Tag Archives: depression

Please Take It Seriously

I take sarcasm seriously a lot. I’m always the one who turns around and makes a face like, “You did what?”

I learned a long time ago that I’d much rather be laughed at for not getting a joke than be the one who hurt someone’s feelings by laughing when they weren’t joking.

I’ve been seeing a lot of posts recently, mostly written by high schoolers, who are talking about how, when they are honest about struggling with depression or anxiety or whatever else, they are met with the idea of, “Suck it up. Pull yourself together. Deal with it.” Which is all well and good for normal people, but for people with depression, or people with anxiety, that’s not actually helpful.

I’d rather be the one who worried a little too much and showed up to help when it wasn’t an emergency than the one who ignored a genuine cry for help.

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Just Enough

I know I talked about depression pretty recently, but two more of the YouTubers I follow have since made videos about having depression, and I just …

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You Don’t Have To Smile

It’s been occurring to me recently that you should be suspicious of happy people. Not in the grouchy “I’m angry about everything so you should be too” way, but in a “are you actually really happy or are you overcompensating” way.

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The Truth

The truth is I’m just a mundie. Continue reading

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Stay Strong (Original Poem)

You have a pretty heartbeat.

It’s so faint because it’s hidden, but it’s there, beating in your chest

The sound of what has kept you alive until this moment.

You have a pretty heartbeat.

It’s steady and it’s true, even when you think you’re not.

You have a pretty heartbeat.

It’s a song yet incomplete.

Teach me the song, my love.

I have not found my own.

Perhaps you will find it in me.

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And the Days Are Dark and Dreary (Portraits of a Mary Sue)

Snippet from the story I’m currently working on. Continue reading

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For a Glorious Friend

What is a novelist? A million different voices that come from one heart. Opinions both opposite and identical to the author’s are masked in characters who live and walk upon the pages. When the voice changes, and becomes the author’s voice, how strange is it to hear a story lived? a death escaped?

How strange then, when someone you thought was pretty and confident and friendly reveals darkness – not of a character, but of herself? Confesses to the trauma of a near-death experience rarely remembered? And suddenly, conversations about how it’s okay to not be okay, a shared self-deprecating humor, work shifts spent talking about why we love the fictional characters we do, are seen in a completely different light.

I wish I could share the essay. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever read. But I can’t. It’s her story.

I’m left questioning now. Are those things that hide behind everyone’s eyes, and I just never take the time to look?

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