Tag Archives: depression

Dear Anyone Who Finds This

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

There was a note.

Pinned to the center of a bulletin board in John Tyler High School. Plain white loose leaf paper, slightly crumpled at one corner, handwritten in blue ink that had smeared in places as if touched by tears.

Most of the students hurried past on that Tuesday morning, their minds preoccupied with upcoming tests and lunch period drama. But Kathleen Crowley stopped, for reasons she couldn’t later explain, her hand reaching for the paper before she even realized why. The note read:

Dear Anyone Who Finds This,

I’m writing this because I don’t know who else to talk to. I’ve tried before, but it’s like my words don’t reach anyone, or maybe they just don’t matter. My world is quiet, and it’s always like this. Even when the world outside moves, echoes, and lives, I’m left in here, alone.

I used to dream of better days, days filled with laughter and warmth, but those dreams stayed far away. The moments of happiness were only in my mind, fading quicker than I could hold onto them. The truth is, no one ever stayed. No one ever cared enough to see me.

The light is gone now. It’s strange how even the smallest glimmer can feel cruel when you realize it’s not for you. I’ve spent years searching for answers, trying to understand why I don’t fit in, why I’m different. Everyone moves past me, like I’m invisible, and I stopped trying to catch up.

It’s like time has stopped. The clock ticks, but every second feels like it drags me further into darkness. I’ve screamed for help so many times, in silence and out loud, but no one ever hears. No one looks back. It’s like I’m bound by something no one else can see, chained to this loneliness that no one understands.

I remember when I used to smile. But that girl is gone, replaced by someone who is only a shadow now. The smile faded with time, and so did the hope that things would ever change. I see other people moving on, living, laughing with friends, and I wonder what’s wrong with me. Why can’t I be like them?

I wish I could say I had friends, people who cared, someone who could see me, really see me. But they never existed. Not in this world. My family… they don’t understand. They say it’s just a phase, that I’m overreacting. But it’s not a phase. It’s who I am. A ghost in a world full of life.

I’ve tried to hide my pain, thinking maybe one day someone will notice. But they never do. I’ve spent so many nights like this, crying where no one can see, hoping for something, anything to change. But nothing ever does. This darkness? It’s my only companion now.

I don’t want to feel like this anymore, carrying a heart that feels so empty, so broken. I’m tired of pretending that I’m okay, when inside I’m screaming. I’m tired of hoping for something better, something that never comes. And I’m tired of this loneliness being all I know.

I don’t think anyone will miss me. No one really knows me. Not really. I’ve been alone for so long that I don’t even know what it’s like to feel warmth, to feel loved. All that’s left now is the cold, the silence, and the shadow of who I used to be.

Maybe it’s better this way.

-NK

During second period, Kathleen pushed past the school secretary and shoved the note into the principal’s hands. By third period, they worked out the initials NK were Nora King and the empty desk in AP Literature spoke louder than words. Her mother’s voice cracked over the phone when she confirmed to the principal that Nora hadn’t come home last night.

The search began immediately. The sheriff’s car crawled through neighborhoods while volunteers gathered at the community center. They handed out flyers with Nora’s photo – a quiet smile, eyes that seemed to be looking somewhere else. Her laptop offered no clues; her phone was found on her desk at home.

Kathleen skipped her classes and conducted her own search, visiting places that she herself had gone to that felt safe when she needed to be alone. The old bridge over Miller’s Creek. The bell tower at St. Michael’s. The abandoned treehouse in Wilson Woods.

Then she remembered. A few months ago, she’d found Nora up on the public library roof during the spring flower festival. They’d talked about photography, about the way the whole town looked different from up high. Kathleen had meant to invite Nora to the photography club’s next meeting, but she’d gotten busy with college applications and…

The sky was spitting rain when Kathleen burst through the library’s roof access door. The wind had picked up, whipping her hair across her face as thunder cracked overhead. For a moment, she thought she was too late – the roof appeared empty. Then she saw her: a small figure perched on the ledge, dark hair streaming in the wind like a surrender flag.

Nora swayed precariously, six stories above the gathering crowd. In her right hand, an orange prescription bottle caught the last rays of sunlight filtering through the storm clouds. Her feet, Kathleen noticed with horror, were already halfway off the ledge, her cheap canvas shoes scraping against wet concrete.

“Nora!” Kathleen’s voice barely carried over the wind. She took one careful step forward, then another, her shoes crunching on scattered gravel. “I read your note.”

Nora’s head turned slightly, but she didn’t fully face Kathleen. “You shouldn’t have come.” Her words were slurred, and the pill bottle in her hand was already half-empty.

“How many did you take?” Kathleen inched closer, noting how Nora’s balance seemed increasingly unsteady. Below, she could hear sirens approaching, their wails mixing with the growling thunder.

“Enough.” Nora’s voice cracked. “I just wanted someone to notice… before…” She swayed again, more severely this time.

“We notice now. We see you.” Kathleen was only ten feet away. “Please, just take my hand.”

Nora finally turned, her eyes glassy and unfocused. The movement caused her to stumble slightly, and the pill bottle slipped from her fingers, plastic clattering against concrete before spilling its remaining contents into the wind.

What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion.

A powerful gust of wind caught Nora’s oversized jacket just as her knees buckled. She pitched backward, arms windmilling desperately as her feet lost their purchase on the ledge. Kathleen lunged forward, her body sliding across the wet rooftop. Her fingers caught Nora’s wrist just as the girl cleared the edge.

The sudden weight nearly pulled Kathleen over too. Her shoulder screamed in protest as she braced herself against the ledge, her other hand gripping the rooftop’s safety rail. Rain pelted her face, making it hard to see.

“Hold on!” she screamed, but she could feel Nora’s wrist slipping through her fingers. The medication was making Nora’s movements sluggish; she wasn’t even trying to grab back.

“Let me go,” Nora whispered, her eyes drifting closed.

“No!” Kathleen’s grip slipped to Nora’s palm, then to just her fingers. “Someone help! I can’t… I can’t hold her!”

Just as Nora’s fingers were about to slip away completely, a strong hand grabbed Kathleen’s belt, anchoring her. Another pair of arms reached past her – Mr. Denning from AP Chemistry, his tie whipping in the wind. Then came more hands: Coach Reeves, the janitor, two parents who had been in the library. Together, they formed a human chain, pulling both girls back from the edge.

They collapsed in a heap on the roof as the storm broke overhead, rain pouring down in sheets. Nora was unconscious but breathing, her pulse weak but present. Kathleen held her hand all the way to the ambulance, refusing to let go until the paramedics gently pulled them apart.

The next morning, a new note appeared on the school bulletin board:

Dear Anyone Who Feels Invisible,

You’re not alone. We’re here. We’re looking. And we’ll find you.

  • Your Community

Below it, dozens of students had already added their own messages of support, phone numbers, and invitations to lunch. Nora’s empty desk in AP Literature wasn’t empty anymore – it was covered in notes, each one a thread weaving her back into the fabric of their small town.

Sometimes the hardest step isn’t the one away from the edge – it’s the one back toward the light. But you don’t have to take it alone.

©2024 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Help Is Always Available

If you or someone you know is struggling, you’re not alone. Caring, trained professionals are available 24/7 to listen without judgment:

  • 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline
    • Call or text 988
    • Available 24/7 in English and Spanish
    • For veterans, press 1 after dialing
  • Crisis Text Line
    • Text HOME to 741741
    • Available 24/7, free and confidential
    • Connect with a trained Crisis Counselor
  • The Trevor Project (LGBTQ+ Youth)
    • Call 1-866-488-7386
    • Text START to 678678
    • Available 24/7, confidential and free
  • Trans Lifeline
    • Call 1-877-565-8860
    • Peer support by trans people, for trans people
  • National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI)
    • Call 1-800-950-NAMI (6264)
    • Text NAMI to 741741
    • Available Monday-Friday, 10 AM – 10 PM ET
    • Connect with local support groups and resources

Remember: Reaching out is a sign of strength, not weakness. You deserve support, and there are people who want to help.

This Simple Truth

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

It was a dark and stormy night, the type of night I had grown all too familiar with of late—when all my estranged family and distant friends slept but I couldn’t because all the regrets of my life raged in my mind with an unbearable intensity along with the enduring question—

Why am I alone?

Religion had given me assurances that I was never truly alone and family swore up and down that someone would always be there for me, yet despite all this, one dreary day I slipped on a patch of sadness and plunged into a depression so deep, so far out of human reach that not one single person, a collective of people, or even an all-powerful, all-knowing deity was able to catch my fall.

There was a saying along the lines of “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger” which was true I suppose but it wasn’t always in a positive way. I adapted to my loneliness and was now quite capable of being alone in a crowded room. I could not find camaraderie or companionship with the people around me, and as a writer, not even with the people in my mind, the ones that I had breathed life into.

Even my own reflection couldn’t be bothered to be in my company. Instead, it turned its back on me, facing the mirror-image room behind itself and whispered, “You have been lonely your entire life and now you will be all alone until the day you eventually die.”

And with this simple truth, slick sheets of tears poured from the storm clouds of azure eyes, streaking black and violet lightning across the alabaster plain of the loneliest face on the planet.

Text and Audio ©2016 & 2021 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Space Case

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Everyone I knew wrote me off as a space case, as if I was insane or some sad eccentric with little grip on reality but none of them, not a single solitary person, bothered to get to know me, to peer beyond this veil of all too fragile flesh in order to witness the infinitude that lay within.

©2020 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

This Simple Truth

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

It was a dark and stormy night, the type of night I had grown all too familiar with of late—when all my estranged family and distant friends slept but I couldn’t because all the regrets of my life raged in my mind with an unbearable intensity along with the enduring question—

Why am I alone?

Religion had given me assurances that I was never truly alone and family swore up and down that someone would always be there for me, yet despite all this, one dreary day I slipped on a patch of sadness and plunged into a depression so deep, so far out of human reach that not one single person, a collective of people, or even an all-powerful, all-knowing deity was able to catch my fall.

There was a saying along the lines of “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger” which was true I suppose but it wasn’t always in a positive way. I adapted to my loneliness and was now quite capable of being alone in a crowded room. I could not find camaraderie or companionship with the people around me, and as a writer, not even with the people in my mind, the ones that I had breathed life into.

Even my own reflection couldn’t be bothered to be in my company. Instead, it turned its back on me, facing the mirror-image room behind itself and whispered, “You have been lonely your entire life and now you will be all alone until the day you eventually die.”

And with this simple truth, slick sheets of tears poured from the storm clouds of azure eyes, streaking black and violet lightning across the alabaster plain of the loneliest face on the planet.

©2016 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Sleep-Shaming the Homeless

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Image © 2011 by Patrick G. Ryan www.snarkinfested.com

There’s nothing good about being homeless, not one solitary thing, though I’ve run into more than a few people who claim they’ve been living on the streets between ten and forty years and they wear it like a bizarre badge of pride. If, however, you cannot avoid being without a home, New York isn’t the worst place to be for the simple fact you will never go hungry unless that is your aim. You can’t swing a dead cat in the city so nice they named it twice without hitting a soup kitchen. Plenty of places to throw some food down your gullet. Not always the tastiest morsels but enough to help you survive another day. Sleep, however, is a whole other kettle of fish.

If you are unable to secure a place to sleep in the overcrowded shelter system or a three-quarter house and you make your bed on the street, you quickly learn just how important a good night’s rest is and just how little of that you actually get. Veterans of the lifestyle have secured their hidey-holes and guard the location like it’s gold, others will lay out cardboard mattresses wherever they please, in doorways of closed businesses, on church steps, park benches, subway lines or even in the center of the sidewalk. But no matter how much sleep you manage to eke out at night, during the day, your body will crave the sleep it needs and it will eventually shut you down.

While there are some working homeless, a vast majority are unemployed, on benefits, disability, or supplemental security income and have to find places to spend their time in order to kill the day. No matter how strong-willed you are or how desperately you try to stay awake, eventually you will sit down somewhere and nod out, which is a big no-no in the Big Apple.

This needs to change.

Instead of having overzealous security guards make a public scene out of waking a person who closed their eyes for a moment, there should be places for people to grab a quick nap. I understand that most of the older security guards used to be in law enforcement in one aspect or another and intimidation tactics are part of their arsenal but is closing your eyes in a public place that severe a crime that a person should be forced to wear a scarlet letter?

Why must these mini-dictators get such a thrill out of sleep-shaming the homeless?

Don’t they understand the effects a lack of sleep has on the human psyche? And how that lack might affect the way they behave towards authority, the public at large, or even fellow homeless persons? Does no one understand that sometimes letting a person grab a power nap can make all the difference in how they cope with society and the day?

I know this is child’s logic. There’s no simple solution to sleep-shaming and the bigger issue is that of homelessness. I think it’s time for the thought process to turn from simply getting the homeless off the streets which means pushing the homeless from one neighborhood to another (that’s right upper east side I’m looking at you) or worst yet, processing people through Bellevue, which is almost as bad as being sent to prison due to a lack of health and safety. The adjusted goal should be to provide employment opportunities and safe, affordable housing to those who haven’t given up, who want to rejoin society as productive members, even if it requires services rendered to be bartered for room and board.

 

In the meantime, should you come across me sitting peacefully with my eyes closed, please give me a few moments rest before you disturb my peace. And by all means, try to be respectful should you need to wake me.

I may be homeless, but I’m still human. I still matter.

My Humanity Falls Piece By Piece

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

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Recently I was asked to write a testimonial for one of the soup kitchens I frequent and because today has been one of those tough days when I just keep rubbing up against the wrong people though I do my best to avoid them, I figured I’d post it here for easy access when I’m online seeking a distraction from the realities of the day.

Through a series of unfortunate events, I became homeless in the back half of 2012. No relatives or friends to use as a temporary support system, I hit the streets of Manhattan without a clue as to where to go, what to do, or what life held in store for me. I struggled for months to survive, spending what little pocket money I had on dollar pizzas, a slice of which I ate every other day in order to stretch out my dwindling funds.

Then one day while I was waiting in the cold for the public library to open, I met two women, sisters, who turned out were homeless like me. They were kind enough to take me to a few locations where I could get some food, which came at a most opportune time as I was down to my last dollar, and that’s no exaggeration. One of the first places they brought me to was a special soup kitchen that changed my entire experience.

Different from other soup kitchens (please understand that the words soup kitchen and ministry are interchangeable here, just as the homeless are referred to as guests), this particular ministry is a great place for guests to start the day. Both the in-house staff and volunteers who help prepare coffee and serve hot meals to the guests are both polite and friendly, which may seem like a given, but it is really a precious and special thing considering most of them make the effort to wake up that extra bit earlier and make themselves available to serve guests of varying temperament before going about their workaday worlds, when most of us find it hard enough just to simply get up and deal with the daily grind.

On my darkest days, when the world doesn’t make sense and I can’t quite seem to catch a glint of the light at the end of this expansive tunnel I’m traveling through, it’s a great comfort for me to have a place where I can be, even for a short while, where I can almost feel human again. That’s the thing people rarely consider when they think about or discuss homelessness. Not being considered a productive part of society, being ignored, avoided, shunned and ridiculed… it chips away at the soul. Bit by bit, by living on the streets, even the strongest person will start to lose confidence, humanity, and even sanity. In my experience, this ministry has helped me hold on to these vital bits of myself, while clinging on to hope as well.

I realize I probably should be pointing out specific instances but truth to tell there are so many, you’d be reading this testimonial for days. Suffice it to say, I have always been greeted with kindness and positive attitudes, even when my attitude was less than civil, and wound up meeting a lot of kind and caring people, some of whom I actually consider friends.

And not to sound unappreciative of other soup kitchens, but the several I have attended cannot hold a candle to this ministry. Compared to some of the larger soup kitchens, this one tiny building is filled with more people who make a concerted effort to help guests out with more than just the serving of a meal. People who place a great deal of importance into what they serve to guests, be it a meal, the Word, or just plain fellowship. I can’t imagine what my experience out here on the streets would be like after all this time without their existence and shamefully, I don’t think I have ever conveyed to them just how much I appreciate what they have done and continue to do for me.

Perhaps this will help them understand.

As I mentioned earlier, today has been one of those chip away days. It seems I’m surrounded by people with either anger or mental health issues and they’re all looking to pay that pain forward.

When you inhabit the same public spaces as other homeless people, a bizarre thing begins to happen. Even if you keep yourself to yourself, you will acquire enemies. You may not even know their names or faces. Grievances will be plucked from thin air and thrust upon you. You will be challenged daily. Yours must be the cooler head. The one gifted with enough foresight to see the consequences and choose the best course of action for your continued safety and freedom.

It is far from an easy thing to do.

At night, when you finally find a spot to rest, you replay the accounts of the day, wondering just how much of your humanity you’ve lost in each one of these abrasive encounters? How much of you will be left when there’s nothing left to give?

I can only pray tomorrow will be a slightly easier day.