depression
It is not just a matter of feeling sad; discover an honest view of the mental, emotional and physical toll of clinical depression.
Depression
Heaviness—in your chest, in your stomach, or even in your head. Almost like you are being weighed down by heavy weights; only, you can't see or get a hold of them. You don't even know where they came from. You don't recall anything that may have caused it. You ignore it and call it a effect of bad weather, or the result of last night's bedroom argument, or just casually even feeling uneasy.
By Swati Shingala7 years ago in Psyche
Blackness
Ever have one of those days where you feel like you'd be better off dead? Once you have that one day, that thought consumes you. You start to visualize yourself gone from the world and you see the impact, or lack of, that would occur if you did not exist. If you are someone unimportant like me, your existence is not necessarily needed.
By Elijah Taylor7 years ago in Psyche
Depression
I have no friends, nobody likes me, I’m not good enough, I feel alone in this world, what would people think if I was gone, maybe this world will be better without me, I have no purpose here. Sadness, remorse, guilt, shame, anger, hate, empty, alone—these are all the feelings that come to our heads and swallow us whole into what we feel like is the abyss of our current lives struggling with depression.
By Emily Buehner7 years ago in Psyche
Stigma
Hello, sorry I’ve taken longer to write then I planned. Here is story number three. I hope you enjoy it. Thank you for reading my other stories. Honestly I never thought I would get tips, I was just hoping to make some money off of reads. But people are actually tipping me, WOW! Thank you very much! This story is going to be part of a series I’m writing named “Stigma.” As I write my stories, I am trying to write them in different tones. This one is more of a personal/technical tone. I am trying to find out what genre and what tone people respond to the most favorably. Then once that is discovered, that's how I’ll write more often.
By Eugene Shattuck7 years ago in Psyche
What Depression Can Look Like
7/15/2018 I think I love people that don't love me because I'm scared of worrying people. The people that really care notice things, and they worry. But when all he loved was my body, it was easy to hide everything. I could continue destroying myself, I just had to be strategic where I took it out on myself. Short shorts and t-shirts can hide more than you'd think. When you don't go on dates, it's easy to hide that you aren't eating. I could pretend to be okay for an hour or two each day, it was easy. It was so fucking easy to just be a body. I wasn't depressed, I wasn't anxious, I wasn't relapsing. I was my body and that was it. He didn't care so he never noticed. And I think that's why I loved him so much, he cared about me as much as I cared about myself.
By Stormy Robertson7 years ago in Psyche
Searching for Hope
The Accusation After getting married, I was able to get into The Art Institute International in Lenexa, Kansas. We ended up moving to Kansas City, Missouri to be closer to the school so I could attend classes much easier. However, that meant living with Cory’s parents and grandmother who was staying with the in-laws at the same time, too.
By Janice Page7 years ago in Psyche
Waking up with Depression
I open eyes, slowly. Another day here, and already I can tell it’s going to be hard. I can tell it’s going to be hard by the ache that rests in my chest. By the tightness that settles in my lungs. And mostly by the lack of feeling anything. I can tell that today is going to be long and exhausting. I already want to go back to sleep. I don’t want to get up, I don’t want to look in the mirror, and I definitely don’t want to hear my minds automatic self loathing response to seeing my reflection. But I push the blankets back anyway, slide my feet to the floor, and slowly sit up, my head immediately falling into my hands, my elbows on my knees. I sit there for a few minutes, convincing myself that I can do this. I stand up, and shakily walk to the bathroom. I refuse to look in the mirror. I won’t let the thoughts that are constantly racing through my mind take over, not this early. I go through my daily morning routine, sans mirror. I walk out the front door. I pause for a moment, feeling the sun on my face, in the chilly October air. I get in my car, and drive to work, music blaring, and feel the ebb of a headache beginning to take hold. I try to keep the horrible thoughts at bay, as they begin telling me that I’m no good, that I’m going to mess up, that someone is going to die because of me. I pull into the parking lot, walk into the building, up 17 stairs, turn, and up 9 more. Through a total of 4 key carded doors. I clock in, sit down at my console, log into what seems like a million screens. Put my headset on. Go ready. I pop a few Tylenol, even though they never work anymore. The first call drops in my ear. I handle it, hang up, and it’s nothing but thoughts about how I could have handled it better. This process is repeated for the next 12 hours, with my headache, along with those self loathing thoughts, slowly getting worse with each call. The worse the call, the worse the thoughts are. At the end of my shift, I leave, feeling like I have failed. I feel like I have failed my callers, and my coworkers, both who depend on me to do my absolute best one hundred percent of the time. I drive home, taking the long way; the longest and most round about way I have yet to find. Thinking about all the people I have let down, all the people I have yet to let down, I hold the tears in. As I pull into my driveway, my tears dry, and my eyes brighten at the thought of my dog. She’s always happy to see me. I’m greeted by her at the door, jumping all over me, and howling like she always does. I go to my bathroom, shower, finish my bedtime routine, again, sans mirror. I don’t want the bad thoughts to be the last ones in my mind before I fall asleep. I crawl into bed, and my amazing little puppy burrows into my back, I close my eyes. I think about my day, and as I do, I try to remain as objective as possible. It’s something that I am still working on. I realize that my day has not been as bad as my thoughts would lead me to believe. That I have not failed like I thought I had. And the last thought I have before I drift off to dreamless sleep is, “You are enough.”
By Brookelyn Schuler7 years ago in Psyche
The Heart
How do we express how we feel? Writing, dancing, singing? Emotions bleed through all of us, through everything we do. But what happens to us if our emotions are blocked from being expressed? And what if the person we want to express things to, we can't due to distance, or simply have no way to get into contact with them?
By Elijah Taylor7 years ago in Psyche
A Letter to Depression 10/13/18
Dear Depression, Today, I woke up and looked you in the eyes. You stared back at me, and I recognized your battered face and scarred hands from all the times we have fought. You stroked my hair and I let you. I thought it felt good to be stroked. Nobody ever touches me. Touch is as hideous the thought of crawling under the covers with a stranger—my skin cannot accept your touch. Has anyone ever told you that your hands are beautiful from afar? That you taste of delight, and you warm my soul.
By Analyn Foust7 years ago in Psyche
Interviews with a Big Black Broad: Session #4
Interviewer: How did your collegiate aspirations relate to your experience with BDD? BBB: Before I begin, I should to warn you that this may be the most bizarre coming of age story you've ever heard. I chose a difficult major in college for two reasons: It was revered as prestigious and lucrative, and I was told that once I graduated from all those years of rigorous study, I would have little to no time for a social life while I practiced my trade. I wanted a career that would keep me so busy that I had no time to dwell on my awful appearance. I also wanted a preoccupation that would provide an understandable reason for why I had no time for romantic relationships—why I would never have children. My plan was to strictly focus on my studies, after which, I'd rely on my friends to satisfy whatever social needs I had. I loved to laugh and discuss politics, philosophy and art. So, I targeted those who majored in these subjects to help me indulge my interests when I wasn't studying my more conservative curriculum. Perhaps every now and then, I would enjoy a casual tryst or two if I was feeling up to it. I'd be a workaholic socialite from now on, I thought. Without time to focus on myself—to obsess over my ugliness, I could avoid what I referred to as "The cloud," which were my severely depressed episodes. My new distractions worked to steady my moods and lessen my obsessions. My grades were almost perfect. I'd even managed to acquire a small but well-coveted grant from the university strictly based on my academic merit. There are ugly people all over the world who are very prosperous, I thought. I studied the careers of very successful, powerful men who were also practicing the trade within the field I was studying. Most of them were single, with few or no children, and no one seemed to criticize their life choices. They weren't stigmatized for not living a conventional life. They were celebrated as playboys in fact. This was one of several observations that solidified my decision to become a playgirl. I could be satisfied with just a great career and friends. No husband. No children. I couldn't really conceive of living what all the other girls had coveted since holding their first doll baby: A "normal" life.
By Anarda Nashai7 years ago in Psyche
My Tattoo Helps Me Fight My Depression
For roughly 10 years, I have been suffering from depression. It went undiagnosed and untreated for far too many years. I didn't take the step to attempt to get help until I had a breakdown and my suicidal thoughts and ideations were becoming too much for me to handle. Before talking to my doctor about it, I had just accepted that my depression would control the rest of my life.
By Natalia Darby7 years ago in Psyche
