schizophrenia
Schizophrenia 101; look beyond the pop culture portrayals and learn the reality behind this oft-stigmatized mental illness.
The Darker Side Of Female Nature - What Girls Don't Want You To Know
Every human being has a side they don’t often reveal — a mix of emotions, instincts, and hidden motives that make up their deeper psychology. When it comes to women, this complexity becomes even more fascinating. Beneath the surface of charm, grace, and affection lies a side shaped by both nature and experience, one that is rarely spoken about openly.
By Zeeshan Ahmadabout a year ago in Psyche
Hammond House
I didn't expect to inherit anything, least of all this. The lawyer's letter said "Hammond House" which felt like a contradiction until I stood before it. Five bedrooms, three and a half baths, more house than I'd ever lived in, wrapped in gingerbread trim and painted ladies' colors that had faded to ghosts of themselves. The front yard sprawls wider than it should, dominated by an old tree whose bristles—I can't call them branches, they're too wild, too reaching—scrape and tap against one of the upstairs bedroom windows like they're asking to be let in.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Psyche
The Weight of Labels
I did not get angry because I was attacked. I got angry because I felt invisible. That is what labeling does. It reduces a human being—a soul with thoughts, experiences, and convictions—into a set of categories that can be dismissed before they even speak.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcastabout a year ago in Psyche
How to Look Young Even in Old Age
Aging is a natural part of life, but looking and feeling youthful is a choice you can make every single day. You don’t need expensive surgeries or filters to maintain your glow. What really keeps you looking young is how you care for yourself, from your hair and wardrobe to your mindset and the people you surround yourself with.
By Zeeshan Ahmadabout a year ago in Psyche
The Mirror That Forgot Me. AI-Generated.
I used to trust mirrors. They were honest. Brutally honest. They didn’t lie like people did — didn’t flatter, didn’t soften, didn’t pretend. Every morning, my reflection greeted me with the same tired eyes, the same half-committed smile, the same quiet acceptance of who I was. Until one day, it didn’t. It began on a Thursday. The kind of day that feels like filler between better ones. I woke late, groggy, dragging myself into the bathroom. The air was cold; the light flickered once. I splashed water on my face, blinked, and looked up — only to see my reflection blinking a second too late. Just a second. But that second split something inside me. I remember standing there, frozen, dripping water, trying to convince myself it was nothing. Sleep deprivation, caffeine withdrawal, bad lighting. Maybe I imagined it. But deep down, I knew mirrors don’t delay. They just don’t. The next morning, it smiled before I did. That’s when I knew something was wrong. At first, I thought it was a trick of memory. Maybe I smiled without realizing, and my brain registered the lag incorrectly. The human mind does strange things under stress. But the third morning, it tilted its head when I didn’t. The gesture was familiar — my old habit whenever I was lost in thought. I hadn’t done it in years. But there it was, happening on its own, on the other side. I remember whispering, “What are you doing?” And my reflection smiled, like it was about to answer — then froze, perfectly still. I didn’t move for nearly a minute. Neither did he. Days passed. The gap between me and it widened. It became bolder. Sometimes it looked sharper, cleaner, younger — not in age, but in energy. Like it remembered something I had forgotten. The reflection’s eyes seemed brighter, almost amused, as if it knew a joke I wasn’t in on. One night, while shaving, I nicked my cheek. Blood ran down my face — a thin red line. But the reflection didn’t bleed. It just watched me. And smiled. That’s when I dropped the razor. I tried recording it. Set up my phone beside the mirror, camera rolling, waiting for any slip. I wanted proof — not for the world, just for myself. But when I replayed the footage, everything looked perfectly normal. Every blink, every move, completely synchronized. On camera, there was no delay. No smile before mine. No difference at all. That somehow made it worse. Because now, the betrayal was personal — something only I could see. At night, I began covering the mirror with a towel. I avoided reflections — windows, screens, even spoons. I brushed my teeth in the dark. I lived like a ghost afraid of its own face. Still, I could feel him — that other me — standing behind the glass, breathing in sync with me, waiting. Sometimes, late at night, I’d sense movement from under the towel. A shift, a pulse. As if he was stretching after a long sleep. And sometimes, I dreamt of him. In the dreams, he wasn’t trapped anymore. I was. I’d find myself on the wrong side of the glass — cold, silent, staring out at him. He’d move freely, living my life, wearing my clothes, smiling my smile. When I tried to scream, no sound came. My voice was swallowed by the glass. Every morning, I’d wake drenched in sweat, trembling, staring at that towel-covered mirror — afraid to check which side I was on. Last night, I gave in. Curiosity, I’ve learned, always wins. I uncovered the mirror. The glass shimmered faintly, reflecting the dim yellow of the bathroom light. And there he was, already waiting. His expression was calm. Too calm. His movements were smooth, deliberate, as if rehearsed. I felt like an intruder in my own reflection. “Why are you doing this?” I whispered. He didn’t answer. Just tilted his head — that same habit — and mouthed something. No sound. Just shapes of words, forming and dissolving like breath on glass. I leaned closer. The air was cold. Our breaths fogged the same surface. Then I understood what he said. He mouthed: You stopped being you. I stumbled backward. My chest tightened. He smiled, gently, almost pitying me. Then he raised his hand and pressed it against the glass. I hesitated, then raised mine to meet his. The moment our palms aligned, the mirror rippled — like water disturbed by a drop. Cold shot through my arm. He pulled. The world tilted. My body froze. I tried to scream but no sound escaped. The bathroom dissolved around me — colors melting, light bending, gravity forgotten. Then everything stopped. I opened my eyes to silence. But the view was wrong. I was behind the glass. The mirror’s surface rippled faintly between me and… him. My reflection — now real, now free — stood outside. He adjusted my tie, smiled my old confident smile, and turned off the light. I pounded the glass, shouting, begging, but my voice made no sound. He didn’t look back. Now I wait here, in the dark reflection of a life I no longer own. No one has noticed the difference. My friends say I seem brighter. More confident. They say it’s like I’ve finally come alive. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m the copy. Maybe I was always the reflection, and he was the real one, just waiting for me to fade. I don’t know anymore. All I know is this: Never stare too long into a mirror. Because sometimes, when you blink — they stop blinking back.Start writing...
By Mr. Jackieabout a year ago in Psyche
Keeping the Mind Young: Science-Backed Ways to Slow Brain Ageing
As we age, we often expect wrinkles, weaker bones, or slower movement — but what truly worries most people is the ageing of the mind. Forgetting names, losing focus, or feeling mentally fatigued can be frightening signs that our brain is changing. Yet, science is uncovering hopeful news: the brain is not a machine doomed to wear out. It’s a living, adaptable organ capable of renewal, repair, and growth at any age — if we give it the right conditions.
By Esther Sunabout a year ago in Psyche
My Anxiety is a Bad Roommate
My Anxiety is a Bad Roommate We moved in together out of necessity, not choice. I don’t even remember signing a lease, but Anxiety has been my live-in roommate for as long as I can recall. And let me tell you, they are a nightmare to share a head with. The day doesn’t start with an alarm; it starts with them. A sudden, sharp jab to my ribcage, a internal gasp that yanks me from the warm nothingness of sleep. “You’re awake,” they whisper, their voice like static from a dead channel. “You know that thing you said to your boss yesterday? Let’s replay that on a loop for the next hour.” I groan, burying my face in the pillow. “It’s 6 a.m.,” I think-say, the words mushy in my own skull. “Perfect time to catalog every single social misstep of the last decade!” Anxiety chirps, already buzzing with a corrosive energy. They’re not a visual presence, not really. They’re a pressure behind my eyes, a knot in my stomach, a constant, humming current in my limbs. If I had to picture them, they’d be all sharp angles, wearing my clothes without permission, and leaving a trail of psychic clutter everywhere they go. By the time I stumble into the kitchen, the mess is already there. It’s not physical dirt—though they’d never do the dishes—it’s the mental debris they leave lying around. A cold, sticky puddle of dread about an unanswered email. The faint, smoky smell of a future argument I’m sure is coming. A towering, precarious stack of "what-ifs" about my health, my job, my relationships, threatening to topple over at any moment. I reach for the coffee, my hand slightly trembling. “Careful,”Anxiety hisses, leaning over my shoulder. “Your hand is shaking. People will think you’re unstable. Or an alcoholic. Maybe both.” I ignore them, a practiced skill I’m only marginally good at. The first sip of coffee is a temporary blanket of warmth, but it doesn't last. “So, the presentation is today,” they announce, as if I’d forgotten. They’ve been “helping” me prepare for it for weeks, which means running through every conceivable worst-case scenario until my throat is tight and my palms are slick. “What if the projector fails? What if you forget your words? What if they all look at you and just… know you’re a fraud?” “I’m prepared,” I mutter aloud, the sound strange in the quiet kitchen. “Prepared for humiliation, maybe,” they snort. “Let’s practice your opening line again. You’ll probably stammer.” This is their specialty: unsolicited, destructive feedback. They’re the worst kind of critic, one who lives in your own home and has access to all your insecurities. They feed on them, growing fatter and louder with every fear they can validate. The day unfolds as a series of skirmishes. Getting dressed, Anxiety holds up every item like a prosecutor. “This shirt makes you look like you’re trying too hard. Those pants highlight everything you had for dinner last week.” I end up wearing a safe, boring outfit that feels like a uniform of surrender. On the commute, they’re a backseat driver from the depths of my own mind. “That car is too close. We’re going to be late. Why is your heart beating so fast? Everyone in this train car can probably hear it. They’re judging you for it.” They paint vivid, catastrophic pictures of fender benders and public failures until the world outside the window feels like a threat. At work, during the presentation, they are at their most vicious. As I stand before my colleagues, my notes feel flimsy and useless. Anxiety is pacing at the back of my mind, a director panicking on opening night. “Your voice is too high,” they whisper. “You’re speaking too fast. Now you’re too slow. They’re bored. See? Sarah just checked her phone. It’s over. You’ve lost them.” My palms sweat. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird trying to escape the cage they’ve built. For a terrifying moment, my mind goes blank. It’s not empty; it’s filled with the roaring static of their panic. But then, I remember the boundary I’ve been trying to build. It’s a flimsy thing, more like a curtain than a wall, but it’s something. I take a slow, deliberate breath, the kind my therapist taught me. I feel the solid floor beneath my feet. I look at a friendly face in the crowd and focus on that. “What are you doing?” Anxiety demands, their voice shrill. “Stop that! Pay attention to me! Something bad is happening!” “Not right now,” I think, pushing the words through the static. “You don’t get to run the show right now.” It’s not a victory. It’s a truce. The presentation continues. I find my words. The world does not end. Back home, exhausted, the adrenaline recedes, and Anxiety slinks out of the shadows. They’re quieter now, but they’ve made a mess of the place. The air is thick with the spent energy of the day’s panic. I can’t relax. They’ve left their "what-ifs" all over the couch. “They were just being nice,” they murmur as I scroll through post-presentation compliments on my phone. “They feel sorry for you. Tomorrow, they’ll talk about how awkward you were.” I don’t have the energy to fight. Some days, the best I can do is acknowledge their presence and try to live around them. I order food instead of cooking because the thought of cleaning another mess is too much. I put on a familiar, comforting show, something they’ve seen a hundred times, to lull them into a sense of routine. As I try to fall asleep, they’re still there, tidying up the day’s events into a narrative of failure and brewing tomorrow’s worries. “You need to sleep,” they say, their voice deceptively soft. “If you don’t get eight hours, tomorrow will be a disaster. You’ll probably get sick. What if you lose your job because you’re too tired to function?” I sigh in the dark. They’re a terrible roommate. They’re chaotic, messy, critical, and they’ll never, ever move out. But I’m learning. I’m learning to label their comments as "junk mail" instead of gospel. I’m learning to build flimsy curtains and, sometimes, even solid walls. I’m learning that the space inside my head is mine, and even on the worst days, when they’ve trashed the place, I am still the tenant in charge. It’s a daily struggle, a grind of eviction notices and messy cohabitation. But it’s my home. And I’m not leaving.
By Abdul Muhammad about a year ago in Psyche
Lewy Body Dementia: 7 Stages, Symptoms & Care Guide
Lewy Body Dementia is the second most common form of progressive dementia after Alzheimer’s. It’s caused by the buildup of Lewy bodies—abnormal protein deposits in the brain—that affect thinking, movement, behavior, and sleep.
By PURE HEALTH BLOGSabout a year ago in Psyche
The Truth About Shadow
When I was really small and the world was really big and scary, I had an imaginary friend who I had become very reliant on. His name was Shadow and it was kind of a play on Peter Pan's Shadow, and how Peter always had to sew his Shadow back onto the soles of his feet. As a child, surrounded by other children who also loved Peter Pan, the pre-woke generation that didn't see the Racism depicted in it, I felt safe enough to bring my Shadow everywhere.
By Parsley Rose about a year ago in Psyche
