It's Mental Health Awareness week, and once again, I'm feeling disconnected. The neighbourhood I'm in and my school all claim to others to do a lot during this week to actually raise awareness; when in reality nobody in the street does anything and the school only gives a single assembly.
Mental Health is a sensitive subjects, and hits dangerously close to home for me. From personal experience over the past two years with both my own mentality and some friends who have both survived and... Some not being so luckily, it annoys me that I don't see much where I am.
So what better way to do my part in a both easy and fun way?
As it says in the title, I ask that you write a short story (500+ words) based off of a specific mental illness; or multiple! Maybe you don't know all too well about a certain mental illness... Why not try to do some research to write a story? Try something new!
It's not much, but its something.
I'm still working on my own so I'll post it when it's ready.
Examples of Mental Disorders;
Mental Health is a sensitive subjects, and hits dangerously close to home for me. From personal experience over the past two years with both my own mentality and some friends who have both survived and... Some not being so luckily, it annoys me that I don't see much where I am.
So what better way to do my part in a both easy and fun way?
As it says in the title, I ask that you write a short story (500+ words) based off of a specific mental illness; or multiple! Maybe you don't know all too well about a certain mental illness... Why not try to do some research to write a story? Try something new!
It's not much, but its something.
I'm still working on my own so I'll post it when it's ready.
Examples of Mental Disorders;
Depression
Anxiety
Schizophrenia
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD)
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)
Anorexia Nervosa (Eating Disorder)
Bulimia Nervosa (Eating Disorder)
Body Dysmorphia
EDNOS (Eating Disorder)
Anxiety
Schizophrenia
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD)
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)
Anorexia Nervosa (Eating Disorder)
Bulimia Nervosa (Eating Disorder)
Body Dysmorphia
EDNOS (Eating Disorder)
This piece is ancient (about a decade old) and deals with a mental disorder that, like some others, gets locked up and stuffed into a corner, but the corner is very specific: a hospice. This was inspired by my work environment at the time which was a nursing home, and is about dementia.
Laura
She was the sweetest of sweets, the most priceless gem, the illustrious illustrator, the quintessential Queen. Her laughter was effervescent rivulet, filled with gaiety as the Earth is clad in Sun's majestic ribbons in time for afternoon tea. She had curls of molten chocolate; a treat for the hands, eyes, and mouth. Her skin could have been God's gift to naïve vanity whilst Humans still had privilege in Eden. Disgrace could never claim her, especially when all shame was relinquished unto the recess of conscience, her chest filled as her face distorted into pure magic. Her lungs repulsed their secrets and let forth an inscrutable decree of luxuriance, as her language filtered forth from her imagination seemingly woven by angelic hands. Even when all was lost; socks, mittens, coat, half covered in muck, and her cheeks and chin lost underneath a hefty mess of popsicle juice, her light could not be dimmed.
Even now, lost in the depths of the large city, booming with industrialization, and far from her family's cottage on the brink of the bustling plebs in the quaint opulence of meadows, her light seeped through her childhood panic and trepidation. When one is lost, a child seems to carry the most hope, as they do not think of embarrassment, are not conscious of how aesthetically pleasing they aren't when sobbing uncontrollably. They think only of the comforts that they are used to, and how to return; a familiar voice, a familiar face, the familiar silhouette of the body of a loved one who caresses at bedtime and who's voice tells you of love, princesses, and faraway places.
Asking for help is not yet shameful, and when that innocence and loving desperation grabs a hold of your hand, you cannot deny but answer its raucous call. To try one's best to soothe the pain encircling the child's heart, wringing its hands, as tendrils stick to its face in an attempt to tarnish it somehow. For some. Children are blind to how much courage they truly possess, and the amount they hold is a wonder. A benevolent treasure.
But chance was on this little girl's side, for the time being, as her desperation brought her to and fro across busy streets, stuck in the lull of the ends of coats, and the tops of clattering boots, her mother's voice, who's calling was matching her daughter's desperation. It hit her ears, bringing back a wondrous melody. If only she was a grown-up and could see her mother's face! She cried and cried, calling back, little hands reaching up into the crowd, but all she caught into her tiny grip was the mobs' words jumbled, full of nonsense and ignorant rantings.
Home, home, home! Why did she have to be taken by curiosity, by things she would see a million times in life, but still not yet know it? Her imagination stole her feet, dancing with her smile. And as she seemed to be getting closer to the loving calls of her mother, she suddenly lost the sound of mother's voice all together amongst all the strange, and scary faces. Giving up, she took to sitting on a chilled corner of concrete as hours passed, begging each car that passed by in according to the blinking lights to take her away, to keep her safe. To take her back to her mother.
The crowds continued to push through, until dusk set in, and threatened monsters. Lamplight became her day as the shunning of 'respectable' people continued. If her mother had truly left her there, maybe she was no longer wanted? Thus, the pessimism of an abandoned child began to sink in. Double, double toil and trouble; witches to have her for supper. She shivered. The snow wrapped about her on the frozen ground, next to frosted grass.
It was then that ominous footsteps in the dark appeared, tilted its head, and picked her up gently. She did not know this man, but her clutch to him was that of a daughter to a father.
"My mother is calling for me, Sir!" she cried. "Please, please take me home! She is missing me, and I want her! Please, please help me. I want my mommy!" She shook, and shook, and shook, her eyes wide, and wet, her cheeks rosy with emotion, and inflamed from the cold.
And suddenly the pounding of feet turned into the smooth rolling of wheels. That calm sensation that comes from gliding as if on ice, without obstacle. The man looked at her sadly, and told her simply "no," despite all her need, all her crying, and calling.
"Why? Why?! I want to go home! Please!" And she wept and wept, and his hand came and patted her shoulder, the feeling of wheels beneath her feet still constant, carrying her away, farther and farther from her mother, her father, her loving home.
"Shh, it's lunchtime, Laura."
Laura
She was the sweetest of sweets, the most priceless gem, the illustrious illustrator, the quintessential Queen. Her laughter was effervescent rivulet, filled with gaiety as the Earth is clad in Sun's majestic ribbons in time for afternoon tea. She had curls of molten chocolate; a treat for the hands, eyes, and mouth. Her skin could have been God's gift to naïve vanity whilst Humans still had privilege in Eden. Disgrace could never claim her, especially when all shame was relinquished unto the recess of conscience, her chest filled as her face distorted into pure magic. Her lungs repulsed their secrets and let forth an inscrutable decree of luxuriance, as her language filtered forth from her imagination seemingly woven by angelic hands. Even when all was lost; socks, mittens, coat, half covered in muck, and her cheeks and chin lost underneath a hefty mess of popsicle juice, her light could not be dimmed.
Even now, lost in the depths of the large city, booming with industrialization, and far from her family's cottage on the brink of the bustling plebs in the quaint opulence of meadows, her light seeped through her childhood panic and trepidation. When one is lost, a child seems to carry the most hope, as they do not think of embarrassment, are not conscious of how aesthetically pleasing they aren't when sobbing uncontrollably. They think only of the comforts that they are used to, and how to return; a familiar voice, a familiar face, the familiar silhouette of the body of a loved one who caresses at bedtime and who's voice tells you of love, princesses, and faraway places.
Asking for help is not yet shameful, and when that innocence and loving desperation grabs a hold of your hand, you cannot deny but answer its raucous call. To try one's best to soothe the pain encircling the child's heart, wringing its hands, as tendrils stick to its face in an attempt to tarnish it somehow. For some. Children are blind to how much courage they truly possess, and the amount they hold is a wonder. A benevolent treasure.
But chance was on this little girl's side, for the time being, as her desperation brought her to and fro across busy streets, stuck in the lull of the ends of coats, and the tops of clattering boots, her mother's voice, who's calling was matching her daughter's desperation. It hit her ears, bringing back a wondrous melody. If only she was a grown-up and could see her mother's face! She cried and cried, calling back, little hands reaching up into the crowd, but all she caught into her tiny grip was the mobs' words jumbled, full of nonsense and ignorant rantings.
Home, home, home! Why did she have to be taken by curiosity, by things she would see a million times in life, but still not yet know it? Her imagination stole her feet, dancing with her smile. And as she seemed to be getting closer to the loving calls of her mother, she suddenly lost the sound of mother's voice all together amongst all the strange, and scary faces. Giving up, she took to sitting on a chilled corner of concrete as hours passed, begging each car that passed by in according to the blinking lights to take her away, to keep her safe. To take her back to her mother.
The crowds continued to push through, until dusk set in, and threatened monsters. Lamplight became her day as the shunning of 'respectable' people continued. If her mother had truly left her there, maybe she was no longer wanted? Thus, the pessimism of an abandoned child began to sink in. Double, double toil and trouble; witches to have her for supper. She shivered. The snow wrapped about her on the frozen ground, next to frosted grass.
It was then that ominous footsteps in the dark appeared, tilted its head, and picked her up gently. She did not know this man, but her clutch to him was that of a daughter to a father.
"My mother is calling for me, Sir!" she cried. "Please, please take me home! She is missing me, and I want her! Please, please help me. I want my mommy!" She shook, and shook, and shook, her eyes wide, and wet, her cheeks rosy with emotion, and inflamed from the cold.
And suddenly the pounding of feet turned into the smooth rolling of wheels. That calm sensation that comes from gliding as if on ice, without obstacle. The man looked at her sadly, and told her simply "no," despite all her need, all her crying, and calling.
"Why? Why?! I want to go home! Please!" And she wept and wept, and his hand came and patted her shoulder, the feeling of wheels beneath her feet still constant, carrying her away, farther and farther from her mother, her father, her loving home.
"Shh, it's lunchtime, Laura."
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