Depression Drawings Novels & Stories

If he was to run to his dear father, his father Mr Williams would only tell him how disappointed he is. He sighed, then tried getting up from the floor. He walked to his indoor art studio, picked up his paint and brush, and tried to draw. He couldn't draw a single line, cause his hands kept on shaking uncontrollably. He kicked the big drawing board angrily, and it fell to the ground shattering into pieces. What the heck is wrong with him? Why couldn't he just concentrate and draw a single picture?. He should never had allowed the devil into his life, but loneliness and depression creeped into his life, therefore inviting the devil along. Now, he has no other choice but to follow the devil's

"Mr. Warner, these are the drawings Felix made during the psychological therapy sessions I conducted. Can you discern what they represent?" Bradley opened the folder and noted the dates on each drawing. With just one glance, he sensed the overwhelming weight in the drawings. Although Felix used vibrant colors, there was no hint of brightness or joy. Instead, a suffocating sense of oppression permeated the artwork.

Along the way, she encountered several boys walking with their heads down, engrossed in their phones and chatting animatedly. "It's this painting, 'The Northern Maiden.' This painting has been designated by the academic community in psychology as the godly painting for self-assessment of depression. Do you guys know? What kind of divine hand could create such a masterpiece?"

I slumped down in my chair, letting out a frustrated sigh as I proceeded to my usual mindless doodling. It was becoming a habit of mine. I found that I had begun drawing small pictures of the black wolf I've encountered in my other notebooks. I had even started drawing a large one on a sheet of paper that was stuffed somewhere in my bag. I may be a neat freak, but I never seemed to keep my backpack in order.

I hate lying to her, I just felt like screaming. **** I was thinking of something else to focus on because this pain was too much. Then my eyes landed on a scrap of paper and a pencil I found in one of the drawers. I took it and sat at the small desk and began sketching. At first, the lines were aimless, because my mind did not focus. But slowly, the shapes began to make sense. I was drawing an outline of my mum’s face, starting with the crinkles around her eyes when she did her signature smile. My pencil moved faster, I started flowing with the rhythm, and memories started pouring out onto the paper.

She said and I smiled. “I made it a five years ago, that was when I concentrated on drawing.” I said, she smiled. “And it means that everyone I truly loved is gone, it signifies the pain I’d had to go through that year.” I said, she looked so shocked for a while. She flipped the next page and it was a drawing of a man drowning, she touched it calmly. “Let me guess, he is drowning in his misery.” She said and I nodded with a chuckle, she was right, that was what the drawing actually meant.

I have been having another nightmare, the same kind that haunted my childhood. I get out of bed and take some aspirin to relieve my head of the pressure. Suddenly I feel the need to drain my mind of the noise that has become my curse. My sketchbook occupies its usual position besides my bed. I pick it up and begin to sketch, letting the pain and anger flow through my fingers onto the paper. My strokes are deft and shaky so the paper gets crumpled along the way. Finally, I am done and can feel the weight loosening in my head. I do not bother to look at what I had drawn on the paper.

He hid these sketches between the pages of heavy art books in the studio. His behavior changed. The listless despair that had gripped him after the video call with Anna was replaced by a focused, almost feverish energy. He spent long hours in the studio, not just brooding, but working. The act of creation became a dual-purpose tool: it was his emotional outlet, and it was his ticket out.

The kingdom would descend into a civil war that would burn everything we had built. I had to believe my sacrifice. This waiting. This suffering was holding the peace together. But as the third night bled into the fourth morning. My resolve was fraying like an old rope. To keep my sanity. I picked up a small stick. I started drawing on the dusty floor. I didn't draw recipes or trophies. I drew the market. I drew the bronze vine clasp Alaric had pressed into my hand. I drew the face of my father. His eyes crinkled with a smile. A smile I feared I would never see again. The act of creation was the only thing that kept me from drifting into the abyss of despair.

Like the kind of truth she usually only told at 2 AM or during wine-soaked first dates that ended with blocked numbers. The walls in this place were too high. But the ceilings weren't. The pressure dropped when you stood too long. That's what it felt like here. Low oxygen. Emotional altitude sickness. She rubbed her hands down her arms and kept walking. She needed space. Needed to breathe. Somewhere behind her, faint and small, came the whisper of paper scraping softly across a table. Later That Day She found the drawing on her borrowed pillow. Simple lines. Crude shapes. Child's art. A woman in too-bright clothes beside a girl with long braids. And in the background—a third figure. Tall. Al