Category: Wellness

What Suicide Means to a Person with Mental Illness.

  By Gabe Howard I have attended too many funerals of people who died by suicide. One funeral would be too many, and I am well into double digits. My position as a speaker, writer and mental illness activist brings me into direct contact with the worst case scenario, and serves as a startling reminder of why I do what I do. People see suicide in many different ways. Some see it as a choice, some as the selfish act of an uncaring person and some see it as dying from a miserable illness. I am in the last...

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Hairy Alice in Wonderland: A Trip Down the Meditation Rabbit Hole.

By Andrew Peers Woke up this morning, put my body and mind on and stood up. Opening the window for some fresh air, I bend through the knees a couple of times with arms stretched out at chest level. “Anda… one, anda two, anda… in, anda out… and in…and to hell with this!” The fresh air is still a bit too fresh for pyjamas, so the window is quickly closed again. Then I set my white Anglo-Irish butt down on the meditation cushion. It fits like a porcelain cup on a saucer. Next, the search for the breath. Not...

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I am Not Dead. I am Very Much Alive.

By Carolyn Riker It was only a dream. A deep voice, vibrated through my cells. I felt the carpet give way and the mocha-colored earth formed creases around me. Warm and safe; a quiet solace. Songbirds were an orchestra. The leaves danced seamlessly in the wind. I perched below and above into a vein of life. I had wings and they weren’t of an ordinary bird. It was a mythical being. I circled into a cosmic realm. The stars lifted me and fueled the synaptic influx of an empathetic knowing. I stepped further and books poured from my veins; poems...

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My Last Battle with Depression.

  By Deb Avery I begin to notice movement and a shape in the darkness. It’s frightening—as if falling into the abyss isn’t enough, I’m no longer alone in this dismal, dark place. Terror and despair compete against each other in the forefront of my mind. Then, a strange thing happens. The shape draws nearer, and it begins to seem less sinister. The sound I mistook as ominous is merely the sound of the hoarseness in the tiny voice, caused from calling for help for so long and being ignored. Something reaches for me through the mist. The terror once again...

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The Poetics of Practice.

  By Bryonie Wise   The crowd falls quiet the moment I step onto my mat. Each voice in my head, each thought, each distraction is stunned into silence—they pause, waiting to see what will happen next. My toes, bright and red, shift around, as I root myself further into my purple mat, imagining that I’m sinking my feet deeper into the earth underneath. My arms soften down by my sides as my spine stretches up through the crown of my head to touch the sky. Breath comes, like a wave at first and then the familiar inhale and...

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