#psychological

Three weeks ago, my husband and I had our first baby. I have been dealing with terrible postpartum depression ever since. The weight of being a parent is unmanageable. And in the numb state of purgatory, I haven't been sleeping. I have started connecting the dots about my young adulthood. And my family. My therapist says this is a phenomenal breakthrough, as I haven't been able to remember much of the last year with my family. So, even though I’m going to sound crazy, I've decided to recount it…

Between December 2041 and February 2042, twelve isolated incidents of extreme violence were recorded across six states. Each case involved a first-time offender with no prior criminal record, no psychological instability, and no identifiable motive. The victims varied: spouses, colleagues, children, strangers. Yet the offenders’ demeanour during the acts remained disturbingly alike: calm, focused, deliberate.

A wooden totem looms in the corner, its faces twisted and hungry in the lantern light. Every year, Father carves a new one—works of pride that terrify me, though I’d never say so. “Elam,” he calls, eyes on his work, “pass me the chisel.” It’s heavier than I expect, but light in his hands. He carves with masterful ease. “Want to try?”

“More red… it needs more red, there isn’t enough red.” “Where the hell is that stupid marker!? I just had it in my hand a moment ago!” “It must have fallen under the desk…” —I crouched down and started feeling around with my hand for the missing color from my pencil case palette.— “Ahhh, here you are.” —I picked up the marker from the floor with excitement, only to be met by the sour face of my homeroom teacher, staring right at me.—

the first time you crossed paths, they were sitting alone at a bus stop, chewing the inside of their cheek as if trying to swallow themself from the inside out. shoelaces untied, coat a size too big, and had a look of something unfinished. you saw it in the way they held their shoulders; rounded, caving in, and in the way they stared past things instead of directly at them. the thought occurred to you that some people live like they’re already ghosts. you watched as they fumbled with a bag of…

I usually don’t write my experiences down in journals like this. Typically, I’d prefer to just keep my unsavory memories in my head to let them rot away over time, which makes the pain easier to cope with. However, with everything that has happened to me recently, I’d feel guilty if I just let all those traumatic experiences simply be forgotten about, especially since they involve friends and people so dear to me… So, I shall tell the story of that godforsaken Airbnb and how it led me down a…

No word, uttered or inscribed, can claim that all they tell is true to the letter; in every slip and stutter of the human voice, every unspoken detail in fine print, a lie takes root and defiles the same soil that nourishes it, until it burgeons into a carnivorous parasite. Last summer, Rosenthal Manor snatched me away from my life with a bouquet of hopes and walled me into her cold, high corridors, where every step that falls on the marble floor, every voice whispered in its chambers, does so…

I was 13 when I first tried to kill myself. The orphaned son of a dead drug dealer and an incarcerated illiterate, I grew up knowing nothing but neglect and abuse. I was on my third foster home in nine months when I first tried. Wolfing down a handful of Tylenol, I had no idea what I was doing.

Why does conflict happen most often with those we’re the closest with? You would think that because we love our family, friends, and colleagues so much that we’d understand each other enough that conflict wouldn’t be necessary. But now I realize that because we show each other our vulnerabilities and flaws is why most major conflict occurs. With strangers, people are reluctant to open up to them and try to actively avoid conflict constantly, unlike with those we know all too well. When I was…

Why Does My New Born Baby Have Memories Of My Dead Brother? Our baby, Lily, is barely two weeks old, but she's taken to crying at exactly 3:14 AM. It started on the third night in the hospital, a high-pitched keening that rattled the monitors and made me bolt upright. My husband, Jacob, sleep-shy but determined to comfort her, reached into the bassinet. When he came back, his face was pale. "She did it again," he whispered. "She sounded like…like Matt."

‘Tom went mad,’ Gilbert said. ‘Schizophrenia or something, I think. He stopped leaving the place completely. After a month of being pent up inside he died of starvation.’ ‘He was a hoarder. A serious one. It took weeks to get the home cleaned up, and even then there’s still some junk in the basement the cleaners left there. I’d be curious to have a look and see if there’s anything valuable.’ He snorted. ‘I doubt it though.’

There is a fresh, blank page sitting in front of me, and as I stare at it it seems to stare back.

It would have been so much easier just to keep telling myself the worst parts of my past were all in my head, and assure myself it wasn’t healthy for me to think too much about it.

“Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it.” — Matthew 7:13

My therapist told me that writing about things could help. She kind of looked away when she said it, so I’m not sure she believes that. If I’m honest, I think she just doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. It doesn’t matter though. I’m gonna write about it anyway. I’m gonna write about it because it DID happen, and it doesn’t matter what she thinks. At least if I post it here, someone might actually read it. If I post it here, maybe it can help. I should probably start with the move.

There's a quote I once read, buried in some forgotten philosophy book: "To peel away the layers of the world is to expose what hides beneath, and what hides beneath is not meant to be seen." At the time, it seemed like one of those lines people throw around when they want to sound profound, but they don't really know what it means. The kind of thing you hear at a party from someone who's had one too many drinks and thinks they're the next Nietzsche. I'd rolled my eyes at it then, thought it was…

I was 32 when I married Ashley, the love of my life. The daughter of two wildly successful divorce lawyers, she carried her wit as well as she carried her elegance. Taking after her mother, she was blessed with strikingly Baltic features, and taking after her father, she was perhaps the sweetest and most genuine soul I had ever met. In other words, she was perfect.

I hate snow. Not in the way most people hate the inconvenience of shoveling their driveways or the sting of icy wind slicing through their scarves. Not in the way someone groans when their morning commute is slowed to a crawl or when their favorite shoes soak through, leaving their socks clammy and cold. No, my hatred runs deeper than that—bone-deep, marrow-deep, settling into the cracks of my ribs like frost that never thaws.

Mr. Zimmer didn’t want his last Halloween to end like this, alone in a dark cold room, an invalid while children and parents alike roamed the streets outside asking for candy and dressed in costumes. He remembered when he was young and fit, and when he hadn’t shattered his spine by falling off a roof setting up spooky decorations. At his old age, and with what little money his family possessed, it was easier for everyone to toss him into a nursing home. Easier for everyone except Mr. Zimmer…

“DRINK MOTHER FUCKERS, DRINK MOTHER FUCKERS, DRINK!” The noxiously artificial taste of blue raspberry slid down my throat with sickening sweetness. This was only my third drink of the evening, but I was already feeling pretty lit. “Alright you, stupid pledges now it’s time for the main event.”