I wanted to see if I could write an HiE... here's what I came up with. Not sure how it turned out..
Summary - Leon is tired of life and all the lies of his so called friends. So when he decides to end his existence, he somehow gets a second chance. How will he handle living in Equestria? Can he learn to live again and make friends? And why did he get a second chance to begin with?
MLP:FiM is owned by Hasbro. I mention a lot of other stuff in this story, so anything I mention is owned by their creator.. may make a list later.
I've had depression for three years, and I used to hate the way my illness had changed me. I thought I could never be the girl I used to be. But my psychologist helped me to see that my illness can never change the inner me. In the end, I will have changed I will be stronger for this battle but my central values and the things that make me 'me' will always remain the same.
I am not my illness.
I have schizophrenia. People call me crazy, and avoid me, because I hear voices and talk to them. Maybe I am crazy sometimes, when I have an episode. But I'm not always crazy. I may be schizophrenic, but schizophrenic is not all I am.
I am not my illness.
The girls at school all tease me because I always stutter when I talk, and sometimes I try to speak but my mouth can't form the words. They call me retarded, dumb. I've never really had any real friends, all because I have autism. They can't look past my illness and see the real me, the 'me' who longs to be accepted like any normal person. I may be autistic, but I'm still human. I still have feelings.
I am not my illness.
I have bipolar disorder, also known as manic depression. Many people consider me 'unemployable', because of my illness. They say I'm 'unstable and unpredictable'. But just because I have bipolar, doesn't mean I'm unstable. I take medication to stabilise my moods, and though I have to take care not to stress out too much, my condition doesn't prevent me from working, and working well. I can actually be very efficient and organised with what I do. But people don't see it, because they never give me the chance. Bipolar disorder may be part of my life, but it doesn't define who I am or what I'm capable of doing.
I am not my illness.
The guys at school call me a wuss, because I freak out so much before exams I throw up and faint. They reckon I'm chicken. I can't tell them I have an anxiety disorder. They reckon mental illnesses are for weaklings. They don't understand. Anyone can be affected. Anxiety has been part of my life for a long time, and mostly I still manage to live normally. Why can't they see that?
I am not my illness.
I had a nervous breakdown two years ago, and it led to me slowly sliding into mental illness. I missed almost a whole year of school last year. Now I'm back, and even though I know I'm not meant to take things too fast, it bugs me that people treat me like I'm going to go crazy at a moment's notice. I know I'm fragile, but why do they have to always make such a big deal of it? I'm still the same person I always was.
I am not my illness.
I have suffered from anorexia for my whole high school life. At first I got so many compliments on how skinny I was, which only pushed me further. Then people started to notice that I wasn't just pretty skinny any more, I was skeletal. They call me crazy, that I can't see myself for what I actually am. They say I'm delusional. I'm not delusional. I'm sick. I know what I'm doing is wrong, but I can't stop it. It's the illness. It's not me.
I am not my illness.
Ever since the girls at school noticed I had scars on my wrist, I have been the subject of merciless taunting. My friends have turned their backs to me; they say I'm crazy. They look at me with disgust. I'm not crazy though. Or at least, I'm not crazy all the time. I'm sick. It is an illness, this addiction. It's paralysing. I still cope though. I'm still me, whatever my illness. I'm still me.
I am not my illness.
I am not my illness. My illness is not me. I am above this. I am above my illness. I. Am. Not. My. Illness.
Edit: Oh. My God. OK, so I showed this to my psychologist, and she liked it so much she asked me to email it to her so she could frame it and put it on her desk for all her clients to see. That part is amazing enough. But yesterday she told me that one of her clients was so touched by it that they asked if they could have it, and they took it home and they keep it on their bedside table, and every morning they look at it and it helps them stay strong. She also told me that this person one morning just could not get out of bed, so they rang her, and she told them to pick up the frame and hold it to their chest and just tkae it one step, one leg at a time, and at the end they were standing, holding my piece of writing to their chest !!!!!!! There is no words to describe what I feel about that....
Edit 2: OMG I came third!!! Thank you so much everyone!!!
Only one of these is real - the first one, and it's me. The others I made up, but they represent very real, very possible situations when people with mental illnesses are confronted by others. Remember - there is more to us than our illness. Don't judge us.
My entry for 's contest: "I am not my illness." Click: [link] to see more information.
If you; have ever been l o s t, damaged, (heart)broken, vulnerable, unloved, unwanted, unneeded.
If you; have ever lay on the cold ground and let the solid surface dig into your skull, graze your ankles and induce sh-shivers to see if you still r e a l l y feel.
If you; have ever stood in the heavy, pouring rain hoping that as it soaks you to the bone and cleanses your pores, maybe it will wash away everything about you too, giving you a fresh start.
If you; have ever slipped under the duvet, swallowed the lump in your throat and squeezed your eyes shut praying that once you drift into your deep slumber, you will never wake up.
This is for you.
Each moment fades like days fade to nights fade to dreams fade to mornings fade to something fade to nothing and in the end it becomes hard. It becomes desolate. You're isolated and you're just stranded. You're trapped on a raft with no direction to sail, because each route is blocked by the violentviolentviolent ocean waves that crash and clash and clatter tumultuously, scarcely evading you and your little rigid raft. Sometimes you fall overboard and you find yourself grasping onto what you have left. Just clinging and clasping and clutching, not caring if your knuckles are going to break. You just. Don't. Care anymore.
I know how it feels to watch life f a d e away. I know how it feels to grow older without growing wiser. I know how it feels to be lonely and to let the seconds fly. One year later, it feels as though a decade has been lost. Tomorrow is never worth waiting for. Life will never wait for you. Minutes become hours become days become months become years and in that time, you won't find a pause button. You need to take each passing second as it arrives on your doorstep without having the courtesy to ring the bell. You need to scream and cry and laugh until you lose your breath. You need to jump off your raft and swim to the shore. Don't hold back.
We all consist of tiny pieces of everything. It brings us together in the viscid web that is our world, our community. Together we stand and fall with great trepidation yet great strength; hand in hand, heart in heart as we maunder together. Our short stay on this earth is both futile and substantial. If we can just change one life, one moment in a person's time here and make each person we encounter smile...We have meaning. I want you to know that sometimes you will feel lonely, but you will never be alone. There is almost seven billion people by your side.
Life takes many forms, shapes, silhouettes. It's full of variety; both good and bad. We all connect somewhere in the middle. Dried banks can retain beauty just like a flowing river. We keep flowing too, until we reach a dead end, a brick wall. Despite this, we live on and continue stumbling and falling and getting back up together.
Everything moves so fast and the fuel usually found in the air we breathe will occasionally run out as you contemplate the spiral that sums up your existence. But let me tell you this: You are your own oyster. No matter what happens or doesn't happen or never will, we all breathe the same oxygen. Our shell is flesh and bone. You don't have a soul, you are a soul and nothing can take that away from you.
You might not believe this, but you are soso beautiful. You are soso special. You are soso important. Every scar, lump, bump, tooth and feeling you have - that's you. And you know what? It can never be replicated. You are unique, and no-one can be exactly like you. Take care of yourself, because no-one like you will ever exist on this earth again. You're distinctive in your own little way whether you accept that or not.
S m i l e. Smile for me, smile for those who lack hope, smile for you. Let it reach your eyes and feel it.
Believe me: You are strong, you are wonderful, you are needed...
You are loved. As life passes by, you will be loved even more by people from around the world. And you will deserve it. No matter what happens, no matter what stones or hills or mountains stand in your way, never forget. Open your heart, open your mind and live.
You are free, you are what you are, and I love you. All of you.
Prompts for feedback: Is the imagery effective in conveying the message and emotion, or is is overbearing and unnecessary? I know pieces along these lines already exist on deviantART: Does this stand out? If not, how can I add a bit of freshness? Too long? Too short? Where can I expand this? Anything else?
I'm currently doing Literature Commissions. If you are interested in requesting literature from me, see my guidelines here!
we use to watch Fight Club together, because she said that it made her feel a little less alone, and i could never reply so i held her in my lap.
and she told me she was kalea's dizzy mind.
and in real life, you would think nothing of anything really, because she watches the birds fly just like you do. the morning rises on the same side of her window, and she can watch the clock tick away hours, just like you.
and she told me she was kalea's spinal cord.
i watched her pick at her fingernails for too long, and always decided i would leave as soon as they started bleeding. her arms are full of scars where she thought she felt something crawling up her skin, only to find she was still alone. i told her i was here, but she turned over(and i can still hear her uneven breathing)
and she told me she was kalea's collapsed lungs.
it amazed me how everything reminded her of something. there was a time when she said her favorite color was orange, and a smile forced over her face. she was connected to the window the rest of the time.
"Did you know that jack-o-lanterns are orange, and for even a little while, they are happy just to be. and then one day, their light goes out, and sometimes, you can never find that light again."
He was tired. He was always tired these days; between the chemo, the meds, the fucking fighting for his life, he was exhausted.
And it never seemed to end.
Life was hard, getting the best of him these days. Most of it was spent alone in a quiet apartment he shared with no one. Most of the things that had been important to him had stepped back - not gone entirely, but just far enough away that their faces seemed blurred, unrecognizable.
Looking back on it, it made sense and the more he'd learned over the years, he understood why it had happened this way.
He would never have imagined him thinking it then, in his youth, but women dealt with shit in a way totally different than men. They tended to stiffen their upper lip and face life head on, for better and for worse.
He remember all too well, her leaning against the bright red monstrosity that was her car outside of the hospital: him out of his first bout of chemo and feeling so sick that he wanted to find a bottle to crawl in for several hours.
She'd driven him home.
And that was all there was to it. Nothing had really been said or done, but she'd been there, without question, without explanation, without needing a thanks. He saw her at least once a day - whether he wanted to or not.
It was hard for a man to ask another man for help. Maybe that was what it was. It had been different before, them in the thick of things, of life that had no seeming end. When you're young, you think you can do anything, be anyone. They'd been a rag-tag bunch, fighting for their lives and the lives of everyone else, it seemed. But years had gone by.
The day he'd told them all what the doctors had said, everything changed. And he didn't blame them. He could only imagine what it must have been like, them watching him go through the motions: the chemo, the sickness. His hair had fallen out; it would start to stubble back to life, and then there was the chemo again.
He didn't blame them.
The door to the kitchen swung open and she walked inside. A pair of scissors settled on the table at the chair opposite his. Then, his clippers.
Her boot slid around the leg o the chair, and in a neat motion, she spun it around, sitting in it backwards.
"What are you doin'?" he asked her, but she said nothing - nothing worth saying, at that point.
The only sound between them for a long moment was the sound of their breathing, the nearly-silent hiss of his cigarette burning between his lips, the thing that was helping him die.
She started to take her braids out.
They sat in silence, her fingers working - fingers that were rough and calloused, subtly stained with nicotine and too much grease from cars and cordite.
It took her a while and he didn't mind the quiet.
When she was done, it was nothing but kink after kink of dark hair, so brown it was nearly black - the color of good top soil.
"What are you don'?" he asked again, but she said nothing. Just smiled at him, as she started to gather her hair in her hands.
She suddenly looked young, her realized; like it was ten years ago and he was giving her a piggy back ride, the both of them sloppy drunk in the middle of the night, coming back from some bar. It was good to see her smile like that.
She hadn't done it in months.
Hair in her hand, she reached down for the scissors, lifting them.
"Madion," he said sharply, surprised that he still had that much bark left in him...but it didn't matter. With her, it rarely had, really: she'd always been stubborn, hard-headed, not willing to listen to him.
The scissors clicked atop the table and she set the handful of wild kinks on the table between them, before taking up the pair of clippers.
In mere seconds, the hair had been evened out, and now she had less hair than he had.
He couldn't quite recall the last time his throat had been that tight, that closed up, and this time, it wasn't because he was staring at a blank, empty ceiling at night, staring down his mortality. It wasn't because he was lonely or in pain or so unforgivingly tired.
She put the clippers down, one hand smoothing from the back of her head to the front, tiny, shorn-short hairs stirred up a moment, falling to the white of her wifebeater.
And after a moment, she reached out, taking the cigarette from his lips for a slow drag.
"These things'll kill you, yanno," she said, before giving it back to him, dark eyes half-masted and lazy, as they'd always been - even when he was at his worst, when he was furious with life, with everything, biting her head off because she was the only one there.
you're a disco dancing, drama queen with dirty hair and the permanent smell of stale cigarettes. but god, are you beautiful, twisting and dancing under circular lights,
and vomiting when you're done.(acid does some crazy shit)
your hair was once blonde and beautiful like your eyes, but now it's laying in clumps almost everywhere, because you fucking pull out a strand whenever i'm around, i don't know why i do that to you.
but i never really ever offer to leave, either.
there's that one song that i always hear you listening to, it's the same old shit about love and loss and never being able to forget that special someone, i use to get mad at you for giving in to such conforming types of art.
but now i just let you go, because last time i actually made you cry.
"would you rather fly, or read minds?" i told you i'd rather read minds, and know what everyone thinks, because you can fly on a plane anyday, but no one ever thinks the same. and you nodded and pulled out some hair, turned over and watched the walls turn colors.
but that night i saw you jumping off your porch, and now my stomach hurts.
whenever you'd get fed up with me you'd leave out the front door, but you never slammed or shut it because you said you wanted me to feel sick as i watched you get smaller and smaller the longer i stared at you.
but i never told you, that i really did feel bad, and once even put on my glasses(and i watched you walk away longer than i ever have before)
i don't know when the time came that you just weren't happy anymore, but i remember the day that i forgot you altogether, but cigarettes just don't taste the same anymore, and i can't go on a plane without wishing i was falling from it,
but disco lights still spin, and sometimes i can see your eyes behind them.
Dear Diary, Today is my birthday and my loving husband bought me a wonderful gift - you. I guess after we found all of my old diaries stored in the attic, he knew I would love to have a new one. So today I am overjoyed to have such a loving husband. By the way, Diary, his name is Kurt. We have been married for 3 years and we have never been happier.
Kurt couldn't get out from work early, or so that is what he told me. He wants me to meet him at my favorite restaurant tonight. Of course, it's a surprise party. It's more than obvious; but I'm still wondering who will be there. Sally and Steve, for sure. Maybe the Carlsons will be there? Maybe my parents? I'm so excited this morning I woke up and he had this beautiful dress hanging on the door with a note. That said how much he loved me and
Dear Diary, I killed another woman today. She was very pretty, Diary. She looked almost like Sarah. She had the same long brown hair and slim figure. I really miss Sarah.
Today was such a long day, Diary. I followed her useless husband around town. I had to make sure that he would give me enough time to be alone with her. So after he left towards the flower shop I hurried to her house. I had thirty minutes to get the deed done; but I really only need two. She was too busy writing in you. So, thank you Diary, you made it easy for me.
The hunger to kill subsided today. I don't know when it will return but it will. But now thanks to you, Diary, I won't be alone.
Most tiresome and scintillating pathways Toward endlessly intoxicating lights, Glow longingly for better days, And the want of a nail for horseshoes rotten With the taste of blood and the steaming scent of regret. A purple eye and blood-stained thigh, And something better, maybe soon. A punctured heart and knotted veins, And telltale signs of wishful thinking For love in the morning, and the lights on at night.
Welcome to Rehab for Roleplayers, a series of articles aimed at helping roleplayers more successfully make the transition into writing fiction.
Introduction: How to Spot a Drow Illusionist
I can identify a habitual roleplayer from fifty paces. Those who've been spooked by my asking whether they're a roleplayer within ten seconds of reading their fiction will know what I'm talking about.
"But how did you know?" they gasp. When I'm done chuckling, I explain that I know they are a roleplayer, because they write like a roleplayer.
There's usually a pause, then, while the writer decides to what degree they're going to feel offended by this statement, and/or wonders whether I've been stalking them, before they pose the next question: "What, exactly, do you mean by that?"
What I mean is this: roleplayers almost invariably share the same basic writing habits, and some of these habits stand out as flaws in their non-RP material.
Many people develop their interest in writing via roleplay, and then a desire to write outside of that sphere as their RP skills grow past a certain point. The problem in transitioning from RP to fiction is that RP teaches people writing habits that simply don't wash in the real world of writing.
What makes these habits difficult to both identify and to shake is that they are generally learned by osmosis; the roleplayer does not deliberately or consciously learn them, but assimilates a set of habits over a period of time as they seek to become a better roleplayer, and strive to gain the esteem of their peers in the roleplay world.
The fact is, a great roleplayer does not need to be a great writer. While the best roleplayers are inherently, even obsessively, concerned with language, they still gain their successes in an area where the rules of publication-standard fiction do not apply.
In this series, I aim to help roleplayers identify these tell-tale habits so that they may, in doing so, eliminate those which are affecting their capacity to write fiction.
The language of RP is not the same as the language of fiction. The structure of a great RP is not the same as the structure of a novel or a short story. For the purpose of these articles, I have divided the relevant RP habits into two categories: language and structure.
In Part One, I'll begin the discussion of language, and identification of those RP habits which I have observed to be problematic in fiction.