They blot out everything and crowd my fragile skull, soft, white, pressed tightly down between my surface – blonde hair, weary skin, red lips – and everything else. I have only my features and a bland sedated thought process. I am a doll – plain-faced, simple, ubiquitous – the doll-people, we are – with hurt I feel but cannot touch to mend.
I'm a former student of English literature, an editor and a creative writer who has been attempting to live with body dysmorphic disorder as well as severe anxiety and a recent diagnosis of Bipolar II. I believe that struggles with mental health are often lifelong and people in these situations need comfort, support and occasional moments of peace granted to them in order to survive. View all posts by depressedmermaid1991