Mental Health Awarness

Chatterbox: Down to Earth

Mental Health Awarness

Mental Health Awarness Month

In honor of May, mental health awarness month, here's a thread to open up about your mind, and maybe learn some new things. 

Here you can post stuff about 

-Your experiances

-Asking for help/advice

-coping methods

-Ask questions!! Whatever you're curious about, to help everyone understand more about mental illnesses. 

-poetry/writing or art that you might have made that portrays whatevers going on inside your head.

-music

-Things you like about yourself, about others, things that make you happy

-things that don't make you happy or bother you. Fears, words, anything. Open up. It's ok. 

It's important to know that you are not alone. 1 in 4 will experance a mental dissorder sometime in their lives. But many don't get help because of stigma. Less then 46% of americans will get help for their mental dissorders because of stigma. But you can make a difference, with something as simple as spreading awarness or talking about it. Even just asking someone if they're ok or doing better can make a huge difference. 

The green ribbon symbolizes mental health. Wear on your clothes or backpack, so people know that you care. That you support them.

Remember that it's ok to not be ok. Everyone has their ups and downs. But also remember that there will always be people here for you, people that love you, people who support you. You don't have to go through any of this alone. <3

#Breakthestigma 

submitted by Claaws, Going crazy whats new?
(May 11, 2019 - 2:23 pm)

Thank you so much for making this thread. Mental illness is definitely stigmatized and often laughed about, and I'm glad other people understand that it really shouldn't be a joke. I created a project at the beginning of this year, where I asked people in my class to anonymously write poems, stories, or whatever about mental health, and I was shocked by the work I received. Nobody ever discusses this type of thing, so it's often hard to realize people may be going through more than you think.

I may post one of my original poems on here. I'm not sure. But thank you again <3 

submitted by The Girl Next Door, age 14, Washington
(May 11, 2019 - 6:54 pm)
submitted by Top
(May 11, 2019 - 7:10 pm)
submitted by Top
(May 11, 2019 - 7:39 pm)
submitted by Top
(May 11, 2019 - 8:04 pm)

I wrote this a while ago. Not sure if the whole thing will be able to be posted.

Here goes nothing.

 

Happy: The First Interlude

What are little girls made of?

Happy giggled and slammed her tiny hands repeatedly on the small drum resting in her lap. Other kids in the circle, none older than six, each played their own pint-sized instruments. 

Sugar and spice and everything nice, that’s what little girls are made of.   

Happy choked back sobs in the school bathroom, the paper in her fist marked with red. Her breathing was shallow. She flung it at the garbage can in a sudden surge of anger. She missed. Happy blotted her face with a wet paper towel.

It was just one test, she told herself, squeezing her eyes shut. It was just one test. I’ll be okay.

I will be okay.

What are little boys made of?

Happy was out of breath on the playground, running from a boy chasing her. He brushed her back with an outstretched hand and crowed, “I got you! I got you!”

Happy grinned, swallowed her pride, and whirled around to dash after him. 

Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails, that’s what little boys are made of.

Happy brushed tears off her face and jiggled door knob. Still locked. She heard her brother’s laughter from somewhere in the house. She wanted to scream. She tried to scream. She couldn’t. She couldn’t see anything except the outline of a fur coat. She tasted salt. And blood.

Happy stood and kicked the door as hard as she possibly could. Nothing happened. Her foot throbbed.

Happy cried.

 

Happy: The Second Interlude

He was fine.

He was that little boy who chased girls on the playground, who pulled their hair and dared them to jump from the top of the slide. He pushed other kids and skinned his knees and talked back to his teachers. He flunked tests with a smile and had friends who didn’t care.

He was fine.

Why wouldn’t he be?

He didn’t know exactly when everything changed. It could have been the day his sister left for college and all eyes were suddenly on him. It could have been when Jack coughed and it landed on his arm. It could have been the day he couldn’t look at his messy binder, with papers poking out in every direction, without wanting to vomit. Everything was different.

He suddenly started caring.

He began washing his hands more often and using hand sanitizer. He organized his belongings and kept his room nice and straightened up. He pulled himself together, sometimes staying up past midnight, to make sure he always got a hundred percent.

If you were to ask him, he’d say he was fine. Perfectly fine. Better than fine, even. And he genuinely believed it.

The purple under his eyes and hands, pink from being scrubbed so hard, told a different story.

He started carrying a miniature package of tissues with him. He couldn’t have any mud on his white shoes. His room had to be spotless. He had to chew each bite an even number of times. No exceptions.

He didn’t care. He didn’t care because it didn’t affect him. He had straight A’s, his bedroom was perfect, and he didn’t have anything hanging over his head. Seemed pretty darn fine to him.

A kitchen knife. A kitchen knife was what changed his mind. A little cooking accident lead to a deep cut in his wrist, an accident that made him swear and cry and clutch his hand to his chest. In spite of the pain, he found himself reaching for the knife again.

If one wrist was cut, the other had to match.

 

Happy: The Third Interlude

A girl, formerly known as Happy.

A boy with twin scars on his wrists finally beginning to heal.

A bridge. Overlooking rush hour traffic, observing the passerby with a concrete stare.

A note, pinned to the girl’s front jacket pocket. Written hastily in purple ink. 

The boy stood awkwardly to the side of the bridge, near the rail, hoping the girl would nod her head and pass by. No such luck.

She, trying to look casual, turned and leaned over the rail, forearms resting on the cool metal. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and rocked on his heels. She was the one who broke the silence first.

“Hey.”

He cleared his throat. “Hey.”

She kept her eyes on the traffic, lights flashing across her face. “Lovely weather tonight.”

He pulled his lips into what he thought was a normal smile. “Yeah.”

She turned her head to look at him. “Do you have somewhere to be, or…?”

He shrugged. “Not really, no. You?”

Her gaze returned to the road. “Nope.” She could wait. He couldn’t.

“Look, can you please just go? I’ve got something important I need to take care of.” 

“Like what? Are you planning on jumping or something?” She was only half joking. His silence was all the answer she needed. She stood up straight and looked at him, all humor gone from her expression. “You are not jumping off this bridge tonight.”

He gave her a dry smile. “I’ll do it tomorrow, then. My mind is made up.”

She shook her head. “Fine.” He hadn’t noticed the crumpled piece of paper attached to her front pocket until now. 

“I didn’t write a note.”

She unpinned the piece of paper from her jacket and held it in her hand. “Do you think you need one?”

“I mean, yeah. I just didn’t think of it, I guess.”

“What would you say?”

He took a breath. “I’d just explain… why. I’d probably apologize. I don’t know.”

She nodded slowly, and opened the paper held in her fist. “‘What are little girls made of?’” She read. “Mine is really stupid and philosophical. I don’t want the last remaining piece of me to be a riddle.” She looked up at the boy. “I’m not jumping tonight. I need to write a better note first.”

He considered what she’d said. “I think if I started, I wouldn’t stop. I’d write my whole life out and not stop. I’m not jumping off a bridge with a fifty page booklet stapled to my shirt.” 

“Then don’t,” she suggested. “Don’t stop.”

He regarded her with interest. “I don’t think I’m going to jump tonight.”

She nodded once, then started walking in the opposite direction, pausing only to crumple her note and toss it into the traffic.

“I’m Patrick,” he called after her.

She turned around, a faint smile on her face. “I’m Happy.”

 

submitted by Happy
(May 12, 2019 - 9:57 am)

That's really good!!

submitted by Kitten, Pondering
(May 12, 2019 - 12:16 pm)

I really love this. It's beautifully written and a wonderful story.

submitted by silence
(May 12, 2019 - 12:46 pm)

Wow, that is beautiful. 

submitted by Abigail, age Old enough, Inside my head
(May 12, 2019 - 8:49 pm)

Once, there was a storm.
Sighing,
singing,
the wind flowed.
Whistling
over the spires.
Water,
lapped at its sides.
The castle stood strong.
From inside there was a
drip,
drip,
drop,
dropping down, down, down,
like his stomach when he heard those words
"Not good enough."
The drip falls into a puddle.
Echos rang,
Steel on stone sang,
as a battle was waged.
The Captain faced against his foe,
spinning, swirling,
coming together, breaking apart.
a deadly dance, to be preformed only once...

Once, there was a boy
with cut wrists and tired eyes
who wished an angel would take him away,
that he would find a way
to see them just once…

Once there was a girl
chained by responsability
by pressure
by those stares and whispers
to the ocean floor.
She screamed,
so full of pain and anguish,
but nobody could hear.
Her screams dismissed as crashing waves
her tears mist,
her pain was caught in the current
pulled deeper and deeper inside.
She wanted to be heard just once…

Once there was a writer
stuck writing word after word.
Sentences built themselves up 
and came crumbling down.
Their works ridiculed,
their dreams shattered,
they settled in their half built castle.
With their half finished fighters
dancing their half finished dance.
The girl, drowned in her sorrows.
The boy, trapped in his prison. 

The author,
left in a trance,
their soul’s only desire leaves them feeling unfinished.
The only thing that is whole
is the wind,
the rain,
the stars,
and the sky.

submitted by Once
(May 12, 2019 - 2:02 pm)

I love both of these stories and they were written amazingly. If anybody needs help with coping methods or advice or anything feel free to ask, and we will help as best we can. Or if y’all just need a big bear hug. *big bear hugs*

I would like to share some experiences, just for starters.

Hi, I’m Claaws, and I’ve been diagnosed with Major depression, Generalized Anxiety, PTSD, (possible) ADHD, (possible) psychosis, (possible) Bipolar disorder. The latter are still being ‘processed’ cause apparantly a lot of testing hast to go into it or whatever. My therapists are as bright as a dead fish and they’ve already screwed it up several times but what can I do. Anyways, I also have problems with authoritative figures (hello admins lol), substance abuse at my prime age of 16 and I wish I could stay it started recently, I’ve been in and out of mental hospitals/ ‘behavioral centers’, actual hospitals, and group homes. I take medication, the strongest dose they could give me, and it’s not working because guess what, certain medications work with different types of people, and it’s totally fine to switch around with medications and therapists. I’ve also delt with abuse my hole life, self harm, and I have attempted. But I’m not ashamed. I’m a survivor, a warrior, and the scars on my skin remind me of the battles I’ve won and the ones I’ve yet to conquer. They remind me that I can and I will get through this. 

I see things. I hear things, things that no one else does. Sometimes I scare myself with the things that come into my mind and how hard I have to try to convince myself out of following through with those ideas. I see people, shadows, hear people talking to me, footsteps, dogs barking, and strangely enough I often smell chamomile tea during one of my episodes, think it might be some sort of calming coping method my brain came up with all on its own. My friends say that I shouldn’t listen to my therapists or my parents when they get mad at me over these things, I’m not crazy, and the things I experience are real, if only to me. And that’s ok. It’s compleatly valid

I would like to ask if some of you would share your stories. Anonymously or not. The best way to end stigma is to share our stories and end the sort of ‘unknown’ around mental illness. What people don’t understand makes them afraid. And there is nothing to fear about mental health. 

Spread awarness!!

Lots of love to all <3

submitted by Claaws, Going crazy what’s new?
(May 14, 2019 - 10:59 pm)
submitted by *hugs claaws*, -Win
(May 17, 2019 - 7:57 am)

A quote that I found that I liked: 

You never know that you are in darkness until you find the light. 

submitted by Claaws, Class 2020
(May 15, 2019 - 11:00 pm)
6584C426-02C7-4170-8BB6-4FF9052E9212.jpeg
submitted by Claaws, Class 2020
(May 15, 2019 - 11:01 pm)

Claaws-thank you so much for making this thread. 

Hi, *waves shyly* I'm Joan B. of Arc. I don't post much, but I'm an older CBer, and am always "looking out for the CB" if that makes sense. I post when I feel it's needed. 

I made a post sort of like this a while back, but this is a very good reminder to us all to remember that there are those struggling. 

My school came out with a series of videos about Mental Health Awareness, and they made me cry. I hate how everyone treats others like they're nothing, and I hate how everyone feels like they're alone when they struggle with anxiety, depression, etc. We need to teach schools and everyone more about this issue. 

I have many friends who struggle with depression or anxiety and it makes me hurt how much it hurts them when they struggle. Because I want to help them. I want to take it all away from them. I want to make it stop for them. 

The only thing I can do to truly help my friends is listen. And stay optimistic. But mostly listen to them, help them see that there are people who care. Who are there. 

And it's hard to do so. Especially when they won't listen. But I still continue. 

And it gets even harder. Because recently I discovered that I struggle with anxiety... more than is normal. And it hurts. Because I hide what I feel from my friends when I see that they need help. Because I'd rather help them then they help me.  But it still hurts. 

Everyone struggles with something. So please. Watch. You're not the only one struggling. Help. Get help for your friends or yourself if needed. Don't wait. And LISTEN. You never know how much you can help others just by listening to them rant. 

#Breakthestigma.  

submitted by Joan B. of Arc, age 16, Camelot
(May 17, 2019 - 1:58 pm)
I probably have anxiety and depression, I'm undiagnosed, but my parents are aware I have mental issues and are here to help me. :)
Some of my coping methods are good, others ... yeah no. I drink tea, color, bounce my knee up and down super super fast, and on the bad side, I chew at the inside of my cheek, and pick at my acne. Habit breaking tips for stopping picking would be appreciated.
My depression is connected to my friendships. If a friend moves, or if I am excluded (not just every now and then, but like, my friends dumped me, e.g, been hanging out with a group, but I leave early for my mental health, but I didn't tell them that ... and I just got over a wee bit of depression over that, and I honestly don't blame them.)
For me, depression is like a dark, heavy weight. I cry, and don't want to do anything, so a lot of it is sitting at a screen, doing nothing productive. I don't know what it's like for others.
Here's a bit of writing. The first is a fay-boy, who has discovered that his true name is traitor, and he's dealing with depression because of that. The second is the Beast in Beauty & The Beast retelling, and she too is dealing with depression. Yes, I've been writing depressed characters more and more. Sending my love to y'all, and if you want to talk, PM me at Camp NaNoWriMo. I'm ~SilverFaerie~ 

"Arran felt like he had been flattened, and put his forehead down on the cool counter, ready to cry.
He was exhausted, and with the—revelation of his true name—he felt broken, like nothing would ever be right, only heavy and tiring.
Bradwr. It had seemed to echo through his head all day. Traitor. It was worse than some. His friend, Janja, has said that her great-grandmother’s name had been Methiant, failure. But she had been a successful business woman, which had been the odd thing. You never knew how your name would turn out, or what it really meant. Maybe she had thought herself a failure—Arran spun around, filling the kettle up with water, not caring that he had accidentally made it over-flow. He just had to remember that he would be okay. But it still hurt, having your whole identity wrapped up in the exact opposite of your ideals.
What if he became close with the selkie, Muir? And what if she gave him her true name, and he in turn gave it—on purpose or on accident—to another fay? He buried his face in his hands, and let himself sob. He wished he hadn’t gone through and looked at all the parts of him, putting it together. He wouldn’t have been able to explain to anyone else what it was like. The closest he would have been able to get was probably something about how he just thought through his past. It’s like when you’re thinking about a past event, and all of a sudden, you realize why it happened, when you couldn’t have then. It was like that, except forward-looking."
"Rhoda never knew what to do with herself when she was in either form. If she was asleep, it was dreadful. With nightmares or bloodshed and reminders of everything that had gone wrong—everything that she had done. But when she woke, and had a kind of primeval beastial awakening, it was in another way worse. The threat of the dreams would hang over her, making her miserable, an angry writhing inside. It made her want to rip herself to pieces, to destroy everything, to cry her eyes out, anything make the thoughts go away. Forever and ever and ever. And never, ever come back to try to rip her soul from within. 
It was a hopeless agony. She knew where she should turn, but couldn’t bring herself to quite do that either. That seemed to belong to the hideous past. And yet she knew that there was a core of truth within it somewhere. She just couldn't quite figure out where. And she wanted to go back, longed to go back, but it was so terribly hard to accept. And then with this—visitor. It sent her into another wild abandon. She wanted to stay, to chat, to try and remember what it was to be human, and to love. But then the dark mood would snatch at her, and she knew she must get away before she destroyed anything again.
She bowed her head. This was her punishment. And she had to live through it. Her only wish was that she could read again. Read without destroying the words. She could barely remember what she had been taught when the beast’s mind took over, and she yearned to remember the Words of God. And yet she could not.
And when she did seem to forget, she knew it was still there, hovering like a thick black smoke or fog that threatened to choke her if she stopped to remember for an instant.
Or when the stress got to her. It was trying to tear her apart. There didn’t seem to be a reason for it, so she invented reasons which tortured her. What if she did something so awful and terrible that she wasn’t able to forgive herself. It was horrible. She would obsess over it endlessly, trying to find a way to forgive herself, and being unable to when caught in this hideous madness.
She just wished that it would all be over. She didn’t really care how. Maybe if the curse ran its course, and she became what she really should be—a monster. Or if she tore herself apart. Everything was so meaningless. She couldn’t do a thing about it. That was all there was too it. True, she had begun to notice the patterns: Rising stress, and then if she failed to cope with it, absolutely drowning in it and falling. And then—sleep. It would begin as a deep, dreamless sleep, and then rise to become an awful thing truly to be dreaded full of nightmares that were long and horrific. And then she would begin to see things in the world, and become someone else for a time, and at times, she believed that she walked in other people’s dreams. She could never be sure, but she could hazard a pretty good guess at it. And then she would wake, and everything would seem bright and cheery—until it swept back over her. At rare times, she could fight it away then and there, and have an enjoyable morning, but it always came back, choking at her.
When she stumbled upon something that was horrid, she couldn’t help but squirm in disgust. It pained her, and she wished the she could be rid of all terrible thoughts. It was hard to forget them, because she obsessed over them, trying to make them the reason why she was miserable, even though she knew deep down inside that it wasn’t really." 
submitted by Cho Chang
(May 17, 2019 - 8:33 pm)