THE ART OF VULNERABILITY

INTRODUCTION

This zine has been created by the members of the YoungMinds Writers Programme, 2023-24.

About the YoungMinds Writers Programme

The YoungMinds Writers Programme is a year-long programme designed to help young people create change by writing  bout their experiences of mental health. We came together virtually for the first time in September 2023 as a group of strangers from across the UK. Since then, over the course of our ten monthly sessions, we have built a  supportive and immensely creative community of storytellers.

ABOUT THIS ZINE

The title of this zine is ‘Art of vulnerability’. We chose this title because being vulnerable is our greatest strength. It helps us connect with others and build communities. But being vulnerable isn’t easy. No matter what you’ve been through or how you identify, know that you deserve love, care and support, and you are not alone.

“Beloved community is formed not by the eradication of difference but by its affirmation, by each of us claiming the identities and cultural legacies that shape who we are and how we live in the world.”
- bell hooks

“In refusing our vulnerability we refuse the help needed at every turn of our existence and immobilise the essential, tidal and conversational foundations of our identity.”
- David Whyte

youngminds.org.uk/write-for-youngminds

CONTENTS PAGE

Annabell - Happy? 4
Ben - Symbiotic 10
Caitlin - Why the double negatives? 14
Callum - Where on earth have I even gone? 19
Emily - Inked lines 24
Farhana - Conformity’s comfort 26
Hannah - My community wears indigo sleeves 32
Joanna - Why delay the inevitable? 36
Joshua - evergreen 40
Kayleigh - Still missing 44
Matilda - Spiders 50
Nana Yaa - An invitation to ******** Road is an invitation to 56
Saarah - Alone 60
Zaynab - Honour or pride? 62
Acknowledgements 66
Help and support 68
Share your feedback 70


ANNABEL: Happy?

About the writer:

I write mostly to make sense of things: memories, thoughts, experiences, questions. As much as I enjoy creating and being around art, I think most of my work comes from trying to figure something out, as if I’m having a conversation with myself. It’s a good way to gain a bit of distance from a topic and really ‘see’ things. I’ve found inspiration in family portraits, streetlights, existing stories, ants – anything really. I don’t know what my favourite topic to write about is yet, but I’m trying to embrace the journey of finding out.

Some books I’d recommend are ‘Between Earth and Sky’ by Konrad Bercovici, and ‘I’m Telling The Truth, but I’m Lying: Essays’ by Bassey Ikpi. Despite the saying, I’ll buy basically anything if it’s pretty and/or leather bound, which is how I ended up reading the former. The latter I picked up a few years ago – it caused me to completely re-evaluate my relationship with myself and my mental health.

I’m hoping to start writing a newsletter on Substack soon, so if you’re interested you can find me at @edetu on there or @edetu_ on Instagram.
Happy reading xxx

Who will carry me (if not me)?
Flesh runs fast through my fingers,
like the wax of a candle, fleeing
It’s burn. My liquid longing can-not
be raked into one. Frantic
rows instead trench monuments to
bury me. My thirst will quench as
much as the raw earth can swallow.
Who can carry me?

Dear Self,

I’ve been standing out in the garden for about 15 minutes: weeding, watching the sky grow dim and just thinking about things. About the tuxedo cat that I’m pretty sure is number 14’s and how to get it to trust me; about how there used to be a swing set where the cold compost heap is now, and how much more I want to go on it now that I can’t. It’s probably crumpled up like a wounded deer in a landfill somewhere, never to be rode again, or sinking into the sludge on an illegal site in a foreign country. For the first time in quite a long time I found myself thinking about slugs – maybe it’s that the weather has rainy days running low, and the scarcity in seeing one has me noticing them more. Or that at the back of the garden, under the shadow of the oak tree, where the grass starts to run out, there seem to be hundreds of them in amongst the grass and the nettles, and those relentless baby pondweed things that I’m forever pulling out. It makes no sense – not that they’re there, I mean, it rained two days ago – but that they’re there, just slithering across the soil to nowhere.

I read somewhere, a composting forum I think (which, love that I’m someone who browses composting forums now), that they have a sense of direction, or at least intentionality, in where they go. If you want to get rid of them they’ve got to be captured and released at least 50 metres away or they just come back, slowly but successfully. So, I wonder, when they’re lurking back there at the edge of the lawn, where is it that they’re so determined to go? There’s the strawberries on the patio, the violas, the overcrowded ferns I cleared last week that were sheltering their rotting core all season. Plenty of them emerge from bags of mulch or under the recycling bin once the ground is sufficiently wet, but just as many die dried out, straggling on the patio, bodies facing the back door once the rain has calmed.

What do they want? Food? That can’t be all because whenever I catch one, I pinch them up and throw them onto the cold compost. Their whole ecological purpose is decomposing, although maybe they prefer living material that’s still tethered to the soil, or they don’t all like eating in a labyrinthine heap together, or their committing to memory the exact location of every plant I hold dear, each one I crouch to lay into the soil by hand, to eat them out of spite. The morning after a heavy rain, networks of gleaming, glossy trails are all over the concrete, waiting for the light to hit just right and reveal them. Sometimes I wonder if they’re watching me. Peeking out from between dandelion stalks or under dappled leaves, just waiting until my back is turned to make a ‘run’ towards their next victim.

Maybe they’re so bold because they know I won’t hurt them? I know some people like to stalk their lawn during a downpour, armed with scissors and go around snipping them in two to protect their plants, but I just couldn’t. Sure, it’s the sort of thing I did when I was younger: my brother and I would corner one and pierce both ends of the body with sticks, slitting and pulling and prodding at it until it’s yellow insides came weeping out like an abscess. Maybe they remember?

Moving them is beyond me as well. I’d have to find a large enough container, in the right material – probably cardboard – with a lid so they couldn’t escape; plenty of holes for air but not too many that the box is structurally unsound; and slightly weigh down the lid but not enough to flatten the whole thing. Then I’d have to run around the garden in and after the rain picking them up to imprison them. One might slip out when I take the lid off to put another in, or dry out into a box of slug pebbles, or they might turn to cannibalism (are slugs cannibalistic?) from lack of food, which does solve my problem, but isn’t something I want to bring into the world. The thought of carrying a dark, slimy, writhing mass in a shoebox somewhere is enough to put me off. I could do copper tape, eggshells, cedarwood oil – something natural to ward them off – but the topping up, the pacifism of it and my own scepticism discourage me.

I feel like I’m at a loss however I go forward. I’m stuck, feet planted, every muscle surged still in paranoia. Eyes wide, primed, watching for that tell-tale ridged lump to come lurching into view and do nothing once it’s spotted. I’ll be out here forever, bearing the gifts and scorn of each season: young blossoms will stud my hair and pollen blush my eyes; the Sun scorch me and leave the breeze to cool the brand; droves of shed leaves will mulch me in before the frost sets my bones in place to wait and wait and wait. Mats of nettle roots and ivy will overcome me, my skin dissolving into the soil, calcium chelating nitrogen and iron oxide until I am nothing. 

Or I could swallow my fears and just coexist with them?

I love my friends, and I feel so blessed and cherished to know the people I know. For a long time, I’ve really struggled with the concept of having friends, or more so being confident that my friends had me, and I still do but, as with all things, there are moments of triumph in conflict and that is what this is. 

Everyone knows everyone knows everyone, and that can be really daunting sometimes when you consider the weight of being known, but it doesn’t have to be. You can delight in being met and revel in connection; the Earth is a community and we are all interconnected.

Everyone knows everyone knows everyone and none of us will die alone.

-Foreword from ‘Writing Love Letters To All My Friends’, (draft, 02/03/2022


BEN: Symbiotic

About the writer:

My name is Ben and I’m a young writer. I’ve been writing songs, poetry and stories my whole life, but it has been a journey being able to share this with other people. Now, I write to share my stories and experiences and hopefully bring some comfort to those who have a similar experience and explain what it’s like to those who haven’t.

My Instagram is @benbott_

DEALING WITH LONELINESS.

Loneliness can be a horrible feeling, especially when you are not physically alone. I often found it was when I was surrounded by people that I felt most lonely, because I was ever aware that I was not like these people, that I was not connected to any of them. Feeling isolated and alone is something that lots of people go through, in fact the most recent government survey found that 25% of people in the UK feel lonely some or most of the time. That’s a massive 16.5 million other people dealing with similar issues. They have found that the demographic that deals with loneliness the most in the UK is ages 16-29 with approximately 1 in 10 young people having suffered with loneliness. So ironically enough, you are actually not alone in feeling lonely.

For me I really started to have issues with loneliness when I started secondary school. I had to leave behind all my friends and go to a new scary place full of strangers. I found myself desperately trying to fit in with the others, but nothing worked well. I made friends but not with the right people and it blew up in my face. I felt so alone, unloved and like something was wrong with me. I was socially isolated from my peers both inside and out of school. I spoke to my parents about school with a fake smile plastered on my face trying to hide my inner turmoil.

I felt ashamed I was lonely, like maybe I didn’t deserve genuine friends.

I thought I would be better at dealing with it later in life. I have other mental health issues after all and loneliness hardly seemed like a big deal, but by the time college rolled around and eventually work, I had to deal with a hole
different type of loneliness. I made friends, sure, but no real connections. I found it hard to trust and bond with others, always putting up a sort of facade and keeping people at arm’s length. I am an adult now and found it much harder to meet new people as opposed to when I was in school and a lot of my previous bridges had been left to rot.

Loneliness is a vicious cycle, people who experience severe loneliness or social isolation are more likely to develop anxiety and depression. Then when you have anxiety and depression, it makes it hard to socialise and the cycle continues. The cyclical nature of the issue can make you feel hopeless at the best of times but it’s important to remember you are the one who has the key to get out. You deserve to have meaningful friendships in your life.

It was only when I confronted the issue that I could start to truly think of a way out. There is often a stigma around being lonely, especially for young men, the kind of stigma that makes you feel weak or ashamed. But no one is alone
in dealing with this and there is nothing to be ashamed of.

The first thing I did to help build myself back up was trying to remember what I actually liked, what actually makes me happy. My loneliness and depression are deeply tied together. I remembered that before I started to suffer with my mental health, I used to love to play sports, in particular football and swimming. When I was in the water it felt like I was truly in my element - I was confident and capable. However, over the years I’d fallen out of touch with what I loved so much as a kid. This led me to think of other things I love and enjoy, things that make me happy, from music to street art to cartoons and writing and helping others. I used to love to make stories when I was younger and sing songs and poems about my own little universe. For some reason when I grew up, I repressed that creative side of me. When I thought about it though I was still making stories and poems in my head, but I was too afraid to let myself actually express them.

I would often find myself mindlessly scrolling through social media as a form of distraction. Seeing all these ‘perfect’ people having fun with their friends went from being a positive experience to something that made me feel even more alone. Most of the youtubers and influencers you see have carefully crafted their image. Everyone on social media does to a certain extent. It gives us unrealistic standards and I would often find myself comparing my life and my  achievements to those of these influencers and feel worse.

However social media does come with its upsides, the main one being a way to connect with people from around the world. If you are safe in the way you connect, you could make meaningful connections with people who are going through similar issues or have similar interests.

It was when I was scrolling through Instagram that I came across an ad for the young writers program. I was hesitant in applying. It seemed like a big step, one I wasn’t sure if I was ready for.

To put myself out there again, to be vulnerable. But then I really thought about it, isn’t this exactly what I want to do? To meet like-minded people? To write and make an impact? To share my own story to help other people like me feel less alone? I took the leap and applied.

I was apprehensive at first, especially when I went to meet up with everyone. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to go and it was the first time I had been out of the house socially in years. My anxiety around public transport was a big hindrance but my Dad supported me and drove me there. I was anxious yet excited and when I got back home after I felt the most confident I had in years. I did it! I went out and did something I wanted to do. I made progress. I tried something new.

This newly gained confidence helped me immensely. I started to get out of my room more and actually socialise with my parents and grandparents. Not only that but I was writing again and enjoying it and most of all I made new friends. It was different this time, friends who were genuine, who held the same values and morals as me. Some of the kindest people I have ever met and I am so glad I was able to meet them. Slowly but surely, I am still coming out of my shell more, getting out of the house to meet up with friends and family.

My advice for you:

Allow yourself space to breath and grow 
Quality over quantity of friends
Try and be a better friend to yourself
Remember you deserve love in ur life
Use social media carefully
If you want to meet new people, try and join
clubs or volunteer
Most importantly know that you are not alone

KINTSUGI

Often we think of fragile as an insult, a weakness. But it is in fragility that we can truly connect because at our core everyone is fragile. We are fragile when we open our hearts up to others, intensely vulnerable, yet that trust, that faith, is where real bonds are forged. I think at some point we have all been ‘broken’, at least I know I have been. Feeling like you are beyond repair, your heart shattered into different fragments as you desperately search for the pieces that have gone astray.

When I think about this, I like to remind myself of the Japanese art of Kintsugi. When they repair their ceramics using a mixture of resin and powdered gold. The end result is shockingly beautiful. The piece is repaired but not pretending to have never been broken, not invisible. Imperfect yet beautiful. I think of this a lot when I am reminded of the times I have broken down. I find it hard not to view it as a sign of weakness, of being ‘broken’ and that something is ‘wrong with me’. I want to be built up again, stronger this time. Fearless and bold. Unapologetic. Maybe one day when I am finally ready, I will paint my scars gold.

SYMBIOTIC

Mycelium is a perfect example of what things can achieve if they work together. Underneath the forest floor lives a system so intricate and impressive that no one would expect. It all starts with the simple fungus, although when we think of mushrooms the first thing that comes to mind is a bright red fruit body, but the real magic comes from underneath. See, the fruit body sprouts from a hyphae and when many of these connect in a web-like fashion it is called  mycelium.

Mycelium connects every little plant, tree and fungus that makes up the forest, allowing them all to share nutrients and information. Through working together this environment truly thrives. It goes beyond just simple transferring though - the strong support the weak, in times of stress or drought. They transfer nutrients from places of abundance to areas of scarcity, to ensure that the resources are equally available throughout the ecosystem.

Through the mycorrhizal network they transfer signals to talk to one another and warn each other of pests or diseases. Mycelium truly thrives in a diverse ecosystem where various plants and fungi coexist. This diversity promotes collaboration, as different species interact and benefit from each other’s presence, leading to a more robust and adaptive environment. This is why mycelium grows by branching out and exploring new territories, forming new connections.

I don’t think we as humans are much different. Our best communities serve as the mycelium that connects and supports us all. We help each other when times are rough and take care of those who are injured or vulnerable. We share what we have in many ways, from resources to knowledge and even something as natural as emotional support can make a huge difference. A good community raises awareness for issues others in the ecosystem may be affected by. It brings together a diverse group and allows us to collaborate and innovate together. We work together and build off one another to make life better for us all.

It is through these communities and friendships that we as people can not only survive but truly thrive. Communities, like mycelium, can grow far and wide affecting many people but as is always, quality over quantity. Never underestimate the power that a community has, no matter how big or small, to uplift and enrich the lives of its people.


CAITLIN: Why the double negatives?

About the writer:

It’s long been posited that being diagnosed with any illness is like having a door slammed in your face.

It’s a goodbye to opportunity, to happiness, to the wider world. The dreams you once held close are replaced with the empty embrace of isolation.

I couldn’t disagree more.

Having been diagnosed with both mental illnesses and physical disabilities, I know how easy it is to feel trapped by the feeling that you’ve lost a version of yourself that had a greater chance at happiness or success. So much of the rhetoric about the disabled community paints us as loners and outcasts, but they seem to forget that, in grouping us together, they’re insisting upon the existence of our community.

I’ve had plenty to mourn about becoming disabled, but that has been far outweighed by the community it has gifted me. If I hadn’t realised my disabilities, the invaluable friendships I’ve fostered because of them would never have existed. That, not being disabled, is the true tragedy.

Although it can be difficult, being proud of and outspoken about your identity can bring you a sense of community you never thought possible. That initial vulnerability is the first stepping stone on a journey of self and social acceptance. Anyone who might distance themselves from you because of it never deserved a place in your life in the first place.

‘The high five through time’: a thank you to Thomas de Quincey and his Confessions of an English Opium-Eater.

In the midst of revising for finals, I was struck by a quote that last year’s version of me had committed to an essay. Of all the quotes I had to revise, these words settled themselves most comfortably into my mind.

Nothing, indeed, is more revolting to English feelings than a spectacle of a human being obtruding on our notice his moral ulcers or scars.

After exams were over, I found myself telling my coursemates how much I loved the text, that it was one of my favourite things I’d ever read. I hadn’t expected a text from over 200 years ago to resonate with me so strongly.

My endeavours in writing about my mental health have been filled to the brim with similar confessions of what could very justifiably be regarded as ‘moral ulcers or scars’. Through the thick haze of an exam-rattled brain, I had a flash of realisation: de Quincey and I are fighting the same battle, separated by centuries. One of my coursemates called it a ‘high five through time’. Never had the image of myself high fiving an 18th century essayist been so comforting.

Without his sparking the tradition of addiction literature, his courage in telling the world of his troubles and pains, I wonder what the state of mental health discourse would be, how delayed it might have been without his contribution.

Certainly, we have a long way to go in fighting the stigma surrounding mental health, but the conversation is more inclusive and accessible than it has ever been before. In this time of progression, we must never forget the trailblazers whose honesty and vulnerability facilitated the conversations we are still having to this day.

The moment that you ask for help

The moment that you ask for help will be the most important of your life.
The steady beat of time quiets,
Replaced by the rush of blood in your ears.
When you swallow your pride to also preserve it,
Seconds begin again.

The moment that you ask for help, a community materialises, as if spun from air.
Hidden not for lack of caring, but knowing.
They don’t always know what to do with you, but know as certainly as they do their own names that they won’t leave you behind.
There are old friends who make you dinner,
New ones who walk you home.
The professionals guess as best they can, your group of amateurs get it right.

The moment that you ask for help, destiny unfurls like a cat from a sunny afternoon nap.
Sunrise is not a possibility, but a promise.
The housing market spits up a flat in your favourite area.
The job-site you’d neglected coughs up something childhood dreams are made of.
The old haunt that had forgotten the feeling of your footsteps has a new barista who learns your favourite syrups and waves each time you enter.

A pet who will never learn of your loss by an empty room,
A group of people who will never have to shrug on shadows of all-black for you,
A mason who will never live to carve your name into a headstone.
All these somethings happen the moment you ask for help.

'NEVER NOT GOOD ENOUGH'/why the double negatives? 5,040 stitches

[A picture of a knitted yellow blanket with the words 'NEVER NOT GOOD ENOUGH' in black.]

There’s a lot that I wanted to cover with this piece. Firstly, that the advice on using double negatives is quite similar to the advice given to those interested in opening up conversations about mental illness. Technically, there’s nothing stopping you, but it’s kind of a taboo; social conditioning tells you not to do it.

Secondly, that sometimes it can feel like you aren’t ‘enough’ of anything to be part of a community. Not sick enough, not experienced enough or simply not good enough. You might feel like an exile, even in places you belong. I chose the phrase ‘never not good enough’ to turn these sentiments on their head, and to remind people of the value their presence can have within their communities.

Musings on disabled friendship

The best love I know is not instinctive, but learned.
Crafted, shaped, and honed before it reaches anyone.
Love which exists, persists, smiles and gleams, despite it all.

The door-slam of diagnosis blasts open a lesser-known path,
Carves a life of less.
Stumbling in the dark, but falling into familiar arms,
Which hold you in a way which does not hurt, but heals something you thought beyond fixing.
The hazy eclipse fades and the sun reigns.

You soon learn their language and they teach you their kindnesses.
I hope every A&E department you spend all night in has a well-stocked vending machine.
I hope your nurse’s hands aren’t too cold.
I hope your doctor really, truly listens.
I hope your mum isn’t in the room when they ask you if you’re sexually active.
I hope your dodgy veins give up some blood this time.
I hope you know I keep your favourite painkiller in my bag.
I hope you’re well, despite it all.

Disabled friendship is this.
Who else can bleed pain into love?


CALLUM: Where on Earth have I even gone?

About the writer:

I love creating things whether it’s 3D things or a short poem. I love all of it and it takes my mind into a calmer place amidst the chaos that life can bring.

I constantly write but not about one specific thing or for one specific person or group. Writing has always been very much a personal thing of enjoyment and self-regulation. I’m not very serious about pursuing literature/writing anywhere outside of my journal, so this is quite the change, but feels very natural.

My favourite quote/lyrics EVER is probably ‘it gets better in such small doses’ - Bears in Trees. Maybe it’s cliche but it’s something you only really believe when you’re slowly coming out of the other end and something that you have to relearn sometimes. I’ve reminded myself of these lyrics each time life throws bricks at me, because healing isn’t linear, and not one single big thing will automatically help you get better. It’s all the little tiny bits put all together - perhaps you ate a food that you were always so scared to try, or you went to a doctor’s appointment by yourself for the first time, or you randomly figured out that you love cycling so much and it helps you regulate your emotions a lot better (totally not talking about myself here). Every small dose and achievement counts towards your healing process!!

TRANS & QUEER

As a trans person, your perspective of the world completely changes come out and start to become your authentic self. Coming out as me, as was necessary and a great step in development and discovery of who I am. Society is always afraid of 'new things' and change, so unfortunately there are a lot of people who don't understand, don't believe in it and some even don't believe we should be here. I will never understand transphobia - I'm trans and happy, that's all that should matter.

It becomes quite alienating, lonely and even exhausting at times. Your existence becomes a topic of debate as if we're not already everywhere and existing (we've existed for a long time believe it or not, accounts of  transgender people have been recorded from as far back as the ancient times). As a result of transphobia, trans peoples' day to day lives can become so much harder. Statistically violence and harassment carried out against trans people is on the rise. There's spaces I don't feel safe in anymore since coming out, where I have to find the queer friendly version of it, such as hairdressers/barbers, sports teams and community youth dubs. 
Coming out is scary no matter what age it happens and in the first few years of coming out you need that base of community to know where you can go and who - you can talk to. The spaces that I found that helped me the most were Trans Pride and trans and queer youth groups.

I wrote this short piece a while ago describing the first few minutes of going to my first ever pride: 
The dull streets of London quickly filled up with homely familiar colours. The waves of pink. blue and white rewiring the anxious thoughts in my head. The mixed chants and shouts of anger, frustration and joy would normally be overwhelming to me, but it was different this time. My struggles felt validated and accurately depicted through trans voices -I joined in, slowly releasing something that I didn't even know was trapped in me. I felt a sense of solace. I held my sign high and proud - defend trans futures.

When I started attending trans youth groups I felt like a weight was lifted off my shoulders, I felt truly at home. I really was just bewildered at the fact that it was run wholly by trans people. Although they have helped me in so so many ways, the main things that I know has helped is just seeing older trans adults alive, smiling and doing normal human things - I know this seems simplistic but I cannot stress this enough, trans kids need to see trans adults EVERYWHERE, it's quite a big symbol of hope, safety, comfort and reassurance especially in regards to thinking about their futures. These spaces aren't always about being trans, it's actually quite centred on doing things we may not be able to do in cis spaces, it's mostly just fun and games with the 'everyone here is trans' bonus and having a trans youth worker to speak to whenever you need to. Being around other young trans people has helped me learn new things, explore new things and made me feel a sense of normality for once being in a big group of people. Having a break from cis spaces gives me a chance to recharge, reflect and rest my mind for a bit.

Me at my happiest was probably at trans camp, it's truly magical to be with just trans people + nature for a few days. It spiritually and mentally did a lot for me.  didn't know I needed a break from society that much until I got there. I will forever treasure my camp memories and the lifelong friends I made out of it. I'm so
happy to be seeing more queer/trans camps being created, we need it, we need space, we need a space where we can take up space and most importantly be -- comfortable and have that little break from society from time to time.

A piece I wrote about meeting someone who's been through similar experiences, and feeling less alone afterwards (I based this on a friend I met through one of the trans camps):

I'm still holding onto the Earth
But the guy I just met seems to be holding  Saturn
And told me I was also carrying the moon.
I told him about the little constellations in the  sky,
How the stars connect to tell a story,
I told him one story in particular.
The story sounding quite familiar,
Lifting the ring that was wrapped around him,
No longer feeling trapped, encased and alone with this weight of a planet.
He showed me on such a complex route,
But I saw many shooting stars.
Realising how far we've both come,
Where he disposed of the troubling moon that was circulating me.
Everything feels that little bit lighter now,
Although I did collect some stars on the way back,
Being heavier in light makes everything a lot lighter.

Do you ever feel a bit lost? Or have a hard time figuring what you even like? Are there moments where nothing excites you anymore? Do you feel the need to drastically change things about yourself because you're not sure who you are anymore? These are just some of the things I experience during burnout (losing yourself can be caused by so much other things such as a depressive episode or going through a traumatic event). Can you relate to any of this? At. times, it feels like my soul has gone on vacation. Not only do I not have the motivation to do the things I used to love, to make matters worse, life puts me in some sort of deep black hole separated from the rest of my universe (my mind). Can you tell I like space? I've been fascinated by space since a young age, looking back on my old science books from school I would decorate everything with planets and stars, and I also wanted to be an astronaut at one point until I was about 12 and realised astronauts actually have to do loads of exercise and actually have to work, not really my cup of tea. I'm the type to sit back and relax and enjoy and appreciate the view of the stars, possibly with a meal deal in hand, I don't think I could live the space food life, so I'll have to enjoy the universe from Earth for now. Anyways you're probably wondering where this is going...

I haven't written for a long time since my participation in this zine, I lost complete motivation after nearly a year of journaling every single day. And to be totally honest with you, starting to create my pages in this zine made me realise I had an extreme case of writers block, as a result of burnout, so this was quite the challenge but has been so good for me. I decided to go camping again, just for one night as camping used to excite me so so much and I just haven't done it for a long time; and here I am, in a tent by myself, surrounded by an infinite amount of nature (not really, it's a city campsite, but this one creates quite the illusion that you're far away which I find pre amazing)

When you feel lost go back to the last time you didn't feel lost, to a time where you were sure you were seriously excited about something. Do it again  (or find something similar) even if it feels unmotivating and tedious, it's so so worth it in the  end. This could be anything, maybe you used to get excited about painting or playing video games, maybe you used to love cooking for your family or perhaps you liked hanging out with certain friend, might be great to get in touch with them again? Coming back to a campsite has definitely brought back some of my personality, it feels surreal to open a tent door for nature to be right at your feet I'm reminded of the times that camping and nature has healed me, and I've picked back  up a tiny piece of me. It probably won't cure everything but it gets better in such small doses.

Writing is such a good way of finding yourself again. If you've never kept a journal, maybe now's the time. Get a pen and paper, or go on your notes app, and just write. The best way to do this is to actually not do it in the best way, don't put any pressure on yourself to get anything perfect (as a perfectionist this is so hard for me not to do). I know writing can be vague for some people, it gets like that for me too, so I start with obvious or silly things to try and find a flow, eventually your hand and mind knows what to do. Go wild, be free, be cringe, be silly, the paper is yours, it doesn't even have to be words! Writing again and rereading everything makes me notice reoccurring themes in my writing, there may be things that you tend to repeat in an unconscious passionate state, I somehow have naturally just kept referencing space, planets and stars, so I decided to make this space themed (if you couldn't tell)!!

Have a break from things that you find particularly draining or mentally exhausting if possible, this could be stopping you from holding any brain space for you, self-exploration and mental rest. For example, the news and social media is a big no for me when I've completely l??s?? my??elf, drowning yourself in other people's lives is a good short-term distraction but doesn't really get you out of bed to live your own life, let alone to find your lost self. In replacement of these things, practice self-care. I hate to be unoriginal and obvious, but self-care is so underrated, not one person on this earth has perfected it and a lot of us don't know how to do it, neither do I most of the time. You're probably thinking of the cliche things like having a bath, putting on a face mask and getting your nails done, don't get me wrong these are amazing things to do for yourself, self-care should be very personalised to you, and shouldn't be focused on just your physical needs. I would recommend searching up the 7 types of rest which has drastically change my perspective on the way i choose to rest, recharge and feel like myself again.

It was nice to go on this journey together, I hope the universe brings you out of the black holes and closer to the stars, you legend!


EMILY: Inked lines

About the writer:

I am a queer and disabled writer from Manchester. I am just about to finish my MA in Magazine Journalism and I can’t wait to continue my career in writing!

Forbidden

Sometimes I think about
How many girls like me wrote down,
Thoughts to be stashed away,
That can know the eyes of daylight

I ponder love stories
Hurriedly scribbled in journals
The sketches smudged by hands
Clasping under the tablecloths

If this was the only
Expression of a love untold
Unrequited, unknown
How can it be felt across time?

Has this always been how
We have learnt to love with our pens
How many abandoned
Buried and burnt but at least released.

From a heart which is scared
Into a world equally afraid.
Rigid expectations
Rob the world of beautiful things

But we only remember
Those great talents whose flair, worthy
Of a great love story
They deserved that from their talents.

But what of the rest of us?
Middling in ability, not feeling.
Never knowing greatness
It’s not justice to them.

After a drink, several
I come home with my head spinning
Heart uttering, legs shaking.
And I begin scrawling confessions

It’s my worst work by far,
So I close the book on cliches
Fluffy sweet nothingness
Never heard by those addressed

I only fear some snark
Some mild disapproval at the most
But I am still so scared
I will keep writing—just like them

Social models

I first became disabled in 2005. I had been sent to the worst of all places – the wall of my primary school. It was raining at lunchtime. The bouncing kind of rain which you can only find on my side of the Pennines. A dinner lady had thought it was best for me to be there, so I did not slip in the downpour that I lived with almost every day. I felt so much shame as I stood there, I knew I was not meant to be there. I looked to my left and I looked to my right, I remember the two boys stood on either side of me. One of them had hit someone and one of them had thrown something. “It wasn’t fair,” I thought, I never did anything like that, and I never would.

I remember I was cold once I had stopped moving. Not even the envy of watching the other kids play was enough to warm my legs. With scuffed shoes, I pulled my uneven black socks up and hugged my bottle-green cardigan around my torso. Only ten minutes had passed before everyone was sent inside, as it was unsafe for every other five-year-old on the playground. And the blue door swung open again to invite us back to the dry, and then everyone asked me where I’d gone, I still felt as lonely as I was in the rain.

The second time I became disabled, I heard a word that would break my mother’s heart. My closest friend betrayed me and called me something unforgivable. I knew it wasn’t nice. My now-foul mouth had not even sworn once, and the wisps on top of my head had not yet broken the five-foot mark on the door frame.

Even though I knew, something compelled me to ask what it meant. Funny how something in the feeling of a word tells you it’s a slur before someone gives it that power truly. Yet, I had to know. I had to know if someone so close to me would sink so low. If friendship could be so quickly snatched away from me. I walked home on autopilot, as if I had walked in complete darkness. My mum was not ready to have this conversation with me, I could see that on her shocked pallor. I guess she thought I might at least be in secondary school before she would have to guide me through this horror.

The third time I became disabled, I got my baptism in chlorinated water. I learned how to swim. There are a million friends in a million competitors, and that’s just about worth being given a number. Pushing my body to its limits made me ever more certain of where they were. Yet collapsing in the arms of someone in your community might make the pain of disqualification sting a little less. Rivals will close ranks when there is more to do outside the race.

I found my voice in finding a different kind of elder outside my family, a light and an example of how to get through mazes of bureaucracy and ignorance while keeping your head up. The same hands that would help me on to a starting block would write me lists of the correct phone numbers, emails, so I did not slip through the cracks of a system more than happy to leave me in the dark. Even just seeing someone with a family, friends, a job was the difference to me finding a way to have a life.


FARHANA: CONFORMITY'S COMFORT

About the writer:

Hi there! I’m Farhana, a 22 year old, living in the North West of England studying marketing in university. I am a cat person, who adores the colour
pink and flowers, and I love taking videos of everything and anything. Documenting everything gives a sense of joy. Fun fact! My name means ‘Happiness’, which I strive to be. I consider myself to be quite creative. Therefore I write and share to hear myself, to feel the thoughts and emotions I struggle to control. It supports my communication and confidence to be open and honest. Within my story, I want you to get to know me, and join my journey of learning to accept and live for myself.

NOTE TO READER <3

Have you ever felt suffocated and confused by your own individual expression? It may feel contradicting, and you may also subconsciously feel like you have to choose one side of yourself. It’s tough, I know. It feels like a never ending battle. There’s a lot of isolation and loneliness that comes alongside it. The first step towards feeling freedom and peace is self exploration and building relationships that will nourish you. Community gives support and encouragement. There are people who go through similar situations, which can give clarity and motivation, even if it may feel like you’re the only one alone in what you’re going through. I hope my story feels like a shoulder to lean on. I want you to feel seen and heard. Conformity’s a comfort we find ourselves trapped within, but with finding community, you can allow yourself to have understanding and vulnerability. Explore and share your identity without the restraints of needing to conform and please others. You’re you, and that’s so beautiful and endearing.

[This section contains references to suicide, self-harm and negative attitudes and behaviours towards the LGBTQIA+ community. While it does not go into detail of any of these things, please do not read on if you think the content may be upsetting for you.]

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to give special thanks to the following:

Family and friends who have uplifted me at difficult times, truly grateful for their encouragements.
My cat Cosmo, and the sunsets. Hope and serenity was given, when there was a lot of chaos and hardships.
My mental health professionals, ICU nurses, Paramedics, Crisis teams who took care of me. My wellbeing is much healthier due to their hardwork.
YoungMinds- their employees, and the people in the programme. I have been given a space to make a difference through my own mental health story.
Everyone I have met so far in my life. Every person met has taught me a lot, and helped shape who I am.
Myself. I have persevered to get better and be better. I’m glad I didn’t give up. I’m proud of myself.

Dear Diary

It’s been a rollercoaster of a year, reminiscing about June 2023 especially. An entire journey in itself figuring life out. Especially when there is so much that can consume you. My struggles felt overwhelming—too much. My diagnoses, mental health, sexuality, relationships, religion, family, and cultural background. It was all a lot; I felt conflicted and troubled.

But why? I didn’t know. I felt hopeless. I didn’t even notice how dark my mind had turned until it was too late.

Each person holds uniqueness. I understood that perfectly well. The differences help create their identity and form individuality. Although, at times, it may make you question yourself—do I belong? By human nature, we’re driven to fit in—conformity. We feel the need to understand ourselves, who we are, and how we function. Although, that can be puzzling. I was lost, I suppose confused also?

In my 20s, I’m still comprehending and dissecting myself, taking it one step at a time to feel the self-love and acceptance I deserve. The things I am don’t define me solely or exclusively. I always felt the need to choose a side of myself, which would separate me from the other identities I am a part of. I tried conforming to one part of me, in hopes of finding a community that’ll accept me, but, in the end, resulted in a sombre internal self-hate and resentment. I attempted to mask away the other parts of myself. A power struggle within myself, a civil war almost.

My mind ruminates to the past, with both grief and reflection. I made decisions for myself, which I regretted and still catch myself wallowing in. I couldn’t do anything right. I felt so much pity in myself, that I felt never good enough, or just enough in general. I worked to create a supposed ‘purpose’ till I overexerted myself, which in turn developed into a toxic domino of downfall. I never let myself breathe and pace myself. The medications and counselling seemed futile, nothing was working. I continued to overwork, to prove myself and my worth. The lack of a support system, which I never put forward as important, contributed to my demise. I cornered myself, only focusing and relying on one person, I didn’t realize the consequences until late.

Growing up felt like a struggle. I felt so different, and I would work extra hard to fit in and get along with others. I wasn’t born in the UK, but in Bangladesh. Yet, I didn’t feel Bangladeshi or British. I grew up in both cultures, but felt a disconnection and detachment from the two. I felt too westernised for my family back at home, due to being raised predominately in the UK, my mother tongue also weakened. My communication was foreign to my own native birthplace. Essentially it was the same in the UK. I didn’t realise I was different through skin colour, religion, culture, until I experienced exclusion and separation from some of my own peers who saw it. I wasn’t in a diverse part of the UK, where I was more likely to meet people from similar backgrounds. I lived in the North West of England, an area where everyone wasn’t like me. There was little to no representation, and we were at a great distance from extended family. My family was dysfunctional, so we never bonded and socialised. Individually we were all segmented from one another. From arguments between my parents, or disagreements, I felt loneliness. I had difficulty in making friends, and maintaining any form of relationship. I was a troubled child at home, but perfected my behaviour to outsiders, like to teachers and everyone else. Just so I wasn’t alienated. It made sense when I got a late diagnosis of ASD and ADHD as a young adult. It gave me a lot of clarity.

Even transitioning into secondary school and then sixth form, I went through several broken friendships and romantic relationships. I would always fixate on one individual, which would put pressure and hardships onto them, leading to an end of everything. My depression and anxiety was peaking, and I ended up seeking professional help during sixth form. Home wasn’t a place of comfort or relaxation either. I couldn’t confide in my parents, my dad was just some person who cohabited with us, my mum was burdened with responsibilities beyond her capacities. I wanted my mum the most in those hard moments, but she needed to look after my younger siblings, especially as she was a full time carer for my non-verbal disabled brother. I felt like a back thought. COVID hit at the time also, so a lot was happening. Throughout my years of being in education, I never got into trouble with teachers, I kept quiet and tried to academically excel. I quickly realised when entering university, how bad everything was. I couldn’t keep up with assignments or attendance, and I moved away from home to a new city which I didn’t like. I didn’t have a support network still, and missed home. Even though I left to go as far as I could to be independent and free in what I can do. University halted for me, I went on a leave of absence to return home since my wellbeing deteriorated. That was in December 2020, I never returned back to that uni. A lot happened in the years of being out of education, such as my long term relationship ending. I passed my driving and got a car. I also got my cat Cosmo, and I met an amazing tutor in a career industry I’m interested in. I’m still in contact with them! A lot of good, but also a lot of bad proceeded to happen. It is interesting to know how each step, word and movement can completely determine a different outcome. It’s almost terrifying because I’m scared of change and the unknown it brings alongside. I do believe I gained courage, in some of the things I pushed myself to.

The biggest heartbreak and decision I made was coming out to my mum in late 2022, as I fell in love with a girl whom I wanted to get serious with and wanted to marry in the future. The anxiety of keeping it a secret ate me up day by day, until one day I felt too much guilt to keep it hidden. I knew from an early age that I liked girls, and being put into an all girls school didn’t help the case either, as well as my parents not liking me interacting with boys. But I had to keep it discrete, it was taboo, and I ended up a pathological liar. My family is of South Asian immigrant and religious background, so from that, my mum found it unbearable to accept. She cried, a lot. I felt like I betrayed her, I wasn’t the eldest daughter she envisioned me to be. She had hopes, dreams and expectations which I couldn’t ever achieve. My mum was insistent that I ‘change’, which hurt a lot. I tried to ‘change’, I really did, but it wasn’t something I chose.

I couldn’t handle being at my parent’s house any longer, and left home. At that time, I was heavily reliant on the partner I was with, and ended up co-depending on them for forms of happiness and reassurance. The healthiness I had with that relationship soon soured due to the reliance and unhealthy attachment. I didn’t comprehend the severity of such things. From trying to escape co-dependency from my own family, it shifted onto the partnership I had, which suffered from my lack of self-growth and healing.

Financially and mentally, moving to our own place added to the destruction of the relationship I longed and fought for. It was my own adamant actions that created a rift. I wore myself down, erosion. For me, I felt like I sacrificed and worked so hard to get where I wanted to be. When everything started crumbling, foundations cracking, I also broke down. I didn’t have many people to rely on as I would hyper fixate. As the months went by, my behaviour became erratic, I couldn’t control my emotions and feelings. In a moment of chaos, I ended up self-harming and overdosing. That day I tried to break my self-confinement and isolation from the outside world. I had seizures and hallucinations due to the amount I took. It was scary, especially as I don’t recall a lot of it. I was sectioned in hospital for several days, before being released for home care back to my parents, as the psych ward was facing bed shortage and waiting time was long. It was bittersweet having to return back to the house I left, but I knew in the end I needed my family most. I lost contact with a lot of important people from the way I acted. I pushed trauma and stress onto people around me from how unwell I was. It was a slow burn of accepting I was an issue. This awareness drove my journey of recovery, and being healthier for the sake of others, and for myself most importantly.

Finding communities that’ll cherish all of me has been rewarding to my well being. I’m now able to enjoy all expressions of myself, through the support of likeminded people, and by giving myself a non-judgemental space to be vulnerable. I still struggle mentally now to be honest, as it takes unspecified amounts of time to get to where you want to be. But I am on track. I learnt to not adhere to the majority, to focus on what I need and want. Put yourself first. Learn to love all aspects of yourself, you can improve on the traits you’re not too fond of. You’re not alone. You don’t need to follow the crowd.

Your identity is whatever you want it to be.

Lost in yearning

Tranquillity engulfs the vast night sky,
Yet restlessness roams the streets of the mind,
A silent emptiness with a low sigh,
The never ending thoughts remind.
Each memory locks me into a state,
Heart left wounded,
The loss it keeps me in late,
For the desire of the past holds me bounded.
Time has left me behind longing,
I cannot accept the cost,
Of my soul’s poor wronging,
I yearn for what was lost.
For the regrets that parade,
It is what I am made.


HANNAH: My community wears indigo sleeves

About the writer:

My name is Hannah Abdalla. I work in mental health research and from time to time I write.

Thank you for taking the time to read my work on grief, collective healing in community and recovery.

I have been lucky enough to find a group of inspirational writers to make sense of loss and what it means to me. I hope that this work gives you permission to reflect on what grief means to you and where you are on you journey.

I wish you nothing but light.


[This section contains references to death, grief and loss. While it does not go into detail of any of these things, please do not read on if you think the content may be upsetting for you.]


Grief was indigo blue

The emotion took two weeks after the funeral to find me. The experience settled, rose, fell, and then unsettled me again with seriousness and blunt certainty.  

I have arrived.

Until now, I had not known where the opening was found that allowed this particular blue to find me.  I felt relieved. Finally possessing the emotions my family and loved ones displayed with apparent ease.

Tears, however, did not form. 

I had found myself welcomed and woven into a sea of indigo fabric that had engulfed me in its current. My chest was heavy.  I could not leave the sea. 

The sea was the carpet I had found myself lying on this evening instead of my bed. 

The carpet that both of my grandparents had chosen together on a Tuesday morning fifteen years ago. 

I wondered if the carpet would miss my grandfather's familiar footsteps at 6:26 AM.  Would the carpet mourn his memories between its thread of patchwork or would it remember him with the occasional drop of an orange peel?  As the Somali news reporter spoke with the same cadence as his, how about then? Would he be remembered?  When someone would sit on his side of the sofa?  Would his memory resurface? 

Will I forget?

Submerged in all this blue, wouldn’t that be a funny thought, to forget?

I think even the walls would miss his voice. 

Do you know that sometimes I forget?

I wake up and I have a pillow under my head and a blanket over my body. Next to me there is a note 

‘There is food by the microwave, please eat’.

I roll over and remind myself that I am a living thing.

I am living in this body therefore I should eat.

The first time I cried it was by the sea.

I stood by the ocean as lukewarm waves crashed between my ankles, back and forth, back and forth. It was still summer and I was filled with half-life and rehearsed laughter while visiting a friend for her birthday. There was a gentle breeze and I was watched, to my left, as a young boy playing with his kite. The kite took a while to lift into the air but finally, it did, after three attempts.

I turned back to the sea and cried. 

This was grief I reminded myself. When the tears poured out, my chest lightened but was I filled with heaviness. The sky turned indigo blue and I felt a hand on my shoulder. My friend had found me. She, placing her hand on my heart, reminded me ‘Grief has a plan of its own, feel everything you need to feel, there is no timeline, there isn’t a right way to grieve, be patient with yourself’.

Ocean Vuong writes that ‘we
often sidestep ourselves to
move forward’.
I am looking at the indigo sky,
the ferry floating by the sea,
and my friend’s white shirt
taking in my blue.
Because of me, my community
wear indigo sleeves.
I am not alone.
I chose to step in and remain
in this body.
This blue will fade.

Do you know that I played golf for the first time two months after you died?

Or was it three? Time is strange. I was terrible at first. I took three attempts before I got used to the weight of the golf club. I won. We were all surprised. I think you would have been proud.

On that day everyone’s hands were stained indigo blue. I laughed more than I cried.

I am back lying on the carpet. 

I’ve had so many hands gently wash away this blue.

I feel that in my mind and my heart, I am no longer heavy with losing you, Grandpa.

In the absence of this heaviness, there is light.

I can hear Grandma in the background humming,  the ticking of the clock, the Quran recitation in the next room and without even moving my head I can see the fading Roman numerals. The ticking grows louder as I stare straight at the ceiling. 

The smell of incense fills the air. 

Rays of sunlight are filling the room. 

I am welcoming myself back. 

My community wears indigo sleeves because I am part of it.

My family, friends and strangers, because of you, only my fingertips have stained blue. 

Verily, with hardship comes ease [94:6]

Reader, what colour was your grief?

Mine was indigo blue. 



JOANNA: Why delay the inevitable?

About the writer:

Poor mental health has been part of my whole existence, it feels natural to turn to creativity to process, portray and come to understand my experiences. I am an artist, I have exhibited artwork around my experiences of hearing voices and being autistic. I was, however, a writer before I began drawing. Since beginning to write again, I have turned to poetry and narrative prose, using my experiences to inform characters and settings. I have found my purpose in
creativity, a place of respite and fulfilment. Pain fuels my creativity and creativity feeds my spirit, keeping me well and moving forward. The best writing advice (in my opinion) is from Denis Johnson:

“Write naked. That means to write what you would never say. Write in blood. As if ink is so precious you can’t waste it. Write in exile, as if you are never going to get home again, and you have to call back every detail.”

[This section contains references to addiction, drug abuse and suicidal feelings. While it does not go into detail of any of these things, please do not read on if you think the content may be upsetting for you.]

TLDR: This poem is about the pain I suffered from my struggles with depression, loneliness and addiction. I am more content and stable in my life and recovery now but I remember the agony of that time vividly. There was no quick fix to my struggles but finding meaningful connections with people I can trust and having the courage to ask for support has helped me get to where I am today. If you feel you have nothing left to lose, ask for help, it is difficult but it’s the best decision I ever made.

Why delay the inevitable?
Why live at all?
Why survive, when I will die? 
Why hide the feelings, the truths, 
The lies?
Why pretend I’m alive? 
The mind knows it’s dying,
And the soul knows it’s dead,
Gone, already, the head a mere shell, 
This is darkness,
This is life, nearly death, where I dwell.

Why numb the pain,
When it will always come back? 
From life to life,
It stalks, it chases, it attacks, 
From soul to soul,
The sane don’t suffer,
They say we’re ill, depressed, those fuckers, 
We stress, we suffer, we see,
Yet we must try to be blind, 
For the sake of sanity, her 
Invisible face, she’s so unkind.

Cleanse my mind of the truth, 
Fill me with false memories,
Forced smiles, fake hope, drill holes in my skull, 
And inject me with faith,
Faith and strength so I can pull, 
Myself from the deep, to
Stand at the side, to
Be comfortable, and at ease,
To be healthy, sober, to have peace, 
But I don’t need that for me,
The deep is where I belong, 
It’s what I need, the darkness,
Where I already grew strong, I did suffer, 
But I need that for me,
I need the struggle, to fight to breathe,
I need the panic, the rush, the fear, the lust, 
I want the high, but for that I need the low, 
The lowest I can get, I crawl and crawl,
I never stop, I never slow,
The steady suffer, it grows me, 
I’m addicted, it kills me,
The truth is that
I’m addicted to killing me

I wrote this poem when I was withdrawing from drugs, early Spring 2020. I had not written recreationally for years, I had chanelled all my emotions and struggles into self-destruction. I entered the flow state when I wrote this, a high that I could never achieve through drugs. Although I have moved on from this writing style (whatever that is), and moved on from the circumstances of that time, it is still one of my favourite poems. It hits the nail on the head about how I felt. It was probably one of the most honest things I had written or said in a while.

I shared the poem with some patients on the psychiatric ward I was on in late 2020. Some of them shared with me how they could understand or relate to it in some way. I don’t think I’ve shared my poetry on a personal level with anyone since hospital, since my inhibitions came flooding back. Here I want to share it with you, in the hope that in some way, you may feel understood or less alone.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve thought about killing myself. My decent, unremarkable childhood was haunted by depression, compulsions and loneliness. I didn’t have an understanding of these things until I was a teenager and that made the experience all the more unbearable. Whenever I was struggling with something, I would reassure myself that no matter what, I could kill myself; if I failed my maths SAT, I could just kill myself. I don’t even know how I knew what suicide was when I was eight, but I thought I did. I never told anyone about my struggles, I thought everyone was thinking like this and that I was the only one who couldn’t cope with it. I had a glimmer of hope, my belief that ‘when I grow up’, I’ll stop thinking like this, I’ll stop struggling and I’ll be ‘normal’. When I started growing up, I realised that wasn’t going to happen, that I was stuck with this brain and it was a dysfunctional one. That made me lose my hope.

I had been on a path of self-destruction that I didn’t realise I was on until it was almost too late. I built a fort of lies around me and a moat of denial and I wouldn’t let anyone get close to the real me. I’ve always struggled to form connections with others, make friends and feel comfortable around people, I didn’t know until I was nineteen but I am autistic. This led to a lonely existence, I do like my own company and I do feel comfortable in silence but I reached a point of insanity, the silence became a void that started to attack me with the voices.

Maybe I had a predisposition to psychosis, I don’t know but my use of substances contributed to a rapid deterioration in my already poor mental health. I haven’t used drugs for nearly three years yet I still hear the voices and see things others do not. I don’t know what I would do if those experiences all went away, I have become accustomed to living with what I call ‘extrareality’. I really lament my drug use but I still believe that if someone had told me before I started using that ‘drugs are bad, they’ll ruin your life’, blah, blah… I would still have gone down the route I did. Therefore, I don’t feel any integrity trying to do that spiel here, instead, I’m just going to share my experience of how using substances to ‘self-medicate’ and escape my struggles did not help and made them worse.

During the loneliness, I wanted to find my identity, I wanted to feel part of something, a community and I wanted to relieve the pain of my lonely, depressed existence. I turned to drugs, experimenting at first, experimenting with the level of self-destruction I could tolerate and how much pain I could ease temporarily in exchange for the pain of addiction. Not everyone will become addicted but it is not worth taking the chance. The first time I ever used a substance, I felt paranoid, uncomfortable and disturbed but I liked the fact that I could change how I felt, for once, even if it was a horrible feeling. I became addicted, not to the ‘high’ but to the control I felt I gained over my thoughts, feelings and experiences. I had a mentality that nothing could make me feel worse than the suicidal chemicals already in my brain. It was dangerous for me to start using drugs, not only because of the known risks of substances but because my tolerance for pain was so high, I was living with a brain that wanted me dead, and therefore, no amount of destruction to myself or others could make me stop. I can’t sugar coat my experiences, I was suffering with an aching, almost paralysing need to be dead and I turned to substances that did paralyse me in a position of addiction, psychosis and depression. My attempt at self-medication turned into self-destruction, just with a convenient excuse to keep me in denial.

I am in recovery from my addiction and my mental health issues and both are life-long journeys. Looking at the root cause of my issues is difficult, it has taken me years with my psychologist to get down into the crevices of my aching brain and find what I’ve hidden there and what has been festering. I have no doubt there is more to be discovered in years to come too. I understand that loneliness is a catalyst for my deterioration, having a sense of community is as important for me as my medication. It is not easy for me to understand people and make connections, let alone maintain those relationships but it is worth it. It keeps me alive, not just surviving but living a life that is actually enjoyable and manageable even during difficult times; I can still keep going.

The poem I wrote in May 2020 reflects the pain I was suffering as a result of my drug use, I did not heal, medicate or address my mental health issues through substances. I did not find the community I longed for, I became more isolated than I thought was possible. When I sought help and worked with the people who cared about me, I slowly began building a support network. It has taken hard work and commitment to my wellbeing to get to a point of stability and relative contentedness but it is absolutely worth it. I did not see the point in living or trying to improve my mental health but I did it anyway and I am so glad I did. There is hope for anyone struggling with depression, loneliness and/or substance misuse my experience is that vulnerability is one of our greatest strengths, asking for help is courageous and accepting that help is the best thing I ever did for myself. For anyone that feels they have no remaining hope, I will hold onto that hope for you, that you will get through the pain and experience the future you deserve to have.

“Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, difficulty… I have never in my life envied a human being who led an easy life. I have envied a great many people who led difficult lives and led them well.” - Theodore Roosevelt

I think of this quote often when I am reflecting on my recovery and when facing a challenge.


JOSH: evergreen, an anthology

About the writer:

My name is Joshua Hailey. I am an English Literature student, and poet, residing in the Midlands. I write because it is what makes me feel truly alive. To concoct collections of poetry, about my life, allows me to process, heal, and learn. My life has been tumultuous, both physically and mentally. Thus, evergreen is a culmination of twenty-one years of tears, turmoil, treachery, but also turning points. It will be the anthology I return to for inspiration, reflection, and education. To find more about me, you can follow me on Instagram @joshuahailey and on my poetry account @joshuahaileypoet.

evervulnerable

Every day I question the
discussion of the third degree.
You took an amendment, you ran with it,
as quickly as you rushed the sorority.

When the reality, of this theatricality, is that
you're drowning in a pageantry of apathy.
How forlorn you seem to be even after you
ruined me. Not a curse nor prophecy,

a south-coast case of disloyalty.

2023. I evaded scaffolding for something rocky.
My friendship crackling, lacking, it seems.
You sat down with me, the fake pleasantries caused
a cacophony. Let us skip to the part where you

chastised me. Three friendships dies disastrously.


thoughts from a self-loather

you've become a martyr for
an empty cause, a vow that
holds no value, you tried. you failed.
your lack of masculinity is abhorrent.

didn't tell her you were
depressed that summer?
turn the page? start anew?
lord know everyone is over you.

welcome to the beach
where we repress our fears
and hide behind books.

everoverthinking

i'm a mess; a mess I am. I am messy. mess everywhere. mess mess mess. mister mess. messing up everywhere I go. messing up everyone, you get me?

Callous energy want somebody needed stitches found two witches arts and crafts feeling the draft disembarked my tears pave a river sneaky sinner undetected had to be led to crystal cover in the alcove Aphrodite gave no love I was disposed of quickly quietly.

girl friends

And yet I'm not one of them / so I'll never know what it feels like / to have bathroom banter / endless laughter / whilst shooting at their targets / drowning their sorrows / with hints of sweat beaming on their brow / dissipated with a head on a shoulder / a joke / that's been ostracised / which makes me feel even more alone / than they realise / but I need social connections / andfriendsandgirlfriendsandboyfriend.

we interrupt this programme to give you tunes for your blues

guy i used to by Lawrence
long story short by Taylor Swift
coming of age by Maisie Peters
i'm confident that i'm insecure by Lawrence
12345 by Em Beihold

evervolatile

I hereby conduct calamitous collections. I post them all over town. I am what was most wanted. I am the danger now

my parents loved the dinner table. 
their chance to list what went wrong today. but 'mummy where's the money?'. 
and 'does daddy have depression?'. 
or 'brother how was your day?'. 
the other one? he's absolutely fine!!!

Flatmates are loud but it's mid-mourning.
Rest in pieces to my reputation. 
I won a war with poisonous contagion.
When it punished everyone around me, 
I kept the knives and weapons so proudly.

my secrets spilled, 
i become ash. 
the burn, scarring 
the truth, seething. 
this was not how 
i wanted it to go, 
but this was vulnerability, the one-man band on show.

my found family. my insecurities shedded. i felt seen. 
i am, now and forevermore, 
evergreen


KAYLEIGH: still missing

About the writer:

It may seem slightly obvious, but I do love writing. I will write about most things but focus specifically on my experiences with mental illness and other more personal experiences. A lot of my writing is kept to myself.

Aside from writing, I love my dog, music, games nights (I remain unbeaten (i think) at bananagrams) and collecting things, especially smiski, (if you don’t know what they are please do an online search, you’re missing out!). I also study psychology :)

I would love to recommend ‘Four minutes to save a life’ by Anna Stuart, and ‘Anxious People’ by Fredrik Backman. Both books emphasise the intricate and curious nature of being human and how (very subtly) our lives are intertwined with one another.

(Please check content warnings for each book first)


This small section focuses on my dissociative experiences and how they impact my life in different ways. I began to write as a child and storytelling became a way of escapism: whereby my feelings and experiences were projected onto other characters - only I had full control of them. They were always ‘saved’. And that writing was always only for me.

I still do write as a way of escapism, but I have felt so alone struggling with this, especially when I didn’t even know what it was - so I’m reaching out to anyone who experiences this and feels alone (even if your experiences don’t look exactly like mine) and to anyone who wants to understand what it is like. The first time I felt slightly safer was reading about someone else’s experience. I didn’t even realise these symptoms and experiences had names.

Would you understand me if I was to tell you that I am never in my body?

The first time I remember experiencing intense derealisation/depersonalisation symptoms, I was in the baby clothes aisle of a supermarket. Everything started glitching around me, speeding up while simultaneously slowing down? The room went dull, like the colour and brightness had been sucked out and a veil had been placed between myself and the rest of the world. 

I was terrified. 

As these episodes continued, I became increasingly paranoid and confused. I tried to explain it to the internet and a battered notebook. The answers I found were not really answers at all, just the abrupt conclusion that I ‘must be mad’. 

One evening after school, in the kitchen, I waited for my mum to ask me about my day, looked her carefully in the eyes and asked, “are you drugging me?” Of course she was not; and she was horrified. Though this was not enough to curb my belief that these experiences must be the result of medication side effects or poison.  

They were not and they did not go away. 

Minutes turned into hours, turned into days, weeks, months:

There is a 4 year chunk in my life I have very limited recollection of - any memories possessed are not in chronological order. There’s other years too, dotted about my life. I am missing, fundamentally missing from my own existence. None of the things I’ve experienced feel like they’ve happened to me. It feels like I’m looking through a stranger’s photo albums. 

One spring afternoon my brain was completely released from my body, like a helium balloon. I guess you could say it happened in stages, the grasp was slowly loosened. It didn’t return. My brain is stuck in a repetitive loop. I live in a past that I don’t remember. 

It is hard to truly describe what it feels like to be so disconnected. Friends appear as strangers, everyone and everything is unsafe even when you desperately want it not to be. The guilt that comes with that is suffocating. Because I know that the connection is there - and as much as people reason that it is safe, I am not in control of telling myself this - I am not ‘there’. 

It is important to note that an absence of connection in the form of dissociative experiences does not mean an absence of empathy (for many people). I feel overrun with empathy for others; and when I’m very far from myself, I still feel it, cognitively and often physically as an emotion, the physicality is just a lot further away. 

Sometimes, although not often, I am dropped back next to myself: 

Deposited in the corner of the garden by the overgrown flowerbeds and some rusty garden tools. I can’t reach the door. I try but it’s boggy and I’m stuck. I can’t reach the door. My feet are sinking and the dogs are snarling and to say it is difficult would be an understatement, it is agony. And it’s ironic really because this is what I say I want… but before I know it, I’m frantic, desperate, clawing at the gate.

Things I wish people knew

1. Dissociation is an umbrella term describing lots of different symptoms and experiences.

2. What works for one person may not work for another (I know this is said a lot but if most/all grounding techniques don’t work for a person/you, it doesn’t mean you’re not trying or can’t get better).

3. A lot of people who regularly dissociate (especially with DPDR or similar symptoms) are able to have coherent, ‘normal’ conversations and interactions with others. It is not always obvious to people externally! 

4. It’s okay to express what you experience through more creative methods as it can be hard to verbalise. If you work with people who experience dissociation, it’s really helpful if you’re open to this.

5. It’s okay to ask people questions to try and understand better. Obviously it’s important to do this in a sensitive manner, but many people who struggle with this find being understood rare and therefore, trying to learn how they experience dissociation and how you can help is very appreciated!  


MATILDA CARRICK: Spiders

About the writer:

My name is Matilda Carrick (they/she) and I’m an illustrator and comic artist. I have written a short comic about the smaller actions in (romantic and platonic) relationship and how those actions affected me when I was dealing with parting ways with a friendship group.

(This section of the zine contains references to spiders).


Spiders are probably one of the most disliked insects on the planet, even though they play a crucial part in our ecosystem. They are small but incredibly powerful. However, I’m not here to talk about spiders, but rather the webs they create and how spider webs are similar to friendships.

I recently lost an entire friendship group, which can be devastating at any age. I was so unsure of myself and the relationships around me, but I found comfort in my siblings and boyfriend. Luckily, they supported me through it and pushed me to make new friendships. I wanted to use this space to highlight a small (but powerful) action my boyfriend took that helped me create some of my best friendships.

My boyfriend came home from work one day and said: “I met this girl named J at work who I think you’d like.” Which helped me break out of a bad habit (of shutting friendships down before they started) I was falling into.

At that moment, I felt an insane amount of support; I no longer felt alone. This action also made me think about smaller actions I could take to support those around me. I started to reach out to people I hadn’t spoken to in a while. Although I am still learning and sometimes struggle to keep up to date
with messages, I make sure to take the time to appreciate the new friendships I have built rather than worrying about the ones I’ve lost.

Over the following two pages, I created a comic about a time highlighting the more minor, subtle actions in relationships. A time that I was home alone, and the most enormous spider I’ve EVER seen came in to say hello...

Web of Connections:

Side note:
Matilda: Everything seen in this comic is 100% accurate.

Spider: Hello there!!

Matilda: Huh? What was that?

Spider: It was me! Down here!

Matilda: AHHHHHHHH!

Matilda: OMG WHAT SHOULD I DO...? WAIT, I KNOW!

[Matilda texts Mr Soulmate: HELP! BIG SPIDER! Mr Soulmate replies: IT'S THE SPIDERS HOUSE NOW..]

Matilda calls sister: Answer me please!

Sister answers.

Sister: What's happened? It's 11pm!

Matilda: Did I wake you up? It's important.

Sister: No I was just about to go to sleep.

Matilda: Oh okay well there is a big spider and I don't know what to do...

[After a few minutes of back and forth...]

Matilda: I know but it is really big.

Sister: I doubt it's that big and besides it's gonna be more scared than you.

Matilda: Okay, I'm turning the box over... now. HOLY S***!! IT'S HUGE!!

Matilda: The spider did make it safely outside. But I know I couldn't have done it without my boyfriend or my sister motivating and supporting me. Overall this is a fun story I hope you can relate to. But please, don't kill spiders if you can help it.

BREAD


Being a social person who is also autistic can be difficult as I struggle to understand others and tend to ramble about my current (or long-running) hyper-fixation when trying to connect to others.

Growing up, I always felt out of place, constantly unsure if I was “doing something wrong”, especially after losing a friend group. I truly felt like I wouldn’t be able to make any new friends, but when you meet the right people, they will indulge your ‘weirdness’ and accept you for you, but will also make an effort to communicate before situations “blow up”.

Don’t settle for the “Why are you being so weird?” “Why do you talk too much?” Friend. Instead, find the “This reminded me of you.” “Look! It’s your hyper-fixation!” Friend.

I recently started a personal project where I ‘TROLL-ified’ my friends as a fun way to connect them to my interests and make them laugh a little. Now, I’m not saying draw your friends as Trolls, but find a way to share your interests with them, like watching movies or making playlists.

Friendships and Relationships can take many forms. You might be childhood BFFs, school project buddies, long-distance/internet friends, or significant others, or they might be your siblings.

Relationships are built over time through small and large acts of kindness, respect, and compassion.

I find the action of “this reminded me of you” to be a great step in building a social spider web. It doesn’t need to be awkward, but if you think two of your friends would get along, why not introduce them? This
will help build a friend group where all of you can be your true, authentic selves.

If you feel isolated or disconnected from your friend group, find a way to communicate it that ensures everyone is heard and responded to. Disagreements happen in all sorts of relationships; it would be
weird if they didn’t, but there is no reason for them to build up overtime and cause large issues down the line.


NANA YAA ADU: An invitation to ******** Road is an invitation to:

About the writer:

My name is Nana Yaa Adu (she/they). I’m a 22-year-old spoken word poet from East London. My journey with poetry began as a way to make sense of the mental health challenges I was experiencing in secondary school. Poetry has given me the language to express challenging experiences, beautiful experiences, and everything in between. And more crucially, poetry has forced me to look at, and sit with who I am and what I am feeling in any given moment. Spoken word poetry especially has allowed me to shine a light on topics, themes and experiences I would rather not share with the world. But by its very nature spoken word poetry requires the performer to approach vulnerability with boldness. And it’s truly empowering! I think poetry open mics are a brilliant environment to be reminded of our shared humanity as people and how precious that is. I would recommend anyone reading this to go to one at least once in their lives.

An invitation to ******** Road is an invitation to:
1. pots of vegetable oil darkened with age, flecked with burnt-
2. pricy putrid cuts of meat
3. the smell of rot poorly disguised by scented candles
4. shots of self pity and        berry-flavoured vodka after midnight
5. stiffened oranges
6. mould behind wallpaper
7. mould on 3-day old rice
8. mould in lungs
9. the smell of rot poorly disguised by dupe perfumes
10. longing to be touched
11. playing hide-and-seek with daily showers
12. dead flowers
13. writing myself into existence
14. speaking myself out of a life lived in limbo
15. losing myself in thoughts
16. laughter locked behind a paywall
17. weeping
18. longing to be held

I wish men would apologise for taking up space at my expense

19. praying
20. desires wrapped in shame, tucked away where the sun don't shine
21.
22. longing to be seen

I am hurting. Can you sit with me?

inspired by

'alternate names for black boys' by Danez Smith
'alternate names for black boys' by Danez Smith
'alternate names for black boys' by Danez Smith
'alternate names for black boys' by Danez Smith


I hope that while reading this zine you realise that as scary as it might be, the key to living a vivid and fulfilling life is letting people in, and allowing your vulnerability to bring you closer to other people. It is only by being vulnerable that we can build authentic connections with others. However, being vulnerable with people is far from easy, so I hope it is comforting to get a glimpse into each of our journeys with the subject of community and vulnerability. I also hope you feel emboldened to share your own story with your own communities.


SAARAH: Alone

About the writer:

I write because I have always had a passion for reading. I liked reading so much that I tried to create my own stories. I ended up doing this regularly until writing stories/prose became a hobby and I am currently studying an English and Creative Writing degree. I’ve experienced a mental health illness and I would like to use my voice to raise awareness.

Before reading my piece, I would like you to know that the main character is going through a period of mental health illness. It is inspired by my own experiences.

Please read this short story anywhere you like, whenever you like. There are many people who are having a similar experience to you, and I hope that you share the zine with anyone and everyone.

Alone by Saarah

I hated my appearance. I couldn’t stand to look in the mirror. I was a creature, hideous and repulsive. I hated myself for never feeling comfortable. I could hardly ever find makeup or clothes that I liked, that I felt confident in.

I tried to keep myself busy, doing things that didn’t involve an hour deciding what to wear or any thought to my appearance. But my one friend, Mackenzie Nelson, wanted to shop like most people our age did. But shopping in the shopping centre with my friend was definitely an activity where I’d have to think about my appearance.

Purchasing new clothes was tiring and tedious, anyway. But my mind, when like this, would make it worse. I know I would glance in every reflective surface, every mirror. I was never happy with what I saw. I would stare at mannequins. How could something made of plastic, with no facial features, make me feel so ugly and unspecial?

But Mackenzie Nelson was insistent.

I tried to improve my body image. I tried a new look. And then the week after that, I tried a new one. I became a topic of discussion, within the school walls. I was afraid someone would notice how ugly I was. But all they did was
mention things like the idea that I was ‘asking for attention’ and how I was ‘fake’. Some said I brought on the rumours about myself by ‘acting this way’.

But I couldn’t help it. My despair was real. I wanted to feel comfortable, I didn’t want to despise what I looked like.

I thought of the ugly duckling. Famously, the ugly duckling becomes a beautiful swan at the end. Before this beautiful ending, the ugly duckling is the eyesore out of the other ducks. I felt just as displaced as the duckling. However, I
doubted I’d ever be beautiful.

Meanwhile, Mackenzie Nelson is vibrant, bubbly, friendly. She gains effortless grades and people are attracted to her like flowers moving towards the sunlight. Everyone turns to her, like she provides some kind of social solace. She
always has been this way. In comparison, I was quiet and antisocial.

“You have to come to the new coffee place, RaeLynn Taylor” she sings on the other side of the phone. “You’ll love it. See you in an hour.”

I didn’t feel like singing back. I didn’t even say anything, I clicked the phone shut. Normally, especially recently, I would have cancelled the plans with a text. But then I’d have to attend the plans after that, for I juggled social events, picking the ones least painful. If I missed too many in a row, I’d have to be present at the next available one.

As much as Mackenzie said she’d never leave me, I knew that if I didn’t keep up with social events completely, I’d be friendless.

I loved and hated the idea of being friendless. I’d thought about it before. I’d be nothing without a friend - I was already nothing. But then I could completely curl up and get lost in the misery that was my headspace. But then at the same time, I knew, on my worst days, I needed a distraction.

See you in an hour, I replayed the words in my head. I decided meeting her at the new coffee place, in an hour, was one of the lesser plans that I could attend. It didn’t require much thinking, everything was set.

I stared at my reflection. My stomach swirled with repulsion. I scraped my dark, inky black hair back into a ponytail. My clothes barely did anything to hide my disgustingness. Underneath the layers, I was the hideous-looking girl I
always had been.

I arrived at the new coffee place, Simply Coffee.

I felt ambushed.

I’d sighted Mackenzie - and all of her other friends. They sat in their seating area, crushed together. They were talking and giggling at something. Briefly, I wondered if Mackenzie had mentioned me, her friend that was about to join. I wondered what they’d replied. I imagined smirks and snide remarks. I wondered if anything positive had been said.

I trudged up to the group. I tried to mumble an excuse but Mackenzie yanked me down, on the sofa next to her.

“This is RaeLynn,” she said, introducing me.

I half whispered, half croaked a response. It kind of sounded like a ‘hi’.

Mackenzie introduced the other girls. Their names went over my head. I was too busy, too overwhelmed to think properly. I wondered if I looked okay. I wondered if that woman in the corner had noticed how ugly I looked. I was distracted.

Then the attention was off me, like a wave disappearing into the rest of the sea. A phone played a short sound. One of the girls squealed about the text she just received. It was, apparently, from a fifth friend who hadn’t been in touch for a while. That’s what they’d been discussing, apparently, before I had joined the group.

I sat back into the sofa. I breathed in Mackenzie’s perfume. It was the same scent she always wore, or had been, recently. She didn’t really see me, and I didn’t mean because she’d have to use her peripheral.

I looked up, at the lighting. I wanted it to swallow me, until there was nothing left.

I got up, when I realised the conversation wouldn’t turn back to me for a while. I wandered to Simply Coffee’s counter. I didn’t want a drink, I just stared at the menu.

I wished I could order a shot of confidence.

I returned to sitting with the group of girls and Mackenzie.

And then it was time to go home. We shrugged on our coats, hugged our goodbyes. Well, at least, Mackenzie did. I slipped into Simply Coffee’s toilets because I didn’t want to walk out with everyone else, highlighting what an ugly sight I was.

After an exaggerated five minutes, I left the bathroom, letting the door swing shut behind me. One of the girls caught me.

“Sorry,” she apologised. She glanced at the bathroom door, like she didn’t know where to look. She smiled, hesitantly. “If you need someone to talk to, you can talk to me.”

And I ended up telling her everything. It flowed and I couldn’t stop it.

At the end, it felt like I was finally seeing a glimmer of real life.


ZAYNAB: Honour or Pride?

[This section contains references to sexism, homophobia, heterosexism, and abuse. While it does not go into detail of any of these things, please do not read on if you think the content may be upsetting for you.]

When I was 13, I got my hair cut. I wanted something pixie-esque but it ended up as more of a bowl-cut. My dad didn’t like it. Girls should look like girls. I was getting away with wearing jeans and hoodies instead of dresses, but it was also a point in my life that I generally felt uncomfortable in my body and with all its changes. I put that feeling away for years and years. 

When I was 22, I shaved my head. Finally, that feeling I had desperately been seeking from gender. The bewildering paradox of a buzz cut, make up, a shirt, and high heels. It was freeing. 

But it was frightening. 

By this point, my father was out of the picture, so it didn’t matter what he thought. My mum only told me I looked like a porcupine. But I didn’t tell her what it meant to me, and she didn’t ask. On Eid, she asked me to wear my hijab to her brother’s house, so no one would say anything. It wasn’t acknowledged, and maybe that was the safer option.  

It’s a very specific demographic. According to the latest Census (2021), 9.3% of the UK population is Asian, but including mixed people of Asian descent likely increases that - as a mixed White and Asian is 0.8%. Of these, approximately only 3.3% of people will be lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, or otherwise queer, at least those who are able to be open about it. I rarely come across LGBTQ+ Asian representation in the media (you get one or the other, not both), so I’m hoping this will bring just a little more awareness to this unique experience.

I gave her my sister, Fatimah*, a call the night I started thinking about this. We talked a little bit about her ex, who is also South Asian. Being kept a secret is never a pleasant experience, but Fatimah was moving on, realising that she didn’t have to put up with someone being ashamed of their relationship. I told her what I was thinking about writing about, asking her what had been like for her, realising she was gay. 

“It’s made me feel very isolated at times, and confused, and disgusting. I feel kind of repulsed with myself.” When you are told that the fundamentals of your being are shameful, repulsion isn’t an unexpected response. It can be unbearable to know that you existing every day is a sin. According to Stonewall’s 2018 report, eight percent of Black, Asian and minority ethnic LGBT people attempted to take their own lives in the last year. Denying who you are is the only other option.

In the same report, nine percent of Black, Asian and minority ethnic LGBT people reported being pressured to access services that would question or attempt to change their sexual orientation, compared to five percent of LGBT people as a whole. Conversion therapies can be very harmful, physically and psychologically. Even the most subtle of conversion therapy is damaging, telling people that who they are is wrong. Fatimah says, “The experience I have personally was sitting on my prayer mat and crying and saying, please make the gay go away. It did not, in fact, go away, in fact I think I started liking girls even more.”

Denial makes it so much harder to accept yourself. “Acceptance and healing from all the trauma comes from when you accept the situation. If I have to cut people off for my own peace and my own happiness, then that is what I have to do.”

Accepting yourself doesn’t necessarily come easily, though, Fatimah describes how, “a lot of my friends aren’t out to their parents and if they are a lot have screamed at them or physically abused them.” So many people end up losing their community because of their sexuality. I have a lot of friends from school that I don’t speak to anymore, because worrying about them judging me is too much to deal with. It is much worse for people who’s entire community is prejudiced against them. And people outside of the community don’t necessarily understand how it feels, the painful mixture of sexuality, religion, and culture. 

I decided to speak to a friend of a friend, Will*, who is from mainland China and now lives in the UK. Growing up in a small town, Will didn’t even realise what being gay was until he was in junior high school (equivalent to GCSEs). But he knew he was gay when he was four or five, “you are very little so you don’t know what is love, what is gay, you just feel it is more exciting to play with boys.”

Will went to university in Chengdu, known as the “gay capital of China”, which was a very different experience from living in the north. On the first day of university, a lecturer gave a speech, saying “if you have any difficulties in studying, mental health, or love, you can come and talk to me - I don’t mind if you like boys or girls or both, it’s all fine.”

The path for Will telling his family about his sexuality has already been paved by his cousin, who has been living with her partner for fifteen years. But he would still be apprehensive to have those conversations, “my parents kind of worry about me, they think that being LGBTQ in China is not very safe”. It might cause people to dislike him or he might not get a good job. They don’t realise that in big cities, it is more okay to be gay. Will plans to tell them when he is more independent, so they don’t have to worry about it. It would also be more of a challenge living in China, as while he would be able to have a relationship, he would not be able to have his own family. 

We compared the differences in how religion affects us, with Will noting that this doesn’t tend to be an issue for people in China. Marriage is often very important for traditional families in China, with lots of judgement if you don’t get married. “For our generation, we get married because we want to, we don’t judge each other,” so this is also changing. As marriage becomes less important for cis, heterosexual couples, it also has less pressure for LGBT+ people. Will also notes that gay rights are intertwined with women’s rights and trans rights, with progress for one making progress for all. 

Social media is having a big impact on the LGBT community in China, Will says the youtube-like website BiliBili is very popular amongst the community. Boys Love stories have also become more popular, changing people’s attitudes towards gay people - although this comes with its own issues. However, the Chinese government, while historically ambivalent towards LGBTQ+ issues, seems to be cracking down on representation of same-sex relationships in media, through the censorship rules passed in 2017. Will says, “gay marriage in China still needs time to make progress, for now society or government policy are not ready for gay marriage. But every year there are a lot of social activists and some organisations trying to push the government to give some policies or rights for the LGBTQ people.” 

These are just the experiences of two people (and myself), but Asia is the world’s largest continent, and the cultures and experiences are vastly different from area to area. There is a general discrimination against gay people across the continent, with same-sex relationships being illegal in at least twenty Asian countries. Nepal and Taiwan are the only countries where same-sex marriages are recognised. Collectivist cultures unite us, but they place honour above individual happiness. It is so hard to speak out as a queer Asian person, because not only will it potentially hurt you but it might hurt your family and loved ones, and that is not often something that people of Asian descent are willing to do. 

I am a little apprehensive writing this piece. I hope my parents never read it. But I think it’s important for me to talk about, acknowledging just how hard it can be to not be accepted as you are. If you are experiencing anything like this, there is community out there for you. 

*names are changed


ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The majority of my pieces draw on memory. At first, I wanted to create a very intentional journey from solitude to connection, reinforcing the importance of ‘letting down your walls’ and trusting others enough to show your whole self. I wanted to show the friction between loving the comfort of solitude, and craving the comfort of connection; I would like to thank the staff from YoungMinds – Louis and Jess for all their time and support throughout the Writers Programme – and my fellow writers for growing with me and contributing to this zine.

I’d also, in the spirit of self-love, like to thank myself, for sifting through all my memories and experiences to turn the mundane, and sometimes painful, into something meaningful.

Lastly, I’d like to thank everyone who read this zine: I hope you can take something from it and carry my words with you. Thank you for witnessing what I’ve shared! - Annabell


I would like to firstly thank my incredible friend, and fellow writer, Millie. You have been my go-to person for anything and everything creative writing. I’m looking forward to your first publication sooner rather than later! Let’s go on a writing retreat soon. Secondly, I’d like to thank anyone and everyone that has read my work, including those on my private Snapchat story where I write my little poems and post them for your reading pleasure! I’d also like to thank my two photographers: Ellie and Millie. When I said I had to ‘look sad and stuff’ you both still agreed to take the photos! To my family, I hope these pages allow you to better understand who I am. To the Portsmouth University English
Literature team: the Open Mic was truly an impactful experience. To the people who have inspired my writing: look at me now! Finally, to the theatre kid who decided one day to pick up a pen: you were always okay. Trust me. - Joshua

I am grateful to my family for standing by me during times of crisis and chaos, my Mum has been an unwavering support for me to hold on to, and Anton has always listened to me with so much patience. I would not be alive and content without my recovery community, the NHS and my lovely labrador, Brian. I am grateful to the YoungMinds Writers Programme for helping me find a direction for my writing, being understanding and giving me the opportunity to share my story. - Joanna

I am so grateful for being able to be a part of YoungMinds because I have met some wonderful people and truly made some friends for life. I wanted to thank all my course mates for being here. My family has always had my back this year, and their enthusiasm has got me through. I wanted to thank my lovely friends outside of this programme for being here for me and always taking an interest in my work - especially those of you who have taken the time to read or even provided me with some inspiration. - Emily

I would like to thank the wonderful people at YoungMinds for their support throughout the programme and the creative space they fostered. I would also like to express my gratitude to my amazing friends for listening to my rambling ideas, especially Matilda and Emma whose patience with me on this project cannot be understated. Finally, I would like to thank my family, my Mum, Dad and Grandad for supporting me, and a special thanks to my Nan for encouraging and supporting me and my work unconditionally. Without all these wonderful people I wouldn’t be here, so this work is as much theirs as it is mine. - Ben

This is really difficult to contain briefly as I have so many people I’d like to thank! Firstly, I want to thank YoungMinds, and everyone who has joined our sessions, for making this whole opportunity possible. The safe space you have provided for us to share our experiences and learn from each other and you too has been invaluable. My dog has been my unwavering motivator for pretty much everything good throughout the past 4 years and I wouldn’t be here without her. Her excitement when I bring out my ipad or a notebook and pen is both hilarious and heartwarming. I’d also like to thank a lovely activity coordinator who worked with me a few years ago and introduced me to zines, I have loved them ever since! To everyone who has believed in me, I am so grateful. And to my past psychologist who gave me the opportunity to feel what it’s like to be understood. 18 months ago, I was so ashamed the idea of discussing my experiences made me feel physically ill. I would never have even considered doing this without meeting you. - Kayleigh

I would like to say thank you to Dylan, my wonderful partner, who has supported, motivated and encouraged me throughout this journey. Thank you to Ben, Kayleigh and Jasmin, for becoming some of the most wonderful friends I could ever hope for. And to my family, for all you do for me and more. - Matilda

I would like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who was part of the YoungMinds Writers Programme. I was inspired by my own experience with mental health illness. I wanted to convey the idea of despair and feeling on your own or isolated, despite other people being around you. - Saarah

A lot of my writing is inspired by many wonderful writers whose work I have been fortunate enough to engage with. In fact, my poem ‘An invitation to ******** Road is an invitation to:’ was inspired by Danez Smith’s ‘alternate name for black boys’. It is by attending workshops and open mics hosted by other young people and established writers that I have been inspired and emboldened to write some of my favourite pieces. I would like to thank Sara, Toyah, Francis-Xavier, Nikita, and my personal editor, best friend, and partner Luke, all of whom I admire and deeply respect. Thank you for encouraging and supporting me! I would also like to thank YoungMinds for providing a safe space for young writers through the Writers programme. It has been such a healing experience to be involved in this journey with other incredibly talented and inspiring young people. - Nana Yaa

HELP AND SUPPORT

If you’re struggling with your mental health, you are not alone. Here are some places you can go for information, advice and a listening ear.

Childline
If you’re under 19 you can confidentially call, chat online or email about any problem big or small.
Call 0800 1111 for free, 24 hours a day.
Go to childline.org.uk for more info.

Samaritans
Whatever you’re going through, you can contact Samaritans via phone or email to speak to someone who will listen.
Call 116 123 or email jo@samaritans.org for free, 24 hours a day.
Go to samaritans.org for more info.

Papyrus
Offers confidential advice and support for young people struggling with suicidal feelings.
Call 0800 068 4141, text 07860039967, or email pat@papyrus-uk.org for free, 24 hours a day.
Go to papyrus-uk.org for more info.

Calm Harm
A free app providing support and strategies to help you resist or manage the urge to self-harm.
Can be downloaded from Google Play or App Store.

Bayo
Lists organisations that work specifically with Black young people, including places where Black young people can get mental health support in their local community.
Go to bayo.uk for more info.

Frank
Provides honest information about drugs and alcohol.
Call 0300 123 6600, text 82111 or email frank@talktofrank.com.
Go to talktofrank.com for more info.

MindOut
A mental health service run by and for lesbians, gay, bisexual, trans and queer people with experience of mental health issues.
Offers online support, including a live chat.
Go to mindout.org.uk for more info.

Switchboard
Offers confidential support and advice to members of the LGBT+ community.
Call 0800 0119 100 for free, 10am – 10pm every day. Online chat service also available.
Go to switchboard.lgbt for more info.

Galop
A dedicated LGBT+ anti-violence charity.
Gives advice and support to people who have experienced biphobia, homophobia, transphobia, sexual violence or domestic abuse.
Call 0800 999 5428
Go to galop.org.uk for more info.

Winston’s Wish
Offers practical support and guidance to bereaved children, their families and professionals.
Go to winstonswish.org for more info.

Muslim Youth Helpline
Offers confidential, faith and culturally sensitive support by phone, live chat, WhatsApp and email.
Call 0808 808 2008 for free, 4pm to 10pm, seven days a week.
You can also email help@myh.org.uk.
Go to myh.org.uk for more info.

Scope
Provides practical information and emotional support for Disabled people.
Call 0808 800 3333
You can also email helpline@scope.org.uk.
Go to scope.org.uk for more info.

Unreal
Offers resources and advice, peer support and information for healthcare professionals about depersonalisation and derealisation.
Go to unrealuk.org for more info.

Beat
Offers information and support for anyone affected by eating disorders. You can contact Beat by phone, email or webchat. They also operate a fully-moderated chat group for under 25s.
Their phone number is different depending where you are:
• England: 0808 801 0677
• Scotland: 0808 801 0432
• Wales: 0808 801 0433
• Northern Ireland: 0808 801 0434
Go to beateatingdisorders.org.uk for more info.

No Panic
Supports people struggling with panic attacks, phobias, obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD) and other anxiety-related issues.
Call 0300 772 9844, 10am – 10pm, 365 days a year.
Go to nopanic.org.uk for more info.


Thank you so much for taking the time to read this zine created by members of the YoungMinds Writers Programme.
We’d really appreciate it if you can take our quick survey to tell us what you thought. Your feedback will help us to understand how the content and stories have impacted you.
Go to www.survey.alchemer.eu/s3/90726215/YM-Zine-Feedback-2024 to take our five-minute survey.