The beauty that wove your life together has lost all traces of the divine.
You saw the world in color once, and of those days you desire much.
Perhaps you have attempted to relive the joy, but have found yourself with no such luck.
And you cling to these blissful memories—where you were once content.
Clutching them tighter than you do the knife at your wrist.
Or perhaps this time it is a flurry of pills in your palms.
Or the gun you’ve stolen from your father’s lockbox.
And I myself can offer little words of emotional console
can hardly jerk you from your dark hole.
But I will try my best while I have this small chance,
so I beg of you to read what is coming next.
We’ll begin with conjuring up images of your parents,
fallen over your grave as your soul ascends to heaven.
Or perhaps the young child who will find your cold shell,
lip quivering, eyes water unsure of who to tell.
And if y
The doctor holds tight to my handlebars and lowers my dosage. The training wheels are off, and oh hey, look at me go! It's like flying but not, and I'm doing so well but then there's a horrible accident and I'm somehow upside down at the bottom of the sea with both wheels still spinning.
"Help," I say, and my doctor pats my head, puts a band-aid on my knee, and writes a note on my chart.
I've balanced by myself for months at a time, but I always end up hitting a fucking tree or falling off a cliff or something equally catastrophic because I am a catastrophic person. Except that is an exaggeration. I am an exaggeration.
I like to compare mental illnesses to mundane physical activities. Also you should know that I am sick but trying to get better.
Sometimes I relapse and then write poems about it.
It's not even the kind of sick where people bring you soup in bed and soothe your fevered brow. It's the kind of sick where I'm late to work because
Are there physical signs for people who have given up on life, like symptoms of some terminal disease?
Maybe you can see it in their eyes, that ashy grey colour that indicates the total absence of any form of hope.
Maybe you can smell it on them; a sour, despondent smell, similar to the stench of turned milk.
Perhaps you can hear it in their voice, the lack of electricity, the lack of life.
A dead voice.
The voice of a suicidal person should sound like a note played on a harpsichord. Tinny, listless, flat. An unpleasant noise that makes your skin crawl. Nails on a chalkboard.
But maybe there aren't any signs.
Maybe the nicest boy in class is the same boy who gets abused by his step dad every day after school.
Maybe the girl with the infectious laugh is the same girl who is too afraid to tell anybody that she got raped because she still blames herself.
Maybe the boy who does charity work for homeless people is the same boy who cries himself to
Always telling me I’m the worst
At what I do best,
I must confess,
That in my head I am just a mess
Of whats and whys
Sweaty palms and pounding head
But in my mind,
All my ideas are dead.
That’s what I am -
Buried too deep to get away.
Invisible noose around my neck
I can never forget
Those rope-burn memories.
In the end we’re all stories
And I am just a novella
Full of whatever
Makes me feel something,
At the time.
I am not fine.
My body is a coffin
And it’s all full of dust
Listen to me here;
Make this clear -
I will never win,
But at least I will never lose
Because I will always choose
For what I think is right.
But that monster,
In my chest,
A bullet of unrest
Lodged deep and true.
People love me,
I know they do,
But it won’t get through
And I feel so alone.
The monster poisons me
And I know,
For it must b
tend to glorify things that hurt.
They brag about things
that people struggle with.
Mental illness is not a label.
It is not a badge nor a privilege
or something you have to earn.
they battle voices in their heads
that they do not even recognize.
People struggle to tame
their inner demons
and keep up an image
that the world expects them to uphold.
Mental illness is not cute,
being so anxious you cannot speak is not a quirk.
Relying on people to take care of you is not romantic.
Your life is not an episode of Skins
The idea of Effy and Freddie is fictional,
no one is going to save you.
We go home and muffle our cries
while dragging razors across our wrists
chasing pills with bottles of vodka.
Our thoughts turn on us
Like a loaded gun,
and we are stuck forever
in a game of Russian roulette.
We wear long sleeves,
and try to drown out voices with headphones.
We tremble at the thought of giving up the chemicals
we have become dependent
I'm leaving this post-it tucked in the side of the train-seat. If you're reading this, you've seen it. I've seen you sit here every few Monday mornings, sometimes tapping a bent, unlit cigarette against your thigh, sipping from your tea (who brings a tea cup onto a train anyway?); sometimes staring at the rain outside, or reading your well-worn, beaten copy of Jane Eyre (I hate that you fold the corners down - it's bibliophilic abuse. I wish the book would papercut you to defend itself a little, but I digress).
You seemed so sad this Monday morning past. Please smile again. I love it when your eyes catch the light of something I'm unaware of, something silently and intimately your own; a secret from the world that makes everything all the more meaningful to you.
- The Passenger
I'm not in the habit of reading post-its from strangers. I found a love-letter hidden in a newspaper once, that the author forgot or was too afraid to send. It made me sad to think
sitting in the dining hall trembling
over my cup of tea. A huge Christmas
tree twinkles merrily beside me in red, blue, silver, pink and gold.
Patients huddle together outside to talk,
but I'm forbidden to join them,
trapped inside the ward on a category four.
They're all strangers to me, I've spoken to no one.
Smoking their cigarettes in faded pajamas,
looking tired and worn down,
lips twisting into smiles as the smoke
curls down into their lungs.
Nurses find me hiding from evil spirits in the cupboard.
They let me stay inside, safe until the panic stops and
the shadows disappear, give me blankets
to stay warm, until they take me by the hand and lead me out.
Two psychiatrists come to speak with me
While insects pour from my lips
And satellites speak of the death of stars
The voices scream at me
But I talk.
They want me to trust them
They want me to stay alive.
A nurse takes six canisters of my blood,
a deep frothy red. It pours out of my
The walls are closing in...
Can't breathe!Can't breathe!
What is the matter with me?
Just one little touch...
Just one little thought...and...
I can't see.but I see too much.
I can't hear.and yet I hear it all
I can't think.Oh please, make the bad thoughts stop...
I want to claw it all off.
I want to fall to the floor,
to writhe around,
but I can't, can I?
Normal people don't do that.
Sane people don't do that.
Am I sane?
I don't feel it.
All these bad thoughts-and the rush
Sink my teeth into my arm
A welcome distraction
Pull down your sleeves...
Calm your breathing...
The Rush is gone.
Shame comes in waves. Its not like a scalpel or the cold touch of a surgeons hand. They never tell you that it can eat away at your insides like a virus. (That it eats you alive). Shame is not a symptom of the mentally ill. Its just a side effect.
In my creased hospital dress, I wish for death. The sweetest sleep away from detached, gloved hands and dissociative expressions. The never-ending hostile questions and the silent blame and accusations lying unspoken on dry lips.
You did this. Youre not sick. Youre just a twisted, manipulative lunatic.
Under medication and the slow Novocain drip of sedation, I wish for another disease. I want a tumor in my head something t
I feel so anxious
I feel that i can do things that sound impossible
I feel so imperative that costs me a lot relax me
Sometimes I feel very depressed
I feel so empty and lost
My brain just tells me to kill myself and that hurt me
I feel so tired that I can hardly get out of my bed
And the only thing I can say is I'm sorry
I'm sorry to be a burden to all
I'm sorry to be so irritable
I'm sorry to hurt myself
I'm sorry to be me
I'm sorry to hurt my family, friends, etc.
But this is not my fault
All this is because of my illness
I'm not a monster
I'm not crazy
I'm not a freak
I'm just ill
your very existence does not make you transphobic.
You are not an oppressor by default,
do not blame yourself for someone else’s transphobia,
because it’s not your fault.
Racism isn’t restricted to just whites.
Anyone can be a racist,
you need only express a prejudice.
Sexism is practically the same,
no matter the gender,
it goes both ways.
Mental illness is not some fad,
it’s not something to be tossed around so freely,
like some badge.
It’s not something you can self-diagnose you have,
therefore using it as an excuse to act like an ass.
There is a stigma created when you act out, you see.
And the world associates mental illness
with your disgusting tendencies.
It is horrific and cruel to use mental illness as an excuse,
especially when the illness you claim to have is not
Feminism is not for every boy, man, woman or girl.
It is not a cure that will heal inequality in our world.
Or maybe I can't explain
This life that I live
And how I deal with the pain
The mind is but fickle
And a slave to its design
Does it try to keep sustaining
Even though it runs blind
The symptoms are there
And you'll never believe
All the words that I hear
And the memories I grieve
The world is a mess
And reality is dazed
Contorted by madness
That is driving me crazed
Pills keep me stable
But not happy or at peace
They bring control to the madness
Just a few moments of release
I wish for a cure
To live a life worth living
But my fate has no mercy
And peace it is not giving
I lay on the floor
Asking why my head spins
Whether it is a fault of my own
Or of my chemicals within
All I know is the haze
As conversations turn to mumbles
And my head cannot proc
For God's sake, eat!
Deal with it.
Find a balance and stick with it.
There are people dying for that food you waste.
Control yourself, woman!
Stop being so clingy!
Do you always have to have the spotlight?
Yeah right, attention whore.
It's not all about you!
It's not that bad.
Not everyone is out to get you.
You're just weak.
You're a cold one, aren't ya?
Why you gotta be so weird all the time?
Get a grip on reality.
There are better ways to get attention.
Why don't you just kill yourself already?
If you have said any of these things,
To any of these people,
Get a fucking perspective.
So, I would like to compare the two disorders, Schizophrenia and Dissociative Identity Disorder. To shed light and more understanding about these two mental disorders.
Schizophrenia is probably one of the most stigmatized mental disorders. It seems that in so many cases, dealing with this disorder is just too much for some family members and the person suffering from the disorder loses family support and any help that they could provide. People suffering from this disorder tend not to stay in treatment and tend not to take the medications that have been prescribed for them. This can definitely cause a lot of upheaval within the family. Schizophrenics sometimes hear voices that seem to come from outside themselves. Not all schizophrenics hear these voices, but many do. If medication is
Ill be compelled to assure you that Im fine,
Both by societys expectations and my own inability to open up.
In truth, I long to let you in, to somehow ease this pain, that overwhelms me to the point of sheer agony.
But where would that get either of us anyway?
Theres nothing you could ever do or say.
Theres no cure for this paradoxical, inescapable torment,
No matter how positive you say I must be.
I grasp for whatever remedy or opium this world offers,
Whether it be a shopping spree round my favourite stores
Or an invitation into your bedroom.
But nothing will ever be good enough,
This endless dark hole is an insatiable monster
And time is its one worthy opponent.
All it takes is time for these thoughts and feelings to fade.
But what about now?
What am I to do with myself whilst every path that opens up to me is suddenly blocked by the fear and negativity of my mind?
Theres nothing I ca
how the walls became
a veiny sight-
(could the cause be me calling out
in the middle of the night?)
and alone I stand here,
how my feet got
nailed upon this floor-
(do you hold my ankles
like an anchor
does the shore?)
and I know it’s been thirteen years
since you were here at all,
according to the hash marks
the wooden wall
but I can’t
of our memories,
so for now,
I’ll let the doc declare:
Insanity needs company.
Reality: Men can be, and are, sexually assaulted every day. Any man can be sexually assaulted regardless of their size, strength, appearance, occupation, race or sexual orientation. Male rape can happen at home, work, out doors, in a car, in the military, prisons, in locker rooms, rest rooms, public toilets, in fact just about anywhere a rapist thinks they can get away with it, and it can happen to any male.
It should also be noted that it is not unusual for a male to "freeze" during a rape, in part due to shock, and fear of ones life. Remember, the rapist will no doubt have done this before, and hence be prepared for what happens, but few, if any men, have even considered in their mind the possibility of such things happening and are thus totally unprepared.
Myth: Only gay men are sexually assaulted.
Reality: Although gay men are raped slightly more often than heterosexual men this is due more to the fact that they can be the target an
because one in five bipolar people
escape their emotions by taking
themselves out of the game
or quit school because its a game they can’t play.
I don’t want to see the eyes of my school teacher
as she tells me the words I’m forcing out
can’t force my grades to go up as my mood went down.
I don’t want to text you at 4 am to tell you
I love you because my hypomania wants me
to have the confidence to try at something
I never really had.
I don’t want to describe my symptoms to
my therapist as colors because I don’t want
the high white and the low blue to paint my entire canvas.
I want a abundance of mixes.
I don’t want to see my fathers eyes as
he opens the door and sees me curled up,
so frozen solid as he scrambles to find
the answers to make me thaw.
I don’t want to figure out my family tree anymore,
to think about if they gave me healthier roots
that could give me limbs with more buds to
A complex topic, is it what others see? Is it what you see? Is it what you feel? Is it who you are inside, or the persona that you carefully create? Is it what makes you you? Your individuality, your personality, your wants and dreams? Or is it a creation of your past and experiences?
When others see me they see the body, a relatively thin tall frame with dyed red hair. But that is not who I am, who I am they cannot see, many cannot even comprehend. For you see I am not I, I am we, for we are multiple. We share this single body, but we are not one, we each have our own thoughts, own feelings, even own memories. We have each been created and shaped by our past, but each into a different form.
We share a body as many would share a home, we argue as friends argue, and we exist within this world.
So do we have an identity? Do we have one each, or do we share one as we share the body? Identity is used throughout social science to describe an individual's comprehension