justaoifethings

We are becoming desensitised at an alarming rate. We live in a world of famine, war, torture and cruelty, but it seems to pass over our heads. We are presented with images of starving kids on our televisions since childhood. We are told about mere skeletons of people who are dying horrific deaths since a young age. We are taught about war and famine when we were in primary school. We live in an age of mind blowing special effects and films and video games. We grow up with violent cartoons and toys modelled from weapons. How much of this does it take for a human to lose their sense of humanity? How much more do we need to forget that we're all people? We scorn Hitler for the mass murder of Jews, gypsies and the disabled. They're humans too, of course, and he deserves one of the worst names in history. But who's to say we're not as bad on an individual level? I watched as a Hungarian reporter tripped a man fleeing from a war torn country with a little girl in his arm...

Dear Becky; A new series I intend to continue. Becky is a big part of my life. Becky is my anxiety. If you have read my previous blog posts, you will know that naming my anxiety has given me great control and power, but Becky is still alive and can be strong. I find great comfort in writing things down. It helps me to think rationally, something Becky fights hard to prevent. Dear Becky will be my writing to Becky, to counteract the anxiety that she's called me. I will write to see what is real and what is Becky fuelled. Will you find it interesting? Maybe not. Unless you're interested in a mind corrupted with anxiety. I know my mental health is the most important thing, and if it helps me cope with life, then that's amazing. If someone reads this, and learns how to deal with their own mental illness or learns how to understand someone in their life with a mental illness, then even better. Dear Becky, You were strong today. I don't know why. But I didn't let ...

Just a little boy. A poor, defenseless baby, washed up dead, his corpse being plastered all over the interent. Dead, trying to avoid certain death. But he is not the only one. An unimaginable amount of Syrian fleeing their country, and countless countries refusing them entry. Who are we to refuse them entry? Who are we to ignore a people crying out for help? Syrians aren't parasites, trying to feed off us. They mean no harm. They're people. They're humans. Like you and I. So who are we to condemn them to a tragic death? Who are we, mere humans, to be able to play god in these humans lives, forcing them to stay in a war ridden land? Who were we to allow Syrians to become so afraid, so desperate, that small kids are washing up on our selfish shores? We are condemning thousands of kids just like them to their deaths every day. What in the world makes us think that this is ok? Why are we so privileged? Why are they not treated like people?

School hasn't started yet, but it's already killing me. I have GAD, Generalised Anxiety Disorder. This means I have a constant inability to relax and my anxious triggers don't fall into one of the five common disorders (social anxiety, ptsd, etc). One of the biggest problems my anxiety deals with is school. I missed over three months of school at one stage due to chronic anxiety and didn't complete the first state exam Irish students have, the Junior Cert. Last year, I missed three weeks, obviously significantly better than three months, but I suffered terribly with panic attacks. After three months of summer holidays and living like a normal person, I'm about to enter the last year of secondary school, the most stressful of all. Due to anxiety, I have already begun to study for my final exams (known as the Leaving Cert.) and completed a project months ago that most people have barely looked at. I start again on Tuesday and I have been feeling sick and exhaust...

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...