ptsd
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; The storm after the storm.
Meeting My Dead Best Friend Twice: . AI-Generated.
I was twenty when the world cracked in half. My mom died suddenly that spring, leaving me reeling and raw. Then, just months later, Jimmy told me over a nice casual lunch on Broadway in Vancouver— plates filled with burgers & fries, the sharp tang of ketchup mixing with the faint diner coffee bitterness—that the spots on his arms weren’t an injury. They were the first signs of something the doctors were just starting to name AIDS. He was scared, but still grinning like the slutty optimist he was, his voice low over the clatter of dishes. “California,” he said. “They need fresh faces. Mature ones.” He practiced saying James instead of Jimmy, rolling the name around like it might armor him against whatever came next. I laughed, called him a goober, and hugged him so hard the waitress looked away; my cheek pressed against his warm shoulder.
By Thaidal Zonerabout a month ago in Psyche
The Brew's Bitter Gift: . Content Warning.
By my early fifties, grief and trauma had stacked so high I could barely hold myself up anymore — just numbness, barely existing and fake smiles along with small talk raised as armor when I had no choice but to be social. It felt like my life was already over and I was just waiting for time to pass.
By Thaidal Zonerabout a month ago in Psyche
Lifelines
I’m not afraid of the darkness. It’s been home for so much of my lifetime. I’ve known the darkness for far longer than I’ve known the light. But you, my friend, were the light. It’s why we all had you on a pedestal. You were someone, something none of us had thought we could ever be. Your death marks, not the end, but in fact a new beginning. That singular light in one individual is gone but you shared your light with so many of us that it will never truly be gone. You were a lifeline that kept me hanging on desperately when all seemed without hope. In a dark place, you reached out to me and offered friendship, a hand. I was standing there on the brink of oblivion, apathy dripping from my fingertips and you approached in quiet confidence and struck a note that awakened my soul, and every time over the next 16 years that I found myself ready to dive into the darkness and disappear—that same note would reverberate in the depths resonating me back into this sphere we call “reality” and would hand me that lifeline all over again. Their presence may be fleeting at times but lifelines leave ripples which will ever remain true. When you reached out a hand to me as I began to collapse into the oblivion, you stopped me and without even knowing it, you provided me with a safe place. That memory has been a companion through some very dark times in my life. The vibrations in my soul gave me purpose and helped keep me from letting go.
By Sarah Lynn Jonesabout a month ago in Psyche
Tragedy in Rhode Island: When Violence Shattered an Ordinary Day
The gunshots in Rhode Island did not begin when the weapon fired. They began much earlier, in a mind that slowly shifted from frustration to fixation, from anger to action. By the time the trigger was pulled, something inside the shooter had already hardened.
By Aarsh Malikabout a month ago in Psyche
Trying to Take a Left Off the Roundabout
I won't keep anyone long. An introductory post that may never be followed up on. I'm not in a great place. I can't see many opportunities in my future, that excite me at any rate. My romantic relationship is far from ideal. No kids and mostly estranged from my family. I have so few friends I can't volunteer. I've witnessed corruption in the worst way - repeated institutional failures and no, I'm not a conspiracy nut! Just shit luck and a defiant, diogenic personality that's not exactly helped me or anybody else much.
By Victoria Millinship2 months ago in Psyche
This is How IT Feels. Content Warning.
Do you ever feel like the blue duck in the picture? Trauma survivors often feel alone in a crowd of people. We see life in many more layers than people who haven't lived through trauma. We see everything all at once, and it can be exhausting.
By Elizabeth Woods2 months ago in Psyche
Scrapbooking as a Tool for Mental Health
In my early twenties, I started keeping a daily journal. I enjoyed doodling, gluing in receipts, and writing down my thoughts. I started journaling with the intention of capturing memories, since my mental illness greatly affects my long-term memory.
By Kera Hollow2 months ago in Psyche
The Fragile Nature of Memory: How the Mind Rewrites the Past
We often view memory as a recording device. Something happens, and the brain stores it. Later, we recall it unchanged, like opening a file. Psychology presents a different picture. Memory is not fixed; it is fluid, reconstructive, and surprisingly fragile. One interesting aspect of cognitive psychology is memory reconsolidation, which is the process that alters our memories every time we recall them. This instability is not a flaw; it shows how our minds adapt, protect themselves, and reshape our identity over time.
By Kyle Butler2 months ago in Psyche
