Poetry Books About Depression Novels & Stories

Her eyes were red-rimmed. She placed the book on the table. Her hands were shaking. "I read it in one night," the girl whispered. "The part about the closet... about hiding because you thought you were too much..." She looked at Aria, tears spilling over. "I thought I was the only one." Aria reached across the table. She took the girl's hand. "You are never the only one," Aria said. "That's the lie depression tells you. It says you're singular in your pain. But you're part of a choir."

Never heard about him or her. There was dust on the book, like it hadn't been touched for years. I opened the book. The owner's name was written in elegant writing, Cynthia Auder; it should be his wife. None of them ever mentioned her; I couldn't say they don't want to. It's just to hide the traumas at times. The dedication said, “To the unknown, you should have killed me.” The words were underlined with a red ink. I opened the pages and read; the book was about someone battling chronic depression. Someone that was highly suicidal. I flipped open the pages of the book, and some words were underlined in red ink, like the dedication page.

I had been working on my book, pouring my heart and soul into it, and I was eager to share it with him. "Hey," he said, smiling at me as he sat down beside me. "How's it going?" I took a deep breath, feeling a sense of trepidation. "I've been working on a book," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. Derek's eyes lit up with interest. "A book?" he repeated. "That's amazing! What's it about?" I hesitated, feeling a sense of vulnerability. "It's about my journey," I said. "About my struggles with anxiety and depression, and how I've been working to heal and overcome them."

| {In the fell clutch of circumstance} {I have not winced nor cried aloud} | What keeps repeating in my head are the words of the poem "Invictus" by William Ernest Henley; something the Sisters taught me at Nuestra Señora de la Buen Viaje and I memorized as a child. I used to recite the same words to myself during severe attacks of depression. I guess I forgot that I knew them, just like many other parts of my childhood. “I said…” I tell Septimus, a little louder this time, “… you’re wrong.”

I believe it was called a selfie. They looked so happy, so in love. I imagine if they were both still alive that we would take pictures like this together. A tear drops on the picture and I wipe my cheek. I kiss the picture and place it back gently as I close the album and sigh, looking at the flames again. I have slipped into depression. Being here at home is making me worse. The reality of what has happened and is happening hits me hard, making me cry harder. The ache grows worse and if I could, I would end it all.

---------- November 19, 04:00 I lay on the bed, enduring the feeling of heavy double eyelids, but there was no way to fall asleep. The fragmentary images and sounds of the past days were like a broken string of pearls, scattered around, reverberating throughout the skull, persistent pain. My mind kept spinning between experiments, counting time, committing suicide. It's too real. Too monstrous. That sort of suicidal experience was a mix of excruciating physical pain, chaotic guilt complexes, and then, serenity. Every cell in the body seems to be relaxed, the whole body seems to fly, gradually free from all burdens of the flesh or the mind - a complete release. Using depression experience to

Disadvantage of having a Psychology major for a sister: she knows you more than you know yourself. "And hell, you don't even know why," I let her continue. "You have everything going on for you. And still, you feel helpless. You feel as if you're not in control. This feeling. This web of numbness. It's hard to convince people of what you're feeling. Because you yourself don't even fully understand why. But I understand. Depression is a motherfucker. It creeps on you whenever it feels like it. And stays as long as it wants. As long as it needs. Depression is a motherfucker. A bastard not willing to let you go. It's out to get you, to destroy you. To rain on you. But you must be stronger than

A moonless night fell over the Floridian home. Cole delighted in viewing starry constellations, so much that she was unaware of the grieving veterans. Some self-quarantine, while others wander the night. Heaviness in their hearts, there seemed to be no end to the pain. Worn with guilt and sorrow, Natalie hides within the cherry painted walls of her office. Where her bereaved state is first discovered by Eris. He desired to comfort her, however, all Natalie desired was a drink, and Eris provided it.

The weight of this loss pressed down on my chest, suffocating me, as though I were trapped in the deepest depths of the ocean, unable to swim to the surface. Days turned into weeks, filled with restless nights and endless searching. The anxiety consumed me, gnawing at my every thought. I could feel my spirit breaking, my once vibrant demeanor fading into the shadows. I was falling into a maddening abyss of depression, and I couldn't find the strength to claw my way out.

Playlist for this chapter; Wait - Maroon 5, Your eyes can get blinded by your mind overestimating several ugly emotions that you are invisible. - From the diary of Katherine Amelia Jones. - - PILLS, ANTISEPTIC, DEPRESSION AND almost creepily desolateness are what the hospital smells reminds me of. The lights are dull milky white, coated with cream stone paint are the walls. I have a thin pillow on my bed that is like a thick bench that is topped with a fluffy counterpane. If you lay too much on one side, you'd feel severe aches. Yes, I'm starting to feel on a gradual process, and everything hurts more than a sharp mouthed bitch.