Tim was sitting alone in his room, cradling a gun. The room was small, and the lighting was dim with the black curtains pulled shut. The lack of light did not bother him; he liked it that way. Locked away from the outside world so that he could live independently was what he considered the…
Madness. Is it the cerebral cortex of calamity, the whole cerebrum, or something more? I think about this as I watch the light reflect from the silver point. Maybe it is a part of the brain we have yet to explore. Like the ocean’s depths: so close, and yet, so far. We humans like to…
It is five o’clock in the morning, and I can feel it already. The first thought to cross my mind is this: Do I really have to? My mind is racing around a mental maze, trying to find a way out of this situation. If I look to my left, I see only one outcome,…
“He often thought it deeply ironic that if a depressed person walked into his office and said the world was so grim that he could not face it, he had to treat him as a sick man. Actually, the patient was right. He saw the truth only too clearly. But he was sick, because he…
In many ways, I have confined myself to my prison: the four walls inside this house that I call home being the bars on my life. The very thing that contains me is also my comfort blanket. Shouldn’t your home be your safe space? Shouldn’t that be where you always feel safe? What if that…
**D**epression, ah, my dastardly nightmare. The distressing, dogmatic dumping of despair and anguish in my life. It is not just ”being sad”, and we can’t pull ourselves together and get on with it. We can be fine and dandy one moment, and then, bam, like the Tango man, it jumps out and hits us. We…
It is a dark shadow that stands atop some of us. Come rain or shine, light or dark, day or night, it is always there. It is a haunting reminder of the clouds that can suffocate our minds. I wonder if that is why my subconscious picked a dark cloud, or mist, for my first…
It starts in my fingers. I can feel numbness, just a slight tingling in the very tips. The cold clings to me like the bobbles of grass on a woollen jumper. Its tangling fingertips caress my own and stick to them like a tongue on an ice-cold steel pipe. It creeps like a mouse in…
Note: this was written with someone else about their PTSD. I am going to tell you a story. This will not be your ordinary tale; this is something different. This will be the story of my life. Ha! Boring, I hear you say, well perhaps, but this is the tale of my PTSD. I shall gloss over…
The song was wrong, and suicide is never painless. I am going to write this with my human. Another collaboration, once more working together to correct the wrongs that we see. This one is harder for him, not that it is easy for me. So with that in mind, it should be noted, the good…
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