justaoifethings

For the past year and a half, I've been recovering from depression. Recovery was always a goal for me, as it is for most struggling with mental health. But what I didn't realise what would happen when I started to recover. In my head, it would go from cruel darkness to pure joy and happiness overnight. Of course, unrealistic, but your mind is compromised when riddled with depression. Going through recovery, I realised I had lost my identity. I was no longer the mentally ill girl, depression the focus of my life. So who was I? Who was I before depression ate away with me? And I realised with horror, that I didn't know. I had been diagnosed with depression about six or seven months before starting to feel like I was recovering, after suffering for a long time. I had been suicidal and my GAD and panic attacks had begun to spin out of control, hence my diagnosis. But depression does not begin or end with diagnosis. I tried to recall the start of my depression, but still ...

I rubbed my feet over eachother, only socks on. She'd instructed me to remove my shoes at the door. She smiled sweetly at me from across the table, stretching across to pick up my plate, giving me an unintentional view. I tried to avoid it, and my eyes quickly darted to her excessively organised kitchen, each unit colour coded for clarity. She finished her wine and hiccupped, giggled and then winked at me. My hopes were wounded though, as she chirpily said "Dinner is over now, I suppose." I looked at her, confused. Even though nothing had ever been declared, I was pretty sure we were an official item. It looked that way to outsiders, but I feel as if she's playing a game. But I want her. "You didn't drink anything, so you can drive yourself home, right?" she innocently smiled. Taken aback, I blurted "Uh no, I can't... Uhm.. I'm afraid of driving... In the dark.. Everything looks the same, you know? Uh.. so yeah.." I awkwardly r...

The head of the homicide department slammed a newspaper down on the desk of the lead investigator, making his coffee quiver. "Eight homicides. Eight. A mass serial killing. All a week ago, and you don't even have a suspect!" the gnarled old man spat. "There really wasn't any evidence sir-" "No evidence?! There were eight people killed, there has to be some evidence! Hell, you haven't even identified a couple!" the old man raged. "The bodies were pretty..." The investigator trailed off, grimacing. "You're a homicide investigator, don't be such a pansy" he told him sharply. "Sir.." The young man handed him a photo of one of the most mangled victims. The older man struggled to keep the disgust off his face. He sighed, putting it down. "I go away for a week and eight people are left dead, and no one might as well have called the police." Agitated, anxious, he took a cigarette out of his bre...

"I am fat." I think this to myself most days. Am I actually overweight? No. I'm five foot eight and eight stone ten pounds. In reality, I'm rather thin. Doctors warn me to not lose any weight, people regularly comment on my size and relatives give me as much food as possible. But I feel fat. Feel. That's the keyword. Feeling fat and being fat are two very different things. When I feel fat, I eat something and feel ridiculously guilty. I feel as if my stomach is protruding. I feel as of people stare at me in disgust. I stare in the mirror and scrutinise myself. Especially my stomach. I study myself, and pull at every ounce of fat I can find. When I feel fat, I measure my weight whenever I can. I starve myself, I exercise until I gag, and all because I feel fat. Why do I feel fat? I'm not sure. I've been too afraid to tell many people. I do have GAD, a chronic anxiety disorder that gives the sufferer the inability to relax. When I'm feeling p...

"It is an evil entity, but it only fights for its own survival" No one could really say that's wrong, as that's what we all do. But when a survival method becomes destructive, it's hated and loathed. 'Becky'. It seems like such a trivial name to give something so dark. They say giving something a name gives it power, and that's why I held off. But when a name was give, the power was thrown onto me. I didn't feel so weak anymore. I was able to take control. Then 'Becky' wasn't such a dark entity anymore. She was still strong, capable of corrupting my mind, taking over my body, paralyzing me. But I had grasped some control. I was determined to fight for my own survival, as 'Becky' had fought for hers. She had fought long and hard and was no stranger to overkill, but with the simple naming of 'It', I was finally ready to retake myself, to retake my mind. When that fear is lost, I became more powerful than anything ...

Going through life, I have discovered, for me, the two worst feelings in the world. I had to be tortured with one of them again today. The other, I'm sure, will come up at a later time. I am in an ldr, short for long distance relationship, and have been for almost two years. I'll keep his name to myself. He's Dutch. I'm Irish. There's the U.K, a couple of seas and expensive plane tickets between us. He's a special human. Said every person in love before me, yes, but he's different. Very different. Nearly two years ago, I was struggling against a loosing fight with my mental health. I had gone downhill at a scary pace, and my mind had been corrupted with depression and tormented with chronic anxiety. By chance, I met a Dutch boy online, thanks to my best friend, her boredom, and Omegle. I'll never know what compelled me, but I told him everything in my brain, things I hadn't told anyone else. Most importantly, I told him I wanted to die. I wasn...