Depression Drawings Novels & Stories

But I never heard those words in that house. That night, I draw while my heart was crying out. Unconsciously, I draw a person. My whole sadness and grievances were reflected in that drawing. And that was the last time I ever draw a person again. That sketchbook was like a little light in my dark days. Since the sketchbook was only limited to a few pages, I saved every paper and draw only when days were so hard and whenever I felt so suffocated. Only by drawing a page would I feel alive again.

I ask, walking to the table to peek at her painting, which is in bright, eye-catching colours. "Us," she tells me as I note two figures holding hands. They both have downturned mouths, a sigh of unhappiness, my thumb running over the paper, tracing her depiction of... depression. "Are they sad?" I ask. She nods, not saying yes, but I see in her eyes that she's depicting how she feels. She's always been well ahead in her drawings; she's been making these weird little stickmen for a few months now. But the sad face was a new one; she hadn't been doing mouths in any other form than a straight line before.

Odell walked closer to her and asked, “What are you doing?” Sylvia chose to remain quiet. Odell approached her side and saw her scribbling a dark drawing. The entire drawing was dark, drawn only with different shades of black. The dark sky, the black forests, and the crows on the branches, the entire drawing screamed of depression. She was scribbling with charcoal, so her hands were also tainted black. Odell frowned and said in a heavy tone, “Stop drawing.” Sylvia ignored him and continued moving her charcoal across the canvas.

I might just have her change her school but everyone in the pack knows her to be an omega and I know they won't cease to bully her more. I made my way to the drawing room–a place where I sulk when I feel lonely. All I do is draw, it makes me feel better. For months I've been suffering from depression, always sitting alone and staring into the thin air. My mind had always been a firing range for doubts and low self-esteem but with Adeline around, I seemed to feel better and my burning mind, soothed. Drawing has been my talent from little and I had some so many work of arts.

She shrugs and keeps coloring. I look down at her drawing. I took an introductory child psychology class last semester as part of the pediatrics program. I remember enough about it to suspect that this child is a little depressed. All of the pictures are made with dark neutrals of blacks, browns, and greys. There’s no color anywhere. Each drawing contains a solitary person standing alone, which I recall is a sign that indicates loneliness.

“This is the first time this year I’ve dreamt of something different. Does this mean I’m finally moving on from what happened?” “Perhaps you’ve entered a whole new level of depression,” Landry countered, looking over the drawings again. They all seemed completely different from each other. “Smoke rising from burning houses, birds on a tree, a note with a name on it, and a tortured man screaming. These visions seem so unrelated in many respects. It certainly means that whatever is going on with you has gotten a whole lot worse. Have you figured out what any of these mean?” “No. That’s why I called you,” he said. “I stayed up all night trying to figure out what they meant, but got nothing.”

Smiles. Jessica frowned. Not big exaggerated smiles. Not perfect smiles. Real ones. The kind that sat quietly on someone's face when they forgot they were being watched. The kind that arrived before people even realised they were happy. She stared at the pages for a long moment. Because she'd spent years drawing sadness. Years. Sad eyes. Lonely people. Shadows. Empty spaces. Even when she drew trees or landscapes, there had always been something lonely hidden somewhere inside them. And now somehow, without noticing...

a calm but unfamiliar voice asked. “Yes, who is this?” I replied cautiously, my grip tightening on the phone. “You submitted your art three years ago, if you remember,” the voice said. I nodded to myself, though the caller couldn’t see me. Of course I remembered. I had started drawing again not long after we relocated here, as a way to soothe my heart and keep myself from slipping back into depression. After some time, I realized that many of the pieces felt dark and heavy, a reflection of my struggles. So, I had donated most of them, letting them go in the hope that someone else might find meaning in them.

I picked up a chair from the east corner of the room and a random sketch paper and pen. Drawing or painting had always been my stress relief. I have drawn Violet over twenty times with just an idea image from pictures but I got to draw her laying feet’s away from me.

It is one of my favorite natural sanctuaries in the city. I shove my hand into my slacks pocket, making sure my palm-sized drawing book and fine-nib ink pen are securely in place. I never step past my den doors without them because I never know when a visual fragment will strike my wolf. Since I was a nine-winter-old pup, I’ve been trapping moments of my life on paper just like this, whether the days were full of blood or completely ordinary. The daily moonmark drawings started when I was just a young, locked-in introverted boy stuck in intensive speech therapy. Sketching became my ultimate escape when my throat would lock up, leaving me completely frustrated and unable to articulate my basi