My Doctor Must Not Have Seen The Hashtag

"STATES DEPRESSION IS STABLE. NO THOUGHTS OF SELF-HARM. DOING PRETTY WELL ON [redacted]. NO SIDE EFFECTS. REALLY NOT THAT MUCH EFFICACY, HOWEVER." That's my medical chart, caps lock and all.

A hot take on treatment-resistant ("stable") MDD. Weird it's called mental health, which per Twitter, university listservs and healthcare.gov, "matters," but not really without physical evidence.

Maybe by next appointment I'll throw myself in front of the doc's Porsche so he'll believe me. But if I die, only the Eliphazs, Bildads, and Zophars retweeting "Ask for help #mentalhealthmatters" will get the glory.

So, my hands are tied. Bound until bleeding.

From Guest Contributor Connor Orrico

Facebook Friends

I only ever communicate with Kari on Facebook. We are too similar now, both forever reliving the war we shared like stale bread. She lost her Navy career after an inpatient stay while I am just trying to get to the end of mine by avoiding the pills doctors offer for anxiety and depression. Yesterday she posted a picture from Camp Bastion of her and a British nurse we worked with. The caption said this is my favorite person from Camp Bastion. I write in the comments section my least favorite person from Bastion was me. She says she understands.

From Guest Contributor Matthew Borczon

Final Act

Scott stared at the blank screen and pondered how to begin his obituary. Prone to bouts of depression, solitude, and introspection, Scott Beeker lived a quiet life filled with anger, passion, and, most importantly, love. Yes, that sounded nice, he thought. During the final years of his life he traveled the country in search of romance and adventure. He found both one night last May in the basement of a restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. There was so much to tell, wasn’t there? So many stories that were more interesting than he’d first thought. If only there was more time.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Locked

Depression lives with me. Locks my mind in a formidable place. It allows limited interactions with the outside world. Pushes aside the people who love me.

When I feel ready to emerge, it tempts me to abandon the thought. I’d peer out of windows opened to the world and sniff the air. Then, recoil. Preferring the comfort of what I know to something new.

Today, its hold is difficult to resist. A backpack filled with textbooks stays put in my bedroom. The bed becomes my refuge. The pillow, a sponge for tears.

The lock on my school locker remains locked.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.

Depression

The doctor was explaining how behavioral changes are just as likely to cure my depression as drugs.

“Has it occurred to you doctor, that I ought to be depressed, because I'm living a meaningless life?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t going to say it.” Then he saw I wasn’t joking.

“The truth is, I feel just about right for my situation,” I said.

“I don’t tell people how they ought to feel. If they come here, it’s because they think there’s something wrong.”

I didn’t reply.

“So you want me to increase your dosage then?”

It was easier to say yes.

From Guest Contributor Thomas Vicinanzo

Peace Of Mind

Gus was only able to survive day-to-day under heavy sedation. It was always a mixture involving alcohol, barbiturates, and valium, with a healthy dose of cocaine to taste. He'd learned ages ago how to fake his drug tests and before today he'd never suffered from even a minor forklift accident.

The foreman didn't care much about Gus, and certainly didn't care about his bouts with depression, but he did care about his safety record. Forgetting the fact that he had killed Gary by leaving his body hidden in the foundation shaft would be best for both their peaces of mind.