Depression Drawings Novels & Stories

Even the tattoos on his arms were hard to recognise, they just seemed like black smudges on his skin in my mind. “Okay, so we know we’re looking for a male with arm tattoos.” Alpha Devin noted the description of the man behind the sketch and proceeded to label the first two sketches as well. “What about this one?” It was one of the more chaotic ones, drawn the day of my father’s funeral, I could hardly get a clear image in my mind to put on paper, but my hands kept moving, scribbling an abstract image onto the page. “I’m sorry, that shouldn’t be here- it, I drew that the day of my father’s funeral, my mind was too clouded to think clearly.” I stumbled over my words, pulling the page from her

Anna didn’t know if she should feel happy or sad that she had the whole mansion to herself. *** After three weeks of staying alone in the house with no one to talk to, Anna slowly started getting depressed. ~I would love to paint a little,~ she thought. ~Fuck!!! Did I remember to bring my drawing book? ~ Anna instantly jolted her brain to recollect if she had remembered to take her drawing book with her, but she found out that she might not have brought it with her. She suddenly felt a sense of loss wash over her. Her paintings were her companions, they were just like her babies.

He'd started drawing the beach house. That wasn't unusual. He drew buildings the way other people doodled — automatically, almost unconsciously, the pencil finding lines while his mind worked through whatever was actually troubling him. He'd designed half his best work this way, in margins and on napkins and on the backs of school permission slips while waiting in pickup lines. But this drawing was different.

Then, slowly, they began. One participant painted overlapping waves, each crest labeled with phrases like “Regret,” “Hope,” “Resentment.” The colors bled into each other, creating a tumultuous sea that seemed to pulse with emotion. Another painted a house fractured in four directions, its windows filled with different colors—each pane a fragment of a life lived in compartments. A third scribbled frantic circles inside circles, spirals with no clear beginning or end, creating an overwhelming sense of entrapment. And then—Drew.

Other than my teachers , I have never had anyone look at my drawings more than 5 second , this long excruciating process of analysis by Draven is scary to say the least. It feels 5 seasons away when Draven finally spoke, his voice hoarse, “ Where did you get your inspiration from?” I expected a fake appreciation , a series of advices to improve my strokes or anything, this was unexpected. It was the most commonly asked question to an artist but not to me. One look at my drawings and they all called me weird, stupid , disturbed and so on. Never one saw the beauty behind it until Draven. “I don’t know…. Dreams, visions and scenarios I rummage in my head.” I replied hesitantly, partly scared o

But then he walked pass me and went back to the canvas. "You did this, all of this?" I asked. "Surprised?" he asked. "Yeah I mean, I didn't know you paint and draw" I said. "It's just a little hobby I do" he explained. I paused. "But ...why ...why do they look this way...so timid and depressing and...I don't know... " I asked. He shrugged. "Sometimes things can't be said verbally, but expressed in other dimensions" he said casually. And I don't know why I read so much meaning to that.

It swirled in lazy patterns with every step I took, making it obvious no one had been in here for years. The stillness in the air felt heavy and untouched, as if the room itself had been holding its breath, waiting for someone to return and disturb it. Drawings covered the walls, some pinned haphazardly while others were curled at the edges where the adhesive had failed. They depicted all kinds of things, but the majority were creatures twisted, nightmarish things with too many limbs, hollow eyes and gaping mouths lined with jagged teeth. Among the creatures were strange Landscapes places that looked warped and wrong, as if reality had stretched too thin. There were also people, some drawn i

Nikini sat beside her and handed her the sketchbook. Emlin began flipping through the pages as Nikini sat there tugging at her fingers, nervously. This was the first time anyone has ever seen her drawings; not even Boris had seen these. She worried they might be a little too dark. She often drew what she felt, and her thoughts and feelings were often dark due to her constant unhappiness. She drew a lot about her childhood and drew some about her current life with Boris. She often drew herself and her many stages of emotions.

But I refused to be consumed by the thought, and just like the twenty five other trashed papers littering the floor, I ripped off my current hazard and squeezed it before flinging it over to the ground again, ready to try again the twenty seventh time. I had isolated myself in the tiny basement with my usual pad, pencils, and every other materials used for drawing. It was what I liked to call stress venting in practical form. It had been my therapy for so many years and just this few months without a pen and it feels like I've almost forgotten how to draw. A few angry sketches later, I pushed away from my small wooden desk and let my head crash on the surface as I let out a heavy sigh. Getti

“I can’t do it, Mark. I am so useless. Pretending that everything is fine, like I don’t give a care in the world eats my inside deep. Why would I want to turn my back on painting? It was the first thing that I found solace and liberation in after my parents thought it okay to push me to the side while they lived like I didn’t exist. It was the only good thing going on for me until recently. I can say it has my back and I can always run to it when I am confused. But now, now I can’t even do a proper stroke. I am fucked up, Mark. I am thoroughly exhausted. I can’t do this anymore. I feel empty inside.” “Carl, you have our friendship going for you. Don’t be so forgetful.” I said casually. He sn