recovery
Your illness does not define you. It's your resolve to recover that does.
From Anxiety & Fear to Shining & Vibing!
I was under this overpass and the sounds of the cars passing over reminded me of my child hood. My parents would always take me to the park when I was little. We would go on walks and be outside together. I learned to ride my bike there. It was a very nostalgic moment. It was a happy memory.
By Rachel Bullard5 years ago in Psyche
The Cure That Wouldn't Come
I am seven, huddled in a corner of the bathroom, breath suspended. No one can see me behind this locked door. No one can hear me, either. I have mastered the art of crying noiselessly. But still I hold my breath, wait for the sounds of footsteps to pass.
By Joanna Celeste5 years ago in Psyche
Sometimes
Life is hard. It's hard enough without all the extras; money, food, work, school. It's especially hard when you live with a mental illness. Today I woke in a great mood, happy even, just to find myself circling the drain a few hours later. My very existence was a rollercoaster heading ever downwards with no stop in sight. Finally, realizing that I had forgotten to take my medicine I leapt into action as if a few pills held the cure within them. It's been a while now and there is no change. The lights in the room still seem dimmer than normal, the fog hasn't lifted, my life has no value, and tomorrow can't come any sooner.
By Antonio Rodriguez5 years ago in Psyche
Stop Editing Your Photos
Every day, millions of edited selfies are posted on apps like Instagram, SnapChat or Facebook to create a vision of our society deemed as “beautiful.” No, I am not talking about the holiday filters or puppy ears, I am referring to the filters and editing that we intentionally use to change our physical appearance to reflect an image of ourselves that is unreal. It is my strong opinion that edited photos are not only ruining our lives but those lives we touch on social media, whether they be friends or strangers.
By Victoria Gairing5 years ago in Psyche
Manage the Mirror
Power, Worth, and Metaphor My cat had a fight with the mirror yesterday. She stood there and arched her back with righteous indignation and much to her dismay, the cat in the mirror did the same. The cat in them mirror was quite rude, really. One might think that’s a very silly experience. After all, a person will always know themselves in the mirror, always see right through such things.
By Duointherain5 years ago in Psyche
Imagine that...
The year was 2016 and my identity had vanished. I struggled to come to grips with what was happening but the more I struggled the more the answers seemed to evade me. The details in retrospect are unimportant, the only thing that mattered to me at the time was what was I going to do now that my dream job was gone. The dream job that I had done for the past 26 years was gone without any explanation or warning; just a phone call saying that I had no job to come to Monday morning. I knew things always work out for me so I began sending out my resume and looking for new careers that would surely come knocking on my door. However after many weeks of no after no piled up almost as high as my bills, I was forced to make a decision. As much as I dreaded it I began driving Uber everyday so I could scrape enough together to pay my bills. It was a temporary fix that lasted three long years as I floundered not realizing I was stuck in a financial and emotional crossroads and had no idea which way to go. I also was working at a golf course doing landscaping which sapped me of all my energy. My wife of only a year was my only haven as she tried to help me escape the inescapable path I was currently experiencing. We would exercise and she would encourage me to read and learn meditation as a way to change my inner state and decide what to do next.
By robert rowe5 years ago in Psyche
Dear Diary
Wednesday, February 2 Dear Diary, I am physically and emotionally exhausted, I have not slept in days. The thought of him coming back sends a chill through my blood and shivers down my spine. My wounds burn, my bruises ache. I have hit rock bottom and cannot bear the guilt he has appointed in me. I need to find a way out of this house, a way to keep my child safe, but it seems as though his recurring presence will never decease. My only outlet is you, a little black book covered hidden under some folded blankets in my bare room.
By Emma Elferdink5 years ago in Psyche
The first entry.
Mei's small but slender fingers traced delicately over the notebook bound by an old shoestring atop a stack of other similar ones. Dad's choice was always black, now a deep dusty grey. She had her own. It was an expense they couldn't afford; the damp smell in her dad's arms-width office was evidence of that. The scent made her insides twist with pain. It had been two months since his funeral and she still spent almost every day curled up under his desk, scared to open his drawers unless his perfume escaped to mix with the air becoming eternally lost. She often thought about opening and reading his notebooks, like they once did and yet a deep fear of something terrible happening held her back. Curious, she placed her index finger under the tattered shoestring and pulled gently; it held taut despite its years. If she unravelled them, would the words he had scribed lift off the page and float away? She lay on the floor, knees tight to her chest picturing that. Words floated, shimmering through the air around her, letters forming from specs of gold as the sunlight trickled through a small window. It made her smile watching her little world fizz and crackle with life.
By Tiffany Kee5 years ago in Psyche
