trauma
At its core, trauma can be thought of as the psychological wounds that persist, even when the physical ones are long gone.
My Guests
I sat in that room I was born in. I spent formative years with the duality watching over me. They were treacherous; at times affectionate and nurturing; others cold and barbaric. From kisses to strikes across my cheeks, to kicks above my knees. An upbringing riddled with light and darkness; a preparation for their departure and my first guest.
By Andrew Dominguez2 years ago in Psyche
Something's Gotta Give
I’m not drunk enough to write out this story. Which is a shame, since I’m highly allergic to alcohol. As in the “one mouthful and take bets if the ambulance gets here in time” scale of things. And I can’t even chug a soda, because that would spike my diabetic self into the stratosphere.
By Meredith Harmon2 years ago in Psyche
The Mind Wanders
Before I begin, I would like to tell you, the reader, that I’m okay. This narrative is prompted by a Vocal challenge entitled “The Metamorphosis of the Mind.” This challenge is a no more than 2,500-word and no less than 1,000-word piece where I, the author, am supposed to share a transformative moment from my mental or emotional journey. For the past few years, while being a Vocal Plus member, I have been entering these challenges in the hopes of likes, reads, subscriptions, and, of course, prize money. My entries, thus far, have been mostly fictional pieces of science fiction, fantasy, horror, and the occasional poetry. I report that to date, I have not won nor have had an honorable mention, which is okay. I am hopeful that I will at least sharpen my skills to where someone enjoys my writing enough to continuously want to read what I put out on Vocal. This challenge, however, is different. This challenge wants us to explore our own psyche and present a moment of our lives to you, the reader. I did not know where to begin with this entry, for you see, I believe I have experienced a more than average share of personal growth. Let me quickly explain.
By Anthony Diaz2 years ago in Psyche
The First Time I Fell in Love Was Also the Last
They say your first love never really leaves you. I didn’t know mine would come and go in the same summer. This is me. A shy, thoughtful 17-year-old in my final summer before college. The kind of person who watches life from the sidelines—introverted, observant, not the type who’s ever been in love before. My world is small, familiar, and safe… until he arrives. For as long as I can remember, I’ve lived in this small town where pretty much nothing happens. The same routines, the same voices. The rustling trees and flapping bird wings. It’s almost like everything here is on a loop. But that’s going to change this summer. After years of drifting through high school like a background character, nearly invisible, it’s time for the bigger world. I’ll be spending the summer working part-time at a bookstore—maybe the introvert in me just needs more stories to thrive on. I’m counting the days until college, until a fresh start. A new life. Love has always felt distant—something other people feel. Not me. It’s always been just me, in my small, quiet world. Here's the start of my story. Or maybe I should call it my tragic love story. I met Rowan—a pretty boy with messy curls and eyes full of light—an 18-year-old who’d come into town for the summer to stay with his aunt. Something about him hinted at a past he didn’t talk about. Maybe he was sent here to "get away" or just to breathe. He was everything I wasn’t: spontaneous, magnetic, unapologetically alive. Too bubbly for my quiet energy. We met in an ordinary way. In the bookstore. He walked in just as I was walking out. Our shoulders almost brushed. We made eye contact, and something in the air shifted. The silence between us was loud. But we didn’t say a word. Just a brief glance, then he walked away. Over the next few weeks, he kept showing up at the bookstore. Some days he bought books. Other days he just wandered, humming old songs or doodling in his sketchpad. Then one day, he asked me what I thought about a book. We started talking and found out we liked the same obscure novels, the same tragic endings. It was the first thing we had in common—maybe the only thing. From that day on, we were inseparable. Bike rides. Late-night calls. Shared secrets. Hourly texts. First kisses. He challenged me—pushed me to step out of my comfort zone. “Be wild,” he used to say with a grin. “Break rules. Take little risks. Live a little, bookworm.” And I did. How could I not? I was into him. Fully, helplessly, beautifully into him. He was my safe place, my spark, my everything. For the first time in my life, I felt seen. Finally understood. But even in our happiest moments, a quiet sadness hovered in the background. Rowan was leaving at the end of summer. We never promised each other forever… But it sure felt like we had it. I prayed he’d stay. Wished it every night. In my dreams, in my silences. My heart ached at the thought of goodbye. But Rowan had always been chasing something bigger—art school, freedom, healing. He was made for the sky. I was just one summer sunset. It wasn’t a fight. Just the slow ache of reality settling in. Every laugh, every kiss came with a countdown. There were so many questions I never asked. Because I already knew the answers. Our last night together was simple. Quiet. We danced under the stars in a field we always biked to. His hands on my waist. My head on his shoulder. The air thick with hope and fear. And when we kissed… it felt like the end of something beautiful. He left the next morning. But he left behind a small box—inside it, sketches of me laughing, a playlist of our favorite songs, and a letter. A letter that still makes my heart ache when I read it. I didn’t try to stop him. Some things are just too beautiful to hold onto. Now I’m in college. New town. New life. But I’ve changed. Braver. A little sadder. A little more alive. I haven’t fallen in love again. Maybe I never will. And that’s okay. Because that summer? It gave me everything. I was seventeen when I fell in love for the first—and maybe the last—time. And I carry that summer with me like sunlight on my skin. For ages and more to come. Some loves don’t stay. But they stay with you. Thanks so much for reading! If you enjoyed this story, feel free to leave a comment and hit subscribe so you never miss the next one! ✨
By Gift Abotsi 2 years ago in Psyche
My story of . Content Warning.
I am going to talk about my suicide attempt. I will be going through the months and days before the attempt, I will also tell you about what happened after. First, I want to say I am not glorifying or promoting suicide. This is just my story.
By Jeremy White2 years ago in Psyche
Life is Like Waves
I thought facing my inner demons that have haunted me since high school was a challenge. But now I realize there is just one more skeleton in the closet I needed to finally face and bury the last thing that brought me the most gut-wrenching pain I’ve ever felt. I thought high school was a challenge, but nothing came close to preparing me for what I would eventually endure in college. I originally thought after moving away to go to college in the deep south would be a fresh start for me. It was just me and only 2 other people from my high school were going to the same college, and at least I can say those two never did anything wrong to hurt me.
By Joanna Blaze2 years ago in Psyche
A Million Tiny Diamonds. Runner-Up in The Metamorphosis of the Mind Challenge.
There are always moments that define you as a person. We have been conditioned to never admit to weakness because, in the shame of bad judgement, the metaphorical fingernails of others can get a hold on you from the chink you've exposed by sharing your confession. You can then be prised open, your vulnerability there for all to see, to be poked and prodded mercilessly by a metaphorical stick held and being controlled by the will of another. And what would be the result of that poking? It would let the shame out, the dampener and the twister of all emotions which transforms people into ogres, which we try and subdue, putting it into the darkest corners of ourselves.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Psyche
My Ghosts Beneath the Oleander tree. Part 1
Chapter 1 Memories are strange visitors, you may suppress them for years. Then a word, a thought, the reading of a story or just a fleeting glance, evokes an impression, or resurfaces a recollection of shadowed echoes once hidden deep within your subconscious.
By Antoni De'Leon2 years ago in Psyche
