coping
Life presents variables; learning how to cope in order to master, minimize, or tolerate what has come to pass.
Cherry's Darkness
Something I have never talked about publicly, even though I know many go through this as well. I was the oldest sibling of 4, my mother was a single parent. As the oldest sibling I went through the same stress my mother went through, this caused me to have no confidence, mental health problems. I never realized this until now. Growing up my mother put a lot of pressure on me since I was her right hand, I helped her care for my other siblings, care for our home. You could call me her assistant well that's what I felt like, even though I know my mother meant well. Being a single parent now I understand a lot of what my mother went through. Of course no child should ever have to go through any stress, a child barely understands our world. We as parents are supposed to help them understand this world, make it easier and raise them right after all they are the future. I don't blame my mother fully for my mental health issues even though she kinda is the source of it. She did her best I don't hold a grudge against her, although growing up I did often think I was the source of her problems which really messed me up emotionally.
By Vibing Milf🍒6 years ago in Psyche
Bodily Truth
“Papa!”, “Malish?”. I miss his voice, I miss him. I missed my chance to get the answers, even though there were times I had asked for them. I had questions about things that had happened, that he said I was too young to know the answers too. He would tell me one day as papas do. That day would never come. But I realize the answers I am looking for live within me, and I can still discover them if I try to piece together the puzzle between body and mind. This is a hope for healing, and for the acknowledgment of truth.
By Alissa Varchaver6 years ago in Psyche
The ghosts of my past
SEBRING FLORIDA 2011 Eleven year old Autumn Raine (that is me) and my mother and two sisters moved to this little four bedroom house on Kerry Dr in Sebring, Florida.We were new to the area and our neighbor (Scott Wilkie) came over to welcome us and invite us to his church down the road, Sparta Road Baptist. He was very approachable and nice, so we decided to give it a try. My mother was pregnant with my little brother Gavin. We have no extended family, so we didn't see the harm in finding a family at church. Soon after my little brother was born, my mother and Scott started dating. Since we lived right next door, my mother and Scott decided it would be smarter financially to move in together. So, that is what we did. Everything was going great up until about two or three months of living there. Then, Scotts true colors came out.
By Autumn Raine Moulton-Pierce6 years ago in Psyche
Healing my Heart and Body
I’m finding that as I am getting older life is beginning to be more complicated. You have to deal with relationships, friendships, illnesses, death of loved ones and self esteem issues. I have been thinking about my life and where I am at this point. At the age of 41 I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and last year I finally divorced from a marriage that felt like I was in a Tyler Perry movie.
By Letitia Robertson 6 years ago in Psyche
Crowning Glory
My story isn’t a happy one, but it’s something I’d like to get off my chest. I’m hoping by sharing it will help me heal and move on. I’m a woman and I have bald spots on my head because I suffer from trichotillomania. If you don’t know, trichotillomania is a disorder that creates an irresistible urge to pull out one’s body hair. Some pull eyebrows or eyelashes, many, like myself, pull from the scalp. As a woman, I feel my hair is strongly connected to my beauty. I’ve been told since I was a young girl that long hair is beautiful. Men like long hair. I had long, thick hair that my mother did not know what to do with. She frequently told me how hard my hair was for her to deal with. I began to dislike my hair. Every day seemed like a battle between my mother and my hair. She wanted my hair to be silky straight, and it just wasn’t. She was not shy in expressing her disdain. When I was 5, my mother got married. Benny, her new husband, my stepfather, was nice to me at first. When my mother became pregnant with my little brother, Benny took on a new interest in me. It began with me sitting on his lap and feeling his hands down my pants or under my dress. I didn’t like this and tried to avoid him, for which I was punished. Punishment came in the form of a beating with a belt. When my mother asked what I did, she was told that I had lied about something. Benny would come into my room at night to “tuck me in,” which involved fondling and kissing my neck using his tongue. I started to wet the bed. Every morning I woke up with wet sheets was a morning I would get a beating. My mom didn’t question it, she just took Benny’s word for it. I was, “...too lazy to go to the bathroom.” My brother was born and the abuse continued. One day, Benny commented on my hairstyle. He liked it. I don’t remember the exact moment that my fingers found my scalp, but the sensation of plucking a single strand out was one of relief from the anxiety I didn’t understand. When I was 6, my mother took me to a salon to have my hair relaxed. My scalp felt like it was on fire. I cried and squirmed. I was threatened with, “If you don’t stop, I’m telling your father when we get home.” I let it burn as tears ran down my cheeks. My hair was straight and my mom loved it. My scalp was tender for a week afterwards. I was now in a vicious cycle of “touch-ups” every 6 weeks. It burned every time. My hair started to break off. Now, it wasn’t long and beautiful anymore, which meant I was ugly. My mother took me to get my hair braided with extensions. The stylist pulled my hair so tight, it hurt. I cried and squirmed. “Do you want me to tell your father?” Absolutely not. I sat and cried. Even with my hair separated into skinny braids, sections pulled impossibly taut, I still managed to pluck out strands. At one point, I tried to tell my mother what Benny was doing to me, which by age 10 escalated to him having me in my parent’s bedroom naked, so he could look at my body and touch me anywhere he wanted while my mother was at work. I was punished for lying. This continued until I hit puberty. When I became interested in boys, and they became interested in me, that was another reason for Benny to beat me. I left home at 18. I wore weaves to disguise the 3-inch bald spot at the nape of my neck. Ironically, I went to cosmetology school. I graduated and worked in a salon for two years. One of the stylists suggested I try a cute, short hairstyle to give my scalp a chance to breathe. I was nervous, but let her do it. I instantly regretted it. I felt the entire world knew my secrets and thought I was hideous. Fast forward 10 years, I had my son, and became a single mom. I started caring for my hair. I bought creams, oils, conditioners to help it grow, to help me love my hair and myself. Men found me attractive, but I lived with the fear that the ones I dated would eventually discover my secret. My relationships never lasted. I’m now 43, with a handsome, brilliant, almost 16 year old son. I wear my hair in twists with extensions that I do myself. I cannot bear the thought of going to a salon. I oil and massage my scalp every morning and night. I have a goal to grow my hair out and wear it in its natural glory. My fingers still find my scalp sometimes. That familiar, comforting feeling of plucking each strand still calls me. I’m much more aware of it now and am learning to find other ways to keep my mind and hands busy. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but the tunnel is long. I’ve set a goal to have full head of healthy, thick, lush hair by age 50. I am learning to see my beauty, bald spots and all. I’m single, but by choice. I cannot be in a relationship and expect to be loved, if I cannot fully love myself. Every day, I lift and separate my twists in the mirror to remind myself of my goal. Each day is different. Some are better than others, but every day, the struggle is real. Thanks for listening to my story.
By Amanda Perkins6 years ago in Psyche
The Grief Method
Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance: Stage of the Kubler Ross Model for Grief. I’ve experienced horrible in my life, awful and degrading things. I’ve dealt with people who spit in my face, and maybe I imagined what they would look like on a spit roast. Out of all the terrible things I wish upon people who’ve wronged me, the loss of a loved one is not something I’d wish on my worst enemy.
By Mae McCreery6 years ago in Psyche
THE COVID PARADIGM
I was caught with my pants down. Not literally, you understand. Though it has been known. But that's another tale. Battling mental health is a chore within itself, but keeping the demons at bay while in self isolation is another battle altogether. Just when you thought you were doing okay, some pandemic decides to interfere with your life. Now, this is the crux, a paradigm in itself. As much as the thing has been ghastly and cost a great many lives, torn heartstrings and shaken families to the core, some of us, a select minority have enjoyed the time to ourselves.
By Dom Watson 6 years ago in Psyche
The Travelers of the In-Between
The facade of the “real world” is something not often acknowledged. It’s always been there, yet we deny it exists in the monotony of day-to-day life. A life full of voids we try filling with meaningless possessions and superficial tally marks—All we will have to account for our time here on Earth. Days we spent working for some corporation that would be quick to replace us for taking too many sick days to spend with a terminally ill loved one. This is the “real” world we have been brainwashed to believe in; and by believing it’s real —in a way, means it actually is.
By kristyH8186 years ago in Psyche
