recovery
Your illness does not define you. It's your resolve to recover that does.
Doors
Chairs. Nothing but rows, upon rows of brown hospital recliners, filled with men in a zombie like state. Some were covered with the traditional white, and very uncomfortable hospital blankets, while others just sat there staring at the small flat screen television. The T.V. was inside of a brown wooden box, with a glass front, that I would later find out was to keep them from breaking the television, and using it as a weapon. This room was dark, even though it was barely past noon, and it felt cold, unusually cold, even for a hospital.
By Rachel Bonneval7 years ago in Psyche
Tales of a Lost Girl
I don’t belong here. I’m not like them. I thought to myself as I disconnected my eyes from my bed buddy who continued talking. I couldn’t completely make out what she was doing in her bed across from mine with how dimly lit our vacant room was. Mid-conversation, I realized she kept bringing her hand up, would lick her fingers, and then dropped her hand back down underneath an old jading blanket with the words FREMONT HOSPITAL MENTAL INSTITUTE imprinted on it. I figured it would be best if I pretended to doze off, then to try and make friends. My bed buddy’s name was Rose. She was twelve-years-young and talked about how her parents had left her at the mental institute while they went on a cruise. She modeled for a living. Some days she spoke with a British accent, as she talked about her extravagant lifestyle. When a staff member would address her, though, the hood in her came out. We were bed buddies at Fremont Hospital.
By Sandra Yvette7 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
All the World Is Made Up of Faith and Trust and Pixie Dust
As many people know, this past summer was not the time for me. Actually thinking, about the past 20 years haven't been the time for me. And I couldn't figure out why I was stuck in this dark place. It really felt like I was walking up an escalator that was going down. It was a really confusing process because I would have days on top of the world and be fine and then have days where I just didn't wanna be around. I started off just sad but then that sadness grew and grew into something that was so much bigger than me. And I let it grow until I completely began to fall apart. Now, this was hard because I hated talking about my emotions and I just wanted to keep them locked away. I liked putting everyone before making sure they were happy no matter what I was feeling. I guess you could say I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. And all that weight finally hit me. And I just exploded like a volcano, a very, very big volcano. I was ready to leave this earth. I was tired of fighting. I was tired of trying, and I was tired of having to be okay when I wasn't. People always say it's okay not to be okay but in reality, that's not how the world works. The world does expect you to be okay and if you aren't okay then hide it. Sadness is a very unwelcoming feeling from the world and that's the truth.
By Sunny Franklin7 years ago in Psyche
Pain
The cold and sharp pain of a razor against skin was the only thing that kept me sane. I was young, too young to feel like I was worth nothing. I was in 7th grade when I first picked up the razor blade from my step-dad's toolbox. I knew my intention and I was going to do it. The girls in my 6th grade class did it—it had to be cool, right? Oh, how wrong I was. I was naive, broken, distraught. I felt like I deserved the pain when I knew I didn’t. Most people would've said that I was looking for attention—oh, how wrong they were. I did everything in my power to hide it from everyone, especially my parents, and the thigh was the most ideal spot, easily hidden by pants.
By Breann Elizabeth7 years ago in Psyche
The Truth Behind Trauma
It’s okay to talk about trauma. In a world that is advancing so quickly, and everything is available at the click of a button, things like mental health can get swept right under the rug. It’s hard to try and keep up with an ever-growing society without losing some part of your identity and self-care. I didn’t openly talk about my trauma because it never fit into the topics that were spoken about. My trauma did not fit into sexy celebrities on vacation or what the Kardashians are up to now. It’s so easy for us to talk about murderers and rapists, but never about the victims who were unfortunate to come across those people. It’s so easy for us to want to kill Brock Turner, the rapist from college, but never stop to think about how his victim is doing. For women it has become even harder for us to bring up our trauma, because people will assume that we are lying or exaggerating for attention. The problem is that there are people who have exaggerated or lied for their personal gain, and ended up hurting many people in the process. That made things extremely difficult and unfair for those who deal with real emotional, mental, or physical trauma. There are so many forms of it, and while some may seem worse than others, it all feels very similar. Everyone processes things differently, but there are two main similarity between trauma victims. They feel scared and they feel hurt. There becomes a time when you lose a lot of yourself in what happened to you.
By Hannah Livingston7 years ago in Psyche
Open Letter to 15-Year-Old, Suicidal Me
I know how badly you’re hurting. I can still close my eyes and picture you, standing in front of that mirror, looking at those bloody bruises. I can still hear the sounds of you crying out in pain and terror. I know those cracked ribs make it hurt to take even the shallowest breath. I remember the burning pain from that gash across your stomach, from his ring. And that’s not the worst of it.
By Elizabeth Brandon7 years ago in Psyche
