The end of Mental Health Awareness Week (and why I’m not so secretly over the moon about this)

As mental health awareness week draws to a close (or the working part of it, at least), I can honestly say that I’m fucking relieved. It’s been exhausting, draining and mentally taxing and I know that I’m not the only mental health campaigner that feels this way.

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Mental Health Awareness Week 2018

It’s Mental Health Awareness week, y’know, that week where a lot of people around the world talk about all the shit that goes on inside their heads and all that crap. And you’ve got the themes, of course, this year being stress and next year it’ll be something else and so on and so on.

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Biscuit’s Log, 2018 Entry #1

It’s been a really long time since I sat down, keyboard in front of me and feeling like I can let my fingers flow. I’m not sure why I haven’t been writing how I’ve been feeling, because the last six months have been some of the most turbulent, transformative and life-changing that I’ve ever experienced.

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A comfort blanket of pain and depression

Or you can call it the comfort zone or whatever the fuck you wanna call it. All I know is, the longer you keep your head buried in the sand like an ostrich, the harder it is to bring it above ground again. And lemme let you in on a little secret; it’ll come back and bite you in the arse the more you stay there in that place of false security. We’re not talking a kinky bite from the person you’re crushing on either, we’re talking a massive chunk of searing hot torment and frustration.

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Do I make for exhausting company?

“Yes”, was the answer that I gave myself just now as I asked this question in the mirror, unkempt and half dressed. I’m exhausted with my own company most of the time because it’s just tiring living in between my earlobes. It is never quiet for one thing, and I don’t think people really appreciate what I mean when I say that. Like, it literally is never a place of solitude or silence. My thoughts are always flying off, chasing their tail in a hapless pursuit of catching what was previously about to escape from the tip of my tongue. Fuck, I’m exhausting myself even thinking about how I think! Read More

Apathy for Life

I always say that writing is my vocation, that it’s always the thing that’s come most naturally to me in all walks of life. I’m a good listener (or so I am told) and an even better talker (sorry to everyone who’s ever heard me tell a story only to go off on a tangent and slowly veer back on course, like right now) but I’ve always been able to best articulate what’s going on in my head when sat with a pen in hand or my fingers tip-tapping away at the keys. Read More

World Suicide Prevention Day 2017

A day dedicated to something like the prevention of suicide makes me feel incredibly morose. To think that there are innumerable people around the globe contemplating suicide makes me feel sick to my stomach and it’s happening as I type these little symbols that make up the language we use to communicate. But clearly, somewhere along the line, we’ve failed.  Read More

A Letter To My Future Self

Over the past two weeks, I've been attending a creative writing course with Bauer Media's Academy programme. It's been eye-opening, insightful, emotional and educational, and I've taken away some essential tips with regards to honing my writing and venturing into the world of freelance journalism. We've been asked to complete various tasks throughout the course, and one of them was to write a letter to our future selves. It had to include our hopes, dreams, fears and accomplishments, yet I somehow managed to dive into the rabbit hole and landed at the core of my soul. So, in the spirit of radical honesty and me sharing everything that pops into my head, I thought it only fitting to post the letter here. Enjoy!

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Talking About Wanting To Die Shouldn’t Be Taboo

I'm sat here with tears drying on my cheeks, still hot on my skin, after hearing of the passing of Linkin Park frontman, Chester Bennington. It's being reported that he died by suicide, after being found hanged in America at the age of just 41. He leaves behind six children and his wife, and I can only imagine the heartache they must be feeling right now.

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The Homeless Phonebox

It started out with a phonebox, stoic and red. A homeless man lay beside, with a floor for a bed.

Communication is lost in the ones we walk past, just like the phone box, every end has a start.
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