at least one them was there-they were always there-we were neighbors, buddy's, pals). The moment my head changed (pretty, pretty positive that it was the last pal to leave us). I remember these times. They were great times. I still miss them. All that I can do for these friends is share my story as it may relate to them and to you. I will do this persistently, yet gracefully in the best way that I know how. This should not be happening. Let me repeat myself, this should NOT be happening.
By Claire Geeee5 years ago in Psyche
Faking a surgery
A few months ago on a Tuesday morning, at the end of April, I was at the gym. For weightlifting/strongman, I do a 4 day upper/lower split. I had just signed up for a contest set to happen June 12th, which meant my coach and I were switching from general programming to specific exercises in preparation for contest day.
By Matthew Crandall5 years ago in Psyche
Pandora's Box
It starts with a small box. It's dainty and encased with a thin unwrinkled brown paper wrapping. It fits in the palms of your hands. It is easy to hide. You wish it was easy to misplace and forget about. But it follows you, no matter where you go. It is as much a part of you as the air in your lungs. As the blood in your veins.
By L. M. Williams5 years ago in Psyche
Innocent Eyes Tell Truthful Lies.
While ducked under a bed that had been untouched for months, I could sense his presence in the room. Trying to conceal my cry and squeezing my mouth shut only made the situation more unbearable. I believed the closest hanger could provide me protection. As I shortly came out to discover, it did not. I watched as he pranced around the room for a few moments waiting to see if I would surrender. He laid down on the floor and snatched the hanger out of my tight little grip. I overestimated the strength of a girl my age. It was a dark misty night, therefore there was no shadow I could follow along the floor of the bedroom. I instead listened as my drunken father walked around the bed frame, slightly clanking his beer bottle against the metal base as he passed. After a few seconds, a charge of adrenaline rushed through my veins as I wiped my sour tears away and decided enough was enough-or so I thought. Beer bottle shards cut through my tiny toes as I crawled out from under the bed, darted towards the door, and away from my college-bound brother's bedroom.
By Elizabeth Rightler5 years ago in Psyche
The Perfect Chocolate Cake
It was the perfect chocolate cake. The first one she’d made. Oh, not the first cake she'd make. Not the first chocolate cake either. Oh no, there were many iterations of that. Not the first she had enjoyed. Not the first that looked good. She didn’t even know how it tasted. And yet somehow she could tell. This was a perfect cake. The first perfect cake she had ever made.
By Elizabeth Camilleri5 years ago in Psyche
