They said it would be easy,

a simple walk in the park.

But I knew better,

with each step came a pounding in my head,

a weight around my arms,

a vice around my throat.

It often needs a trigger warning, yet it happens every day. Often in homes, behind closed doors, sibling to sibling is the most common method - as heart breaking as that is to hear, it’s completely true. I suffered more than once with being victimised. But not at home, at school. A close school friend of mine, let’s call her Lara - for data protection reasons, abused me.

Life is hard but so am I

I won’t give up, I will not die,

And even when my brain goes mad

I’ll carry on, I won’t be sad.

Darkness seems to follow me a lot… a shadow that’s present, even when the light shines through, it never seems to absorb it at all. Darkness is like daylight savings; it starts off and ends in darkness. That hour back barely makes any difference at all. I walk around with my eyes open, but I mind as well walk around with them closed; because at least I know the doors are shut and nobody can see into them.

Holidays, for me, consist of finding excuses.

An example of this is at a Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner, when I inevitably get restless from sitting at the table with my family, and start offering to take people’s dirty dishes to the kitchen for a reason to move around. This is met with a yes or a no and usually a genuine ‘thank you’, my real motive concealed under the guise of being considerate. A less polite excuse I utilize is going to the bathroom for ten minutes so I have a break from socializing and conversation. While it is tedious to be constantly looking for these ‘outs’, I find that they are the only way to preserve my sanity.

Holidays are, in short, a lot.

Sometimes I think of grief like an old woollen jumper. It’s the knitwear you fold at the bottom of your drawer, only getting it out on the coldest of days or in the very midst of winter.  

Sometimes you only wear it on Christmas day, or on a special date that no one else celebrates.

Once it’s enveloped you, you fold it away again, smoothing down the fabric with your fingers in a private ritual, like the most sacred of things. 

This Modern Struggle Magazine is honoured to share the beautiful words of Stephanie, a Glaswegian cinquain and soliloquy poet.

She aims to help people with her poetry, and her poem Love Yourself is an inspiring message about self-love that we all need to hear.

It was a crisp October day when the world ended, the kind where you can wear just a jumper, so I didn’t have a coat on when the sky shattered and fell down around me. 

Today, 29th October 2023, is 10 years since my university house doorway became the backdrop of my most tragic scene as I was delivered the cruellest news. ‘They didn’t want to tell you over the phone’, my aunt said, and with that sentence I knew immediately what she was going to say next. 

My dad had passed away. 

This Modern Struggle Magazine is honoured to share the beautiful words of My Inner Child, an exclusive unpublished poem by Canadian poet Ally Lyons.

Following the successful launch of her third published poetry book, Sins & Sunflowers: Second Edition, we were thrilled to speak with poet and author Emma-Jane Barlow about her poetry inspiration, writing process, advice for up-and-coming poets, and how poetry has helped her express her emotions and speak up to help others with autism.

Exposing her vulnerability as she pens the tempestuous journey of loss and love, Emma-Jane explores the vicissitude of overcoming her first heartbreak, dating, and falling in love with someone new. Through the symbolism of a sunflower with canary wings, she writes about learning to love herself as she navigates new beginnings and finds her voice again. In this second and more visceral edition of Sins & Sunflowers, she digs even deeper into the trauma and tribulations of the healing journey and how believing in your own light can truly set a spirit free.

When I first met depression she allowed me to see only a glimpse of her true self. When I first met depression, she walked with me to the still stream at the opening of her soul, she removed my shoes and encouraged me to dip my toes into her murky waters. Her presence was cold and calm, she wore a dark cloak stitched with shame and laced with sorrow, her greying face barely visible under her cowling hood.

When I first met depression I didn’t really know who she was or what she intended to do. She was clever and calculated, she let me in slowly, spoon by spoon she fed me a gradually increasing dose of her toxic medicine.

Many believe that as soon as you have children, that’s it, you have to give up all the fun things that you enjoyed doing before.

I adore my family, friends and having lots of social time. However, when these little humans come along who want and need you at every grasping moment, it can feel like the days of being social are over.

What people forget is that being away from your children is super important, not only for them to grow and become more independent, but also for your own mental health!

The International OCD Foundation defines Scrupulosity as, “a subtype of obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD) involving religious or moral obsessions.” It describes Scrupulous people as “overly concerned that something they thought or did might be a sin or other violationof religious or moral doctrine.” Said people might also “worry about what their thoughts or behavior mean about who they are as a person.”

While I do find it interesting that apparently up to a third of OCD havers (who, according to the National Institute of Mental Health, make up 1.2% of the population) experience Scrupulosity, I wanted to know more. Specifically, I wanted to know what percent of this third were under 13. I wanted to know how many of this third were like me.

As I grew up my emotions evolved, as well as the way I felt about them. Even though I was well acquainted with my multitudes, I started to see that to a degree, they set me apart, and not in a way I liked. I saw how my tears sometimes scared people around me, and how my excitement was at times overwhelming. Simply put, I became afraid of being too much.

However, the reality of being by my standards “too much” became a lot less fun when I got diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder, Anxiety, Autism Spectrum Disorder, and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It was all of a sudden too real. I was no longer “Lanacore” and “Girl, Interruptedesque” - I was mentally ill.