recovery
Your illness does not define you. It's your resolve to recover that does.
I Owe My Life to the Forest
I got lost somewhere between dropping out of high school and living on the streets of Vancouver. I mean I was lost in life: a compass with no directions. I was addicted to the soft stuff (cigarettes and weed). The real problem, though, was my aimlessness. I was letting go of all my power, and why was I this way? There is no one answer except that, for whatever the reasons, I didn’t believe I was worthy of a prosperous life, a stable life, a life of abundance. I was creative and talented, but without a purpose—what good are those?
By Dunnigan Smyth7 years ago in Psyche
Real Depression
You are not all of who I am. Stop fighting over the spotlight that is my life. You want so much of me for yourself, but I can only give so much until there is nothing left to give. You lift me up throughout the day with the many things I do to distract myself from the fact that I have a real mental illness. I crawl into bed at night with my heart pounding with fear, fear of the negative thoughts that I know you’re coming with. It’s like the neighborhood potluck, except you’re the neighbor everyone hates. Remember what you did to me a little while ago? It’s like you became me and made me take those pills. You said, “I am you, and this is your only option for recovery. It’s the fastest way out, Sarah. Save yourself the pain and give it to those around you.” It makes me somewhat selfish because I’ve given into you far too many times. Taking handfuls of pills hoping that it would be my last handful. I was so desperate to feed into you. Remember that one night I lit a candle and melted off the plastic which encased the blade of a disposable razor? I shouldn’t have done that, but I did. Now all I see when I look at my legs are the scars you made me leave. You said, “Just cut the pain away, it’s easier.” If everything is so easy, then why isn’t it easy getting rid of you? People tell me to stop letting myself get hurt in the ways that I do. As if slamming on the brakes works with this kind of thing. I didn’t want to be the problem, but you didn’t get that. I didn’t want those around me worrying if I was going to make it out alive to see the sunshine the next day. I feel like I have to wear the fact that you control me like people wear their heart on their sleeve, saying, “Look at this world: This is me!” I was embarrassed by you. I can see my peers at school thinking, She must have got like no attention as a kid to be able to publicly display her insanity.These feelings are real, but no one wants to start a real conversation about them. Why? What are people so afraid of? To the teacher freshman year who reported my self-harm cuts, I wish you truly understood why those were there. To my friend who grabbed my arm really hard and pulled up the sleeve that hid them, I’m sorry. I know that I hurt those around me, but it’s not me, or it’s not who I want to be. I don’t know why I feel so disconnected. It’s like I’m trapped in a clear box and the things people say to me aren’t getting through. My ex-best friend’s mom said, “You are so loved, more than you know, and ______ really cares about you.” I’m sorry; I can’t hear you. That’s the funny thing about depression, it’s so selective as to what you hear from those around you. It picks and chooses every word that comes and goes. You know, I tried to kill myself. It happens. It’s not a casual thing. I wait for every little thing to build inside of me, and I can only take so much before depression pulls me to the bathroom, grabs that razor blade hidden inside the back of the toilet, and lets it dig itself into my skin waiting for a release from the pain I feel in this world. I won’t give in. I have it way easier than so many other parts of humanity. I felt like I was obligated to put those who didn’t make it out before me. They said, “Live for those who didn’t make it out alive because you’re lucky enough to do so.” If I’m so lucky, then why don’t I feel lucky? It’s like I won the depression lottery. I didn’t ask to be saved, but here I am, writing this in self-pity inside the clear box I have trapped myself in.
By Sarah Thompson7 years ago in Psyche
The Butterfly Project
Last year I lost all will to live. Simple everyday things like combing my hair, showering, or brushing my teeth became difficult. I had no desire to eat and my grades began to drop. I simply didn't have the motivation to do anything because nothing seemed worth it. My life was out of control and falling apart around me.
By Sophia Chajon7 years ago in Psyche
Eyes of the Beholder
Isn't it funny how we can put on nice clothes, comb our hair, put on makeup and suddenly we look all put together. It’s crazy because underneath all of that I still feel flawed. People look at me and they think I’ve got it all put together. My Instagram is filled with filtered pictures because without one I feel like my skin isn't clear enough. I feel like my eyes don't look bright enough. I love being me then some days I hate being me. Constantly comparing myself to other women trying to figure out why I wasn’t born with this or that. It's deeper than that. I once read that when placed in a room, women look at others to make sure she’s the prettiest in the room. How terrible is that? Sad to say that I’ve done it multiple times before. Maybe because someone buried the idea that I was ugly in my head before I could make my own opinion about myself. Maybe I’m just not that appealing as I would hope to be. Either way, society has conformed our minds into thinking we have to have a certain look. Well, quite frankly, I’m over it. I cant deal with pressure to constantly change my look to be defined as beautiful. I’m ready to write my own kind of beautiful.
By Mariah Harvey7 years ago in Psyche
How Mental Illness Affected My Life
TRIGGER WARNING: sexual abuse, self harm, suicidal thoughts. Throughout my life, I have struggled with various mental health issues. At a very young age, I faced trauma that no person should have to go through. Starting when I was just five years old, I had to learn how to begin coping with sexual abuse. For ten years, I worried about whether or not I would be able to sleep at night without my abuser coming into my room at some point while I slept. And I never told anyone, until about a year ago. I am nearly 21 now, and I still struggle with many things, because I was never able to healthily discuss what happened to me. I have never known how to talk about my trauma without making jokes about it, and unfortunately, that is not exactly the way to live after abuse.
By Linda Fitch8 years ago in Psyche
You'll Never Take My Sanity! Part 2
Have a look at the photo above, if you will. Then go take a peak at my previous journal—it's the same photo. But it looks different, doesn't it? It's a bit more colourful, because I increased the saturation on it since last time. Otherwise, it's exactly the same—but it seems so different. Mental health issues have a way of doing the same thing—anyone who has them knows this. Those who don't have them have a hard time understanding it—I know this because I was one of the lucky few who never had any issues until the last couple of years (although, as you read through these journals, you'll find that this may not be actually true). Hence, the example.
By Justin Foley8 years ago in Psyche
