I remember those days when I was trapped in the cycle of thoughts that shout. Shout loudly. Too loudly. I will never forget those days when the flood of my tears watered the paper. Tears, the ink of anguish. My mind was a battleground with demons incessantly rebuking my flaws and mistakes. The rushing wind residenced in my soul and the mighty storm craved an angel to breathe the knot of my thoughts. As if there is no safe space, no inner peace. I would kneel begging God to save me. To pick me up from the depths of despair that persecuted me. My inner child anxiously sobbed, silently crying out for attention and love. I feared that my deepest worry of being abandoned would go unheard. I felt a desperate yet silent voice escaping my lips and crying for help. For years, I fought this barbaric battle alone. Trapped by the invisible enemy in a storm of anxiety and depression, each day I struggled to find the reason and strength to keep going. Indeed it was overwhelming since I saw no world beyond this darkness. The demons clouded my vision. I was drowning And one fateful day, I reached the bottom. The breaking point. My friends were helplessly watching me spiraling further into my abyss. I heard the angel, silently whispering to my ear: ask for help. With a trembling voice and heart palpitations, I admitted they were right and agreed to an in-patient treatment facility. It was my last hope… Dear Diary, I cannot stress enough how grateful and proud I am for overcoming these demons. I wish no one ever has to meet them. I never want to see them again. The first days of treatment were the hardest. I felt exposed and vulnerable. But it was there, amid my brokenness and emptiness, that I began to find hope. Hope that this is temporary. Hope that my tomorrow will be better than today. Therapy is intense, it often brings me to tears. Confronting the darkest corners of my mind is a real battle. But now I am not alone. I am not alone… Facing my traumas feels like drawing again but, surprisingly, it feels like a weight lift off my shoulders. I learned to speak up and verbalize my pain. Express it. Now I finally see that there are people around me who genuinely care. I vowed myself to love and cherish the little girl within me. To be a source of comfort and strength she needed. But most importantly, I learned to forgive myself. That moment was a focal point, a shift in my thinking. It was when my life started changing. I started rebuilding my life. I let the guilt and shame that weighed me down go. I realized that my struggles do not define me. I was not broken, I was simply on a journey to healing and self-discovery. I am journaling not as a cured person but as someone in the process of health. Nevertheless, I am sure I will succeed since I am learning the strategies to cope with reality. My story is one of hope and resilience. And persistence. Today I testify that there is the light beyond the darkness. And, to anyone who is fighting their own battles, know that you do have the strength. You really do. You are stronger than you realize. And the demons within you do not define who you are. Seek help, reach out, and never give up on yourself. The healing journey is difficult but this toil is worthy. You are worthy. And precious. You may not believe me now but there is a better tomorrow. The brighter future. I promise that life, a healthy life, is more beautiful than you ever imagined. With love, Marysia

As children are the most vulnerable members of society, it is crucial to ensure their safety and well-being at all times. Unfortunately, there are instances where children find themselves in abusive environments, whether it be at home, school, or within their communities. It is imperative that we as adults take action to help children escape these harmful situations. One of the most important ways to help children escape an abusive environment is to create a safe and supportive space for them to open up about their experiences. It is essential to listen without judgment and provide a compassionate ear for children to share their feelings and fears. This can help build trust and encourage children to seek help when needed. Additionally, it is crucial to educate children about what constitutes abuse and how to recognize the warning signs. By empowering children with knowledge, they can better protect themselves and seek help if they find themselves in an abusive situation. Schools and community organizations can play a significant role in providing education and resources to children on this important topic. Another important step in helping children escape an abusive environment is to provide them with access to resources and support services. This may include counseling, therapy, legal assistance, and shelter options. By connecting children with the appropriate resources, we can help them navigate the complex process of escaping abuse and finding safety. It is also important to involve the authorities and child protective services when necessary. If a child is in immediate danger, it is crucial to report the abuse to the proper authorities so that they can intervene and protect the child. It is our collective responsibility to ensure that children are safe and protected from harm. In conclusion, helping children escape an abusive environment requires a collaborative effort from all members of society. By creating a safe and supportive space for children to open up, educating them about abuse, providing access to resources and support services, and involving the authorities when necessary, we can help children escape the cycle of abuse and find safety and healing. Together, we can make a difference in the lives of children and ensure that they have the opportunity to thrive in a safe and supportive environment.

Meditation for Mental Health is a transformative practice that manages close-to-home equilibrium and clearness. By developing mindfulness and inner peace, it engages people to explore life's difficulties with strength. This comprehensive technique helps to enhance mental well-being, advancing an agreeable association between the brain, body, and soul. Visit us for more- https://jonathansjournals.com/

I lie in the foreign bed within the unfamiliar room, staring up at the unknown ceiling. My heart is galloping like a bronco inside my chest, and a piercing ache develops inside my head. My muscles appear to be in pain, although this could be an illusion. In truth, everything around me could be a mirage. The anti-ligature luminaire attached to the ceiling or the highly secured windows, as well as the fragrance bulbs generating a bittersweet scent, can be a deception. The thoughts in my head run in an infinite cycle until the sense of worry awakens inside my chest, prompting me to deeply breathe in and lightly breathe out. This method clears my mind of superfluous notions, leaving only one thought: I do not belong here. These last several weeks felt like an eternity. I'm trapped within this facility, not even permitted to get some fresh air like a "healthy" person would. I am continuously accompanied by an adult who most likely does not understand me. They do nothing except feed me a lot and tell me that gaining weight is necessary for me. They have no sense of humour or sympathy. What they value the most is when their patient follows their instructions. For me, they are living machines who exhibit no empathy for the most vulnerable individuals. And they claim to understand me: lucky enough to be swapping shifts with others in order to return home, while I'm compelled to stay in this building for the entire time! Each guardian is slightly different, but they all share one trait: they care more about my weight than what goes on within my warped mind. Every day, I'm expected to eat six times. This is more irritating than listening to an OCD girl ask her guardian thousands of questions or seeing a depressed female sob in the restroom. And even though the amount of food I have to consume frustrates me, I refuse to give up; every mouthful I make, every sip I take, is for my family. My parents simply deserve a healthy daughter, not one who is locked up in a psychiatric clinic for months when she could be at school working. The wall of my temporary room is adorned with images of a happy family, a family that is mine, and I don't want to destroy something as valuable as a family just because I couldn't beat my eating disorder. This condition isn't worth it. I must continue to fight. For the sake of my family; for my own benefit. And, while I don't understand some of the other patients, I'm confident that they can all do the same thing: keep on fighting for the sake of their loved ones. As difficult as it is to overcome a mental illness, one can be stronger than the voice inside their head; since this voice isn't the real you! The true self is the happy person you once were, yearning to be released from the pressures that a mental illness can bring. And I know we can do this; we just have to. So I keep on eating, keep on fighting, and everytime I'm feeling down about myself, I go to my room, to the wall covered with family photos, to remind myself why I'm doing all of this in the first place. I want to be with the people I love, but I can't since I'm in this facility. The only way out of here is to eat - and I'm doing this right now. Another few weeks pass, and I do my best not to give up. I can't let myself down, especially now that I'm so close to being released. Sharing my room with someone who is working as hard as I am to get back on their feet enhances my confidence. Having a friend like them is extremely beneficial in keeping me on track. Their name is Yara - but I call them Lou. And, finally, the day of my release has arrived. Everyone congratulates me on my accomplishment, my new friends give me tight hugs, and Lou even gives me a present - a painted canvas with my name on it. "We have made this for you so you will remember us" , they tell me. "I will miss you so much." I try to stop the tears streaming down my face. I will miss you too!, I want to exclaim. I will miss you more than you'll miss me! But everything I say is “Thank you for the canvas. I really appreciate it!” With that, I leave them - it's now their turn to leave this place having accomplished something that they can be proud of. Once I step outdoors, I immediately spot them: my mother in her ivory-coloured coat, my father in his characteristic black cap, and in front of them, my precious sister carrying our dog in her arms. They look lovely together, yet their pack is incomplete. So I run towards them, a broad smile on my face. The moment I land in my mother's arms, everything is fine again. I did it! I've returned home. Our tribe is at last complete. And everything that has happened belongs in the past, where I hope it will remain in perpetuity. Two years later, I am sitting in my room in an entirely different country, at my desk, writing the story of my life. When I pull my gaze away from the screen, my attention is drawn to a colourful canvas situated on my windowsill. Guess what? It has my name on it.

Living a somewhat predictable family life, while leading a nomadic life of unpredictability at the same time, forces one to live life in the moment. Moments often escape the mind as you move from one to the next, leaving others behind with the expectation of our brain to store them as memories, and the anticipation of our brain's ability to recall these moments when referenced. The ultimate trust we must all radically accept. Being recently disabled, it has been a struggle adjusting to life slowing down. Taking care of myself was always a last priority. Being diagnosed with PTSD, major depression, and an anxiety disorder became too much for me to be able to endure after the addition of a pandemic, mysterious illnesses, toxic relationships, and irresponsible decision making landed me in a week-long mental health hospitalization. Depression won't allow one to receive love and embrace it. It doesn't care how fortunate of a life the person has that it infects, nor does it care about the impact of one's life on others. My family is full of love, I have been able to rely on a handful of amazing friends throughout my life, I had an important job helping others, yet I still couldn't escape my depression. I remember the uber ride home to my one bedroom apartment in my clothes I arrived in a week prior, someone broken and incomplete, someone I am not anymore. I recall walking into my apartment, stale despair lingering in week-long stagnant air, dancing with the smoky notes of whiskey left dripping on the bathroom floor. All my things in disarray. 'What a shithole' I remember thinking to myself, looking through the eyes of this person I used to be, numb enough to gather everything in sweeping motions into trash bags. I was scared. I was disappointed in myself for how I left my home for anyone to have to see if I had been gone. I was sad, I was lonely. This was the hardest day of that whole experience. I'm a human being, I wanted a companionship. I needed that presence of another life in mine. With such trauma tied to so many relationships in my past, how in hell was I going to move forward in my life having companionship? I had been burned so many times with exes in such a variety of ways I'd sooner offer lucifer fellatio at their place than entertain a date of any kind. I was in outpatient therapy, quarantined at home, alone. Naturally, I was a codependent person historically. Shaken by anxiety every day, having crying spells, speaking to my therapist and mother led me to decide I was going to get a dog. For the first time in years, I felt the warmth of overwhelming love lift the weight off my heart for this new companion that I didn't even know! I was able to feel real excitement for something I wanted more than anything in that moment in time. My parents, siblings, friends all supported me; aiding in the search of my dog. I found the most handsomest little schmoop I've ever loved with my whole heart, Arthur. The second I picked him up, he melted into me for safety, and I never felt more safe and joyful. I have had dogs I have loved in the past, but with animals it's as if there are no rules, you can love them all the most and that's okay. I had met and held others, but he was the one that I needed to take home with me. From that day forward it was he and I against the world. He gave me a reason to wake up every day, because he would slobber all over me and tell me all about how excited he was for a day with me until I got up to take him outside. I was unable to sink into my deep, dark days of depression because this fluffy, happy little floof depends on me. He loves me and he wants to spend time with me. If he's awake, he expects me to be awake too. Not my favorite dynamic at first when it came to kennel training. Which is why I failed and let him sleep with me on the third night where we both slept the most peaceful sleep either of us had ever had. Arthur has shown me what it is like to be loved unconditionally. There is nothing he would rather do besides be with me. I had the opportunity to give him a great deal of exposure to others by getting my ESA letter from my psychiatrist. He was in the car with me everywhere I went from that day forward. He came to the office with me every day and sat faithfully by my side, comforting me. He lays with me when I am sick, sad, or anxious. He plays with me, even if I am not in the mood, he gets me up and moving my body around playing fetch and chasing each other around the house until my asthmatic ass turns into a kazoo. I'd like to say he doesn't judge me, but he does get awfully mouthy sometimes when I am hesitant to comply with his demands to push myself. He is everything that I need to be a better person. He is my best friend, my angel who saved me. He's my Boo Boo, he's a good boy. He's my dog, Arthur Lew, and he'll always be my favorite floof.

As a teenage girl living in South Africa, my life has been significantly impacted by the COVID-19 pandemic. Born into a humble background, I reside with my parents, younger sister, and brother, with my father being the sole breadwinner after my mom lost her job due to the pandemic. The challenges brought on by the outbreak have affected me academically, emotionally, and mentally, forcing me to adapt to new circumstances and develop resilience amidst unprecedented difficulties. 2020: A Year of Turmoil In 2020, I was in grade 7, trying to find my footing in a new school. Just as I began to settle in, the COVID-19 pandemic hit, turning my world upside down. The loss of my parents' jobs compounded our financial struggles, leading to anxiety and uncertainty about our future. The school's kindness in providing grocery packages helped alleviate our immediate food concerns, but the mental toll was immense. The transition to online classes added to my distress. As a top student at my previous school, my slipping grades left me feeling like a failure. The pressure to live up to the expectations placed on me by my scholarship and my own high standards overwhelmed me, leading to bouts of depression and self-hate. When in-person schooling resumed, I found solace in the company of my classmates, and the support provided by the school helped me pass the year, albeit not with the results I had hoped for. 2021-2022: A Blur of Emotions The following years were marked by a rollercoaster of emotions. The lifting of COVID-19 protocols allowed for more social interactions, but I struggled with anxiety in large gatherings. Balancing my studies, personal life, and the challenges of the pandemic took a toll on my mental health. The disruptions caused by the pandemic led to curriculum cuts, affecting my learning and grades. Facing personal struggles, I withdrew and resorted to unhealthy coping mechanisms. While I found comfort in my group of friends, I was hesitant to open up about my problems, wanting to be the strong support system for them. I joined robotics and coding to find a healthy outlet, but the pressure to excel in these areas added to my stress. Despite achieving relatively good marks, I continued to feel unsatisfied and burdened by self-doubt, leading to a constant feeling of inadequacy. The pressure from school, home, my scholarship, and myself weighed heavily on my shoulders, often making me feel like a failure. 2023: The Journey Continues As I turned 16, life remained challenging, with financial struggles continuing to impact my family. Problems within my friend group added to the emotional strain, causing divides and reshaping our dynamics. Despite coming to terms with my grades, I still grappled with occasional disappointments in myself. Throughout this tumultuous journey, my dogs have become a source of comfort and strength. They, along with my family and true friends, keep me going and give me the will to face each day with renewed determination. Conclusion: A Path Forward The COVID-19 pandemic has profoundly affected my life, presenting numerous challenges and obstacles. As a 16-year-old girl from a humble background, I have been through emotional turmoil, academic pressure, and financial struggles. Despite the hardships, I have persevered, adapting to new circumstances and finding solace in my passions and loved ones. As the journey continues, I strive to embrace my imperfections and learn from my experiences. I acknowledge that my struggles, though personal, are valid, and I should not downplay my emotions. My resilience and determination will continue to guide me towards a brighter future, pursuing my interests in coding and robotics, and supporting my family through our difficulties. Though the COVID-19 pandemic has left lasting scars, it has also taught me valuable lessons about strength, compassion, and the power of resilience. As a 16-year-old girl in South Africa, I look forward to the day when our world heals from the pandemic's wounds, and together, we emerge stronger than ever before.

Warning: Depictions of self-harm. Readers discretion is advised. Harvey's music blasted from his laptop, causing everything on his desk to vibrate. His pens and keys shook against the commanding sound waves, which jumped from its epicenter like an earthquake. He had turned the basement of his rental house into a DJ club. He was surprised a neighbor hadn't come banging on his door yet with fire in their eyes, asking him to shut it. “I ain't no therapist, but ya'll got the gist!” He sang the lyrics to his song even louder. It was a Thursday evening, and tomorrow was going to be his debut as a DJ at a local bar. There was no choice but to erupt his basement into an eardrum-smashing destruction - practice was all that filled his mind. The next verse featured a harsh rap which Harvey chanted along: “Money, cash, bank, the coins are in my fanny! Ya'll fuckin' mofos want empty hands, saying love, love love!” The music then spun into a dubstep-style track for a half minute, until the next verse arrived: “Ain't no fuckas saying no to ya'll dimes, just buy them bitches before they mine! Love ain't real, ya mental shit only wants to feel-” Cling! Harvey twitched and stopped his rap abruptly, startled by the loud clang below him which pierced his ear, even through his rowdy music. He directed his gaze below the table at the source of the noise. His lucky penny, which dropped to the concrete floor of his basement thanks to the loud vibrations of his table, was finishing its twirl before flattening. Face-up was heads instead of tails. “God dammit, can't believe I lost my groove just ‘cause of a coin,” Harvey muttered, and paused his music. He bent down to pick his penny up under the table. And that's when he heard it. Not the sound of his music; not the clinging of his coin. It was a faint rumble from upstairs in the house. Harvey glanced up to the ragged ceiling of his basement, pretending to see through the wood. His own music still echoed in his ear, making it hard to tell if he was only hallucinating. He looked back at the coin, peering at its shiny heads surface. It reminded him of a certain conversation he had with his housemate, Samuel, just a few days ago. “Dude, what if I told you I'd off myself based on the flip of a coin?” Samuel asked while sipping a beer next to his friend at their dining table. “The fuck? You're messed in the head, my guy,” Harvey replied, putting his can down and raising his eyebrows to his friend's weird statement. “Then the coin better land as a tails. You gotta support me for Friday night's party, it's my DJ debut!” “Haha, true that.” Harvey's eyes glared at the penny for only another second before a dark feeling of unease filled him to the brim. Samuel had never made such a joke before during the three years he knew him. Wait, he can't be ser-! Before the thought fully passed through his mind, his body moved before his brain. Without picking the coin up, Harvey dashed down the hallway to the stairs of his basement. He leaped a few steps up and reached the first floor of his house without issue. That was when the rumbling noise from one more floor above had become real. There was shaking between the walls, yet no footsteps bounced into his ear. “Shit!” he gasped. He ran to the next staircase, and flung himself up to the top floor of his house. In front of him was the door to his housemate's room. Grabbing the doorknob, Harvey gritted his teeth when it wouldn't open. “You fucking idiot!” he screamed and clenched both his hands into stone to brace for impact, and readied the kick of his life. His body flung at the door, shoe first at the knob, and he jumped as if delivering a karate hit. Thump! He watched the knob cave into the cracked wood, until splinters emerged. Finally, on the fifth attempt - Thwack! - the knob fell through the crack of broken timber, and Harvey barged into his friend's room. He reached to the back of his pants for his pocket knife - a small Swiss Army blade which featured multiple tools - and glanced desperately around for the silent Samuel. After performing a three-sixty, his eyes landed on - The closet! Harvey gulped. With his head covered in sweat, goosebumps devouring his skin, and every limb jittering, he swung open the sliding door to Samuel's closet. “Fucking hell.” The sight of his unconscious friend, hanging on a rather thin rope tied into a noose, was almost enough to give him a heart attack. Instead, his chest sank like a ship, and his hands twitched while reaching for the rope to cut it. With every back-and-forth movement of his knife, the tears around Harvey's eyes grew. By the time his friend dropped to the floor, those tears had already trickled down his cheeks. “Wake up, please, I'm begging you!” He dragged the fainted Samuel out of the closet, laid him on his back, and began performing CPR on both his chest and his mouth. After what felt like forever, Samuel's eyes slowly opened.

Aside from introducing myself, I'm really unsure of where to begin. This probably isn't the beginning of my story but it's definitely a start. Have you ever heard someone say, "I had to grow up too quickly" or "I didn't have a childhood"? Those simple statements are the literal definition of my life. At 9 years old, I didn't know how to be a child. I never played with friends, went to sleepovers, or had birthday parties. I was too busy taking care of my two younger siblings. Making bottles, getting them dressed, changing diapers, cooking meals, giving baths... the whole nine yards. I was raising children that I didn't create. I was raising children as a CHILD. My "parents"? They were drunk. They were high. They were fighting. They were passed out. They were somewhere else. One of my earliest memories includes packing lunches for my sister and I before school. We lived in a little trailer in Powell, Wyoming and we walked to school every day. Rain, shine, snow, sleet. We walked. One morning on our way out the door my sister asked for popsicles. Being a child myself, I grabbed us some popsicles and tossed a knife inside her backpack so we could open them on the way to school. Here we are two young children probably 6 & 9 walking to school, eating popsicles and minding our own business. That is until we finally arrived at school and my younger sister's teacher decides to go through her backpack in search of something - but what she finds instead is the knife. Landing my kindergarten sister in the principal's office. Before long the school officer is involved, my parents are called and all of us are sitting in the office. I can remember the tears rolling down her face as the school officer explains how serious this is. Little does he know, I'm the one who put it in there this morning. As he scolds my sister, I can feel the rage welling up inside myself. Because I know it was my fault. The only other thing I remember about that day is getting whopped later that evening after school. It was "MY responsibility" to get us both to school. It was "MY responsibility to make sure she was safe. It was "MY responsibility".... But I was 9. I was supposed to be the child, not the adult. It should have NEVER been my responsibility to set an alarm. It should have NEVER been my responsibility to wake up my younger sister and get us both ready for school. It should have NEVER been my responsibility to begin with. However, looking back now I realize I'd gladly take that beating all over again because it meant that my sister wouldn't have to. I was forced to grow up early. I never got a childhood. I was "mom" to my siblings. I was the adult in my home. Even though I was only 9 years old...even though I was a child.

We often undermine how much maintaining a pleasant space around us can contribute positively to our state of mind. Of course, having a nice budget to decorate and create the office of your dreams would be great, but you don't necessarily need that. Things as simple as maintaining the space around you clean and organised can go much further than any of us imagine, until we go from living in a cluttered space to living in a a space that has... well, actual space. Particularly in relation to remote working, besides this general rule, these are just some of the little things you can do to help yourself feeling and performing better: 1. Keep your desk tidy, and as free of objects as possible. For example, since I like to keep my furniture to a minimum, I only keep by my side the essential documents I might need in any of my working days in my working backpack. It works as an archive, avoids an extra piece of furniture, and is always ready to go if I need to leave for work purposes in a hurry. If you have too much, consider getting a simple piece of furniture that you can have next ot your desk and will keep all your paperwork organised. 2. Transfer everything you can to a digital format - everyone give me A HANDS UP FOR THE CLOUD WHOOP WHOOP! Turn everything into a google docs, spreadsheet, etc., label it or put it into folders according to theme, and never again lose a document! You can always download the most important ones to access offline, so you can access them in a hurry on your laptop if you're away, or there's a temporary network issue. 3. Adjust your screen height to avoid keeping your neck twisted down as much as possible. If you don't have a separate screen, consider one of those standing desk additions, so you can keep a laptop at a perfect height. 4. Adjust your screen brightness to a comfortable level - bear in mind, this might vary throughout the day, according to your light environment. Dark mode is something I go for whenever possible, maybe give it a try and see if it's kinder on your eyes - mine really appreciate it. 5. Do not forget to use a planner that is good enough to help you plan a reasonable workload for the day, that helps you prioritise better, and that allows you to adapt and change your priorities throughout the day if need be. For me, this is @Audacitytasks due to its time buckets and drag and drop features (amongst others exclusive ones I love). 6. Unless literally impossible due to the nature of your work, only keep your work mobile on your desk. Even if you keep your personal one in silent mode, or even turn it around, as long as you can see it, there'll always be that temptation to have a look, touch the screen just to see what's going on "really quick" (yeah right)... If it's in another room, or at least not right there so accessible to your hand's (and thus mind) reach, you'll be less likely to be tempted to leave your desk to grab it, and probably you won't even remember it as much, as it's not in your field of vision (even if just by a millimetre). If this is helpful, keep following for more advice on remote working. You can also read my previous articles on this matter on my LinkedIn or Facebook, or see the more compacted version of it on my instagram. Hope you have fun doing it :D

The screaming had stopped, at least that was one thing. We could all take a second to catch our breath. On my right, my arm clung to my patient who sat rocking backward and forward on the chair. On the other side, my colleague - mirroring my position, my posture, my heavy breathing. The only difference; the fogged up glasses on her face. There had been crying, there had been grabbing, there had been attempts to harm themselves. We had prevented it. We had stopped it. We had helped. Hadn't we? The pandemic was in full swing. We had at least 50% of patients on our ward with a positive test result. Most of them were self-isolating in their bedrooms, with the others barely daring to come out. The ones that did tended to be acutely unwell and simply did not or could not understand the current situation regarding COVID-19. Our ward was locked down, nobody in, nobody out. PPE on, changed after every patient interaction, all safety measures put in place.. until they weren't. What do you do when a paranoid patient thinks you are a robot hiding your face with a mask? You cannot remove it. For both your sake and theirs. They become upset, distressed. They scream, they shout. They retaliate, they lash out. They are medicated, sedated. They wake up, and go again. What do you do when a patient feels so hopeless that they will use any means necessary in an attempt to end their life. They try to swallow toilet paper, so we have to remain in possession of it. They try to snap pens, so we hide them. They try to use clothing to stop them from breathing, so we limit access. But what do we do when we have to go in wearing masks, gloves and aprons? An abundance of opportunities for the patient to obtain and misuse. How do you tell their loved ones that you literally provided them with the means to devastatingly hurt themselves? If you figure it out, please let us know. What do you do when a patient is so thought disordered, they cannot even remember to eat and drink. They spend most of their time rolling round their bedroom floor, eyes darting round the room, too engrossed in what they can see and nobody else can. They will not even take medications for you, to get themselves better. They see you in your mask, your visor, your gloves, reaching toward them, touching them. They are scared. They are dismissive. They are unwell. 12 hour shifts, 4 days a week. Masks on constantly, chafing at the ear. Hands dry, cracked and swollen from the prolific hand-washing going on. Dehydrated, both our palms and our bodies. Changing in and out of uniform before and after shift. Washing uniforms on abhorrently high temperatures, just to be safe. Persistent home-tests to ensure we are still virus-free. The extra time it takes to shower both before and after your 12 hour shift, losing out on sleep. But we are here. We are helping. We are the NHS. Inpatient mental health facilities are challenging places to work at the best of times, never mind in the midst of a global pandemic. Patients do not suddenly stop being psychotic or depressed, just because the world is in lockdown. They are not able to socially distance. Some of them rely on proximity and closeness in order to stop themselves from hurting - both physically and mentally. Some of them have no sense of personal space. We cannot administer medications in a socially distanced manner, we cannot monitor and record physical health observations 2m apart, we cannot stay home. So here we are, and here we will continue to be.

The last year has taken so much from us. I am almost certain that I do not only speak for myself when I say the pandemic made me experience life as an hourglass that somehow both increased and decreased in speed. To put it bluntly - we've been robbed of life. Whether this has affected our relationships, opportunities or even time with loved ones, we have all been forced to make adjustments. I distinctly remember the day my country's government announced the groundbreaking news that students in highschool and university would shift to online education. My classmates cheered happily and couldn't wait to get an extra hour of sleep in the morning. However, days quickly turned into months and months quickly turned into a blur of tired eyes and a rapidly growing pile of work. Life has been difficult. However, the pandemic has also given a lot of us perspective. Perspective. What does that imply? Of course the definition of the word in this particular scenario can not be defined. To me, nonetheless, perspective meant that I noticed something I was too busy, too active and too unavailable to notice before. I noticed how much I have improved as a person. Let me explain. When I was a young child I used to write in a diary. However, not the sparkly, fluffy notebook with a heart lock on it. Surely I had one of those too, but this one was completely different. It was handed to me by my psychologist whom I visited every week. I don't remember much of this time in my life as I was only around nine years old. In addition to that, it's a part of my life that I sometimes actively choose to push away. It was not a pleasant time. Almost every night I had panic attacks and more often than not I used to ask myself if this was the time that I would die. During dinner I would go to the bathroom only to calm myself down from the anxiety that was running around my brain like a dog chasing a tennis ball on an open field. When I think of this time I quickly realize how messed up my mind was for a nine year old. Of course I feel sorry for my younger self. But I also try to let it slip from memory. That's why the experience of finding this diary was so important to me. Lockdown made my mental state so much worse than before. I have felt lonely, sad and tired. But what has made it the most unbearable are the spiraling thoughts in my head that never seem to take a break. I understand that the journey and relationship between a person and their mental health is not always a linear one. I understand that certain situations can make it harder to create a positive mindspace. But what I have a hard time understanding is why I can't just get a ticket that tells me when this suffering will be over. When the train of anxiety will leave. When I can wave it goodbye. Sometimes it's not even the anxiety itself that keeps me up all night. Sometimes it's simply the awareness of the fact that it exists, and that deep down I feel it knows me better than I do myself. When I opened the pages to that diary I was taken on a journey through my mind. It was weird. Imagine going on a vivid tour through the most personal and bottomless part of your past. I swiftly remembered writing those words. Those sentences. One part of the book was a chart where you could rate the level of fear a certain trigger made you feel. As I read through that segment I suddenly felt what I believe is the true meaning of perspective. While not a perfect line, I could still observe the progression that only a few moments earlier had been fully invisible. My baby steps were actually the size of a dinosaur's. Not one thing on the list I had made when I was nine even remotely scared me anymore. If I were to fill out the chart once more all the tens out of tens would be zeros. I felt proud of myself. It made me rethink those times that I've doubted the fact that I will ever feel better. That I will ever see that ticket in my hand. I am not cured. Not even close. But it doesn't matter because this story is not the story of how I finally became anxiety-free. Instead, it's the story of how I found the strength to keep working towards that goal. Maybe someday I will be writing essays concerning my full mental health battle, but not today. And that is perfectly okay. I have put that journal back in my closet and I don't intend to look at it for a long time. But it will always be a reminder that even the tiniest improvements are still steps in the right direction. If you've made it to this sentence, thank you. Thank you for taking a little time out of your day and dedicating it to reading about my life. I can confidently say that this little story means a lot to me, and sharing it makes it even greater. While I know nothing about your story or about your journey, I know that whatever you're struggling with will be solved someday. And who knows. Maybe you need to do what I did. Maybe the solution is right there. Maybe you need to see things from another perspective.

In my mental padded white room Hearing sounds of well pure nothing Except for a ticking noise in my ears How annoying, batteries need to drain Here I go hearing this tick tock, tick tock, tick Well, you get the idea of what I am saying Sounds of a clock's arms moving, a leg shaking To the numbers of 1 2 3, tick tock, tick tock I am rocking to the beat hearing a song Not much to do when you're tied up In a jacket with the sleeves behind you Moving as a spider with no legs swaying Laughing at that thought I smile With a grimace in my eyes. I have a window in a door with no knobs Pointless when I can't get up to see out It's just a tease as water is in a dry desert As you can tell, I'm not all there, yeah, I'm a Mental house freak in a world of normal. Okay, sorry in a world of half normal people Hope that makes you all feel a tad bit better I'm in a room because they said I'm not insane I wonder where they got their degrees. This makes me scratch my head too, well wait I'm tied up I can't scratch a thing but make faces At these thoughts tick toking in circles in this head Of mine, I don't see an ounce of sanity even floating. I think I better shush for now; I hear feet coming Right at my door, they stop, calling my name Of course, I will never answer, I let them wonder If she is truly okay? Maybe thinking what a nut case What can I say? I am a mental house freak. Creaking of the door my eyes finally open to daylight Oh man what a dream, all these things that fly around Inside of me and yet I remember the story to tell. As crazy as these dreams are, I come alive in a way I get to bring my fantasy world out into words Even though I come out as a mental house freak. Copyrighted By Kelonie Utley

*trigger warning rape & cancer* I want you to take a second and think about one thing about yourself that -if you had the ability to go back in time and change your life- you would not change for the world. There is an 19th century philosophy, made famous by the movie The Butterfly Effect, that claims that if there is one thing about yourself, one trait or characteristic that you would want to keep if you found yourself suddenly able to go back in time, you would need to re-live the same experiences and make all the same decisions in order to guarantee that in the future you would retain that one quality. And it is this I want you to remember as I share my story. As a child, I did not get into trouble. In fact, the worst infraction I ever made was that I did not spend enough time in the sun, and so my parents would take my books away to force me to go outside. Naturally, I worked out a system to hid them in ziplock bags under the hedge. As I grew older, I also learned that breaking the rules held greater consequences for me than for my friends. While my affluent teenage peers were able to break curfew and notoriously climbed onto the top of the city capital to drink beer, my parents could not afford expensive lawyers to get me out of trouble. There was also a question of my legal residency. When it came time to learn how to drive, my parents taught me that I could not afford to speed or break the speed limit because it could result in my deportation. And while this lesson may have been exaggerated to keep a teenager safe, it became my truth. The key here is that I followed the letter of the law and did nothing wrong. When I was raped, I expected the legal system to protect me. In my darkest hour, when the campus police showed up, I thought that they would be on my side. While no woman should ever have to know how to report a rape, this was certainly not something I was equipped to handle alone. The campus police not only bullied me and warned against ruining the career and future of my rapist, they threatened my legal status and suggested that I might be deported if I wanted to make a formal claim. But MY story is not about my rape. It is about learning to live and remold myself after trauma and after being let down by the system meant to protect me. Two years later, I was diagnosed with skin cancer so severe that if I had not booked a visit to the dermatologist on a whim, I would have lost my eye in less than a year. I drove myself to the surgery and watched as my face was carved from my eyelid to my cheek. But once again MY story is not about getting skin cancer, or the additional two melanoma diagnoses three years later that suggest that I will likely continue to present with skin cancer the rest of my life. It is not even about the fact that I had done nothing wrong, that I had always worn copious amounts of sunscreen, that as a child I had to be forced outside and seldom spent time in the sun. It is not about the fact that the doctors did not believe me when I told them that I had never tanned in my life, because I was slim, blonde-haired and blue-eyed. In 2018 I had my first panic attack. I was attending a conference for work, sitting in a room of over 10 thousand people, and suddenly I felt powerless, lost and like I was sinking. My colleague with me at the time was a Marine veteran and instantly recognized the signs, but I had lived a sheltered and protected life, so it did not occur to me that I had PTSD, for my experience did not seem as valid as that of veterans and survivors of horrific disasters. For although I had never realized it, I fell into the habit of comparing my experience to that of others, to comparing my pain, my stress, my fear and my recovery, and finding it less worthy. But let me tell you that any PTSD is worthy of attention and every experience is valid. I started my tattoos in 2019. One on each shoulder as a reminder that I am not alone. My 'strong women' and 'warrior' tattoos are as much a testament to the resilient woman I have grown to be, as a symbol of the indelible presence of trauma. For although it is not inked into our skins, trauma can present and trigger in unexpected ways, even after years of self-work. I share my story because trauma and PTSD does not make you weak. It doesn't make you incapable of recovery or incapable of working through the episodes. It makes you human. I strongly believe in normalizing mental health for, if nothing else, we are brought together by the similarities of surviving: COVID, quarantine, the injustices and unpredictable illnesses that life throws at us. But we are stronger together. And each of us has that one thing that makes it all worthwhile.

Just one word to describe this year, and it's a 'hell'. I don't know if it's because of the pandemic or I'm just too tired, but I've been experiencing mental disorders since last year. Something 'big' happened last year, it should've been the start of my brilliant career, but it turned out to be a trigger that caused my depression. That something big was many people's dream job but not my dream job. I got that job, but I wasn't happy with that. I told my parents about how I feel, but they kept pushing me to just accept that job for my future's sake, and yeah, I initially tried to do that and tried to accept my 'splendid' destiny. But at that time actually, I started living in hell. You know, I prefer fighting with other people than fighting with my own mind. That's so freaking hard! I fought my depression, I cried every single night, I couldn't sleep, I didn't eat or drink. My world turned upside down, but no one cared, no one asked me about it. This year my condition was getting worst, I started harming my body, even trying to kill myself several times. Yeah, I was a suicidal who tried several silly methods to end her life. I tried to make myself overdose by drinking a lot of pills, I tried to hurt myself by drinking ethyl alcohol, and the climax was when I tried to kill myself by eating rat poisons. The last trial ended with me being rushed to an emergency room and needed to be intensively treated there for half a day and needed to stay in hospital for two days. Rat poisons were not good, they're the worst! I tell you, my stomach was in extreme pain at that time. I cried aloud because of the unbearable pain, the doctors and the nurses did their best to save my life by doing many emergency treatments. For the first time in my life, I experienced a horrific experience when they started entering a hose through my nose to my stomach. They said that was the method to rinse my polluted stomach. For one day that hose stuck into my nose and that's extremely uncomfortable! I couldn't even eat and only drink milk through that hose. After that ugly experience that felt like a nightmare, I was interrogated by my parents as to know why I did that stupid action. And here we go the drama. I cried while explaining my real feeling and my mental condition, I told them that I couldn't do it anymore, I couldn't do that job anymore. I wasn't a saint, I wasn't a good person, I didn't want to pretend to be righteous by kept doing that job. I thought they would understand, I thought they could see how pathetic I was after seeing me in critical condition, but I was wrong. Instead of feeling pity, my father decided to disown me. Yeah, my father was angry, and starting that day, he ignored me like a plague. We lived under the same roof, but he never saw me as if I was invisible. Do you know the pain in my heart? That's beyond painful, I don't even know how to describe that. My mother was a saint. She hugged me at that time, saying that I just need to do what I want to do and that I don't need to force myself to do something I don't want to. Do you know? That sounds like Calum Scott's song titled No Matter What, and that's my favorite song anyway. I lived in hell after that. The place that once I called home, now it's a hell. I was jobless so I stayed at home all day, doing nothing. The anxiety attacked me so many times that I cried over the smallest things. The smallest things like when my internet getting slow, I cried. When my computer mouse stopped working, I cried. When my sister didn't answer my call, I cried. I cried every day and that's tiring. My depression wasn't different. I felt so depressed, I completely changed my habit. I used to be a clean freak, my room used to be ant-free, but now my room is ants palace. I didn't even want to take a shower, I didn't do the skincare routine, I didn't even eat and drink. I was a complete mess. You know, there's this guilty feeling inside my heart. I've disappointed my parents. I don't blame my father for his cold treatment towards me, I know he's just very disappointed in me. I just keep blaming myself for everything. I don't know whether it's caused by my depression or not, but I really can't stop blaming myself. My family was poor, I should've given them a better life, but I failed. Lately, I have also experienced a worse physical condition every time the anxiety attacked. I experienced breathing difficulty, my chest was stuffy that I couldn't breathe properly. I'm also scared when I'm outside and meet people. I'm afraid that they would judge me. That's suffocating, that's terrifying. I know I need to see a professional's help, but now I'm jobless and penniless so I can't do that just yet. I can only distract myself by writing since originally I love writing. Writing is like an escape, I feel safe when I'm writing. I hope one day I will be able to get through these tribulations and proudly say, "Once upon a time I lived in hell, but now I'm happy like in paradise."

The girl with the gentle eyes and soft touch is the same girl who calls herself useless and a burden, but no one sees that so it doesn't matter. The same girl who smiled no matter what in grades k-5 is the same girl who tried to commit suicide in sixth and seventh grade. She might not show her pain but she feels it deeper than most. Every night when she believes no one is looking she bursts into tears wanting to use her skin as an outlet but she won't let herself. The thoughts that seem to be in her mind as often as the blood in her veins are never positive. She promised many people she wouldn't cut again after she almost went too deep. For her, this promise is almost impossible because she never feels like she's enough. No matter what she does she can't outrun her thoughts. She begins going numb, she cuts once again just so she can feel something and she breaks her promise. She never truly believed that she could keep it but she tried. In the end the promise she couldn't keep was a dangerous one, it was a promise of staying alive.