Tragic Comedy Press would like to dedicate this literary magazine, first of all, to all of the wonderful authors and artists who submitted their beautiful and vulnerable pieces. It takes an incredible amount of bravery to share these personal stories with our closest friends, let alone in a published work. We would also like to dedicate this magazine to all of those suffering in silence. You matter. Please seek help. We will include a list of resources free to use for anyone who needs it at the completion of this work. Thank you for all of the support. -Tragic Comedy Press
Cope. Š 2017 Tragic Comedy Press Published by Tragic Comedy Press An Independent Publishing Company Lincoln Nebraska tragiccomedypress.wixsite.com/website Credits go to the authors and artists featured in this literary magazine. Acquisitions Editor: Jessy Gilbert Copy Editor: Brooke Schulzkump Design Director: Hailie Sklenicka Marketing Manager: Morgan Knobbe Managing Editor: Meghan McAuliffe
TABLE OF CONTENTS Why Cope? Which minute is mine Triggers What no one tells you Please use other door Saturday, April 27th 2013 Tim It’s All My Fault PhiloPhobia Jail Losers A beautiful mess Rain What you see... happy Small for now Every Minute
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Why Cope? You may be wondering why we chose the theme “Cope� for our literary magazine. Coping is a common theme in life. Everyone needs something as an escape whether it be from mental illness, a traumatic event, or stress. This is why we decided to focus on artistic forms of coping methods. All of the work included was either written or drawn as a way to deal with life’s hardships. These pieces are raw and vulnerable, which makes them unique to our theme. Artwork and literature are only two coping mechanisms, but they can be some of the most impactful forms because it not only allows a release for the author, but helps spread the word to readers that they are not alone. This magazine showcases art from those who chose to use creativity as a healthy outlet in the midst of their mental turmoil. When brainstorming themes that are diverse as well as concise, we thought of many different concepts that are common in both art and literature, but we came to the unanimous decision that coping can take many forms and encompasses many different experiences that anyone can bring to the table. We chose to stay closer to the mental illness and traumatic event side of the work because those tend to be the most exposed and relatable for our target audience. Some of the pieces included in our magazine were written specifically for us while others were written for personal use and happened to fit our theme and were graciously submitted. They are all original works written or drawn by the author or artist. Our selection process began by reaching out to people that we know who use their creativity as an outlet and asking if they would like to contribute. We also received some pieces through our social media accounts where we specified what we were looking for. Some of our very own editors even submitted their personal work as well. The pieces that we have included were created to cope with mostly depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, and domestic violence.
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These pieces fit together so well with one another because of the overarching idea behind them. The notion is that something dark and unhealthy can be transformed to create a beautiful piece of art. We wanted the readers to know that there are healthy outlets for stressful events in their lives, and that all of these pieces are a real example of someone releasing their emotions in a healthy way. All of our brave authors decided to use their names, which we told them wasn’t a necessity, but the amount of courage that it takes to come forward with these personal works is astounding. The editors decided to include some interesting new things in the back of our literary magazine. Each editor chose a few songs that they listen to when they just need a break. These songs have helped us through some of our tougher times and we included them with hopes they could do the same for others. There is also a list of resources that anyone who is struggling can use to get help. 43.8 million American adults struggle with mental illnesses every year, and many resist help due in part of the stigma associated with mental health. Our goal while publishing this magazine is to provide a haven for those who may feel alone in their struggles and their experiences. They can turn to “Cope.” as a source of hope when they need reassurance that they are not alone. Through doing this, we’d like to raise awareness of mental health and continue advocating the fight of normalizing the conversation of mental illness. -Tragic Comedy Press
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“
Globally one person commits suicide every minute. I wonder which minute will be mine... “ - Hailie Sklenicka
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Triggers By Hailie Sklenicka I’ve been sitting on the edge of all of my thoughts too deep Struggling with pain and too tired to sleep This darkness has consumed my mind and taken over my life It pulls me under, pulls me toward the knife Every little thing is a trigger Small moments in my mind made bigger Things that once shined as gold Became lost to me as I got old Everyone tries to relate “It gets better” Everyone tries to debate “It’s all in your head” But don’t you see? I’ve tried it all and still can’t be Happy in the least Trying to tame this dreaded beast I’ve tried the pills – at least a dozen I’ve tried therapy – but my head keeps buzzing I’ve tried the hospital – but the suicide proof rooms made me look for more ways To end my life – no more hard days
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My past traumas still haunt my dreams And my family doesn’t care at all, at least so it seems They kicked me out when I needed them most But they’re better than the man who took me in, they’ll boast Left behind by those who were supposed to care Sought help from those willing to give it – how could I dare? God forbid I cope the only way I know how Let smoke fill my lungs and take me away from the now I’d rather spend my days in a daze Than live in this world so full of gray
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What No One Tells You By Pamela Kilzer When I was a freshman in high school, I started dating a boy. Like so many girls before me, I fell head over heels for an older, attractive, athletic boy, who made me swoon with every word he said. At 14 years old, no one had ever paid attention to me like he did. He told me how beautiful I was, how much he loved me, how much I meant to him, everything that a 14-yearold girl wants to hear. Like a näive little sponge with blonde hair and big blue eyes, I soaked up every single word like it was oxygen. But, like so many other high school relationships, ours quickly took a turn for the worst and became toxic. Soon, my beauty meant nothing more to him than a trophy to tout in front of his friends. Jealousy strangled our relationship and choked it out. The love he had once shown me was poisoned with curse words, insults and mind games that twisted my brain and hung me out to dry. My body, heart and mind meant nothing more to him than a
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punching bag he could take out his anger on, then come back to later and apologize. For two years of my life I was consumed by a boy who offered me nothing but misery. My heart longed for the one who had held it so gently in the beginning, but my brain rattled around in its cage with every push, punch, harsh word and twisted game. When I finally worked up enough strength and courage to get out, I was nothing but torn remnants of who I had once been. Here’s the thing: when women leave these situations, when they finally escape to something better, everyone praises them. We congratulate them and proclaim how brave they were, how proud we are, how much better off they are… and then we leave. We throw parties for women who are still broken, then abandon them, alone to pick up the pieces. When you’re in that situation, what no one tells you—what no one even thinks about—is how you’re going to cope with it for the rest of your life.
No one tells you about the mixed bag of emotions you’ll have in your heart. Part of you hates him, wants him gone forever, but another part still cares for some twisted reason. For a long time after it’s over, part of you still feels confused, and that makes you hate yourself almost more than you hate him. No one tells you that you’re still going to have nightmares for years to come. Or that yelling and loud noises will still make you uncomfortable. Or how much anxiety fills your heart whenever someone touches you without warning. No one tells you about the counseling you’ll go through just to feel normal again. And how even then, there will still be moments when something pulls you back, and you feel that same fear rush into your nerve endings again. No one tells you how much baggage you’ll carry into the next relationship. How many tears you’ll cry into a new man’s shoulder, or the shame you’ll feel but you don’t know why, or the panic attacks you’ll have when the flashbacks come. No one tells you any of that. So instead, you learn how to cope. Coping means different things to different people, but all of it tends to have one main result: getting through. To cope means to “deal effectively with something difficult”—to
carry on, to manage, to survive. I never thought I knew how to cope effectively. I always managed to just come up with ways that would get me through to the next minute, hour or day.
Step one: deep,
calming breaths. In, out, in, out. Feel the breath come in through your nose, process through your lungs and move out your mouth.
Step two:
calm the shaking. Stretch out your limbs, hang them by your sides, relax the body. Focus on being still.
Step three: remind yourself
of the truth. He’s not here. You’re safe. It was just a memory. Nothing is going to hurt you. If all else fails, take some time to be alone and cry. Crying can be so good for the soul. Letting all of your stress, fear and worries roll down your cheeks in little wet droplets just seems to cleanse the body and put you back on track with coping. So, I breathe, I calm, I remind, I cry. I cope. When you come out on the other side of something like that, no one tells you any of this. But that’s okay, because you’re strong. You figure it out. You learn, grow and thrive. You cope. And life goes on.
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Please use other Door By Meghan McAuliffe I don’t know what you expected me to do every time that you crashed into my window. Stupid little bird. I would spend weeks nursing you back to health. Trying to give you the best odds possible to survive in this harsh world. Then, when you’ve taken everything you can from me, I’d send you on your way expecting to never see you again. I even put up a sign, an inside joke between you and I, “Please Use Other Door”. But last week I heard the recognizable smack against the window and the painful familiar feeling in my heart. A squeezing sensation that I began to associate with your presence. I went upstairs to collect your damaged body, and asked Mother why you continued to return to a place where you were no longer wanted. She told me that I could send you away and reject you over and over again but because I had given you my everything in the early days of your visits you’d still come back to take what you could. Some birds just can’t read she’d tell me.
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“Some birds just can’t read...”
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Saturday, April 27th 2013 By Bailey Kruse As we sit in the backseat of your father’s car, my mind wanders to hours earlier when I wore the same outfit staring at myself in the mirror. Well, I guess a bra and underwear don’t really count as an outfit but they are the clothes that I am not going to let you take off. You buy your date dinner and expect a porn star in return, right? Is that how that works? I must have seen the wrong movies or dreamed the wrong fantasies because last time I checked prom is not consent. I listen to you try and no matter how hard I resist I feel you press your hands against me a thousand times harder. But I must be the only one listening because you seem to think me pushing you away is me pulling you closer, that if you try asking me again maybe I’ll change my mind. I mean it’s only been thirty seconds since the last time you asked, so clearly I’ve had plenty of time to make a decision even though I’ve already made one. Now it’s three in the morning and your girlfriend wants to go home. Yes that’s me, your girlfriend, the one who wants no part but you still haven’t gotten
what you came here for. You ignored my no thousands of times but one forced yes just so I can leave and suddenly you hear me? You don’t get selective hearing if I don’t get to select who touches my body. If I knew as you drove me home that four years later I would still feel you forcing yourself upon me every time a man touches me, that I would reject anyone who wanted my company, that people would question why I’ve been single for so long, and that this night would escape my drunk mouth every Saturday, I would have never accepted your invitation.
Artwork By Abigail Ervin 10
Tim By Madeline moore The Chinese are always very frightened of the drowned one, whose weeping ghost, wet hair hanging and skin bloated, waits silently by the water to pull down a substitute. —Maxine Hong Kingston My uncle haunts me in the shower eyes ringed with shadow peeking over the curtain. Fog clears on the mirror reveals his bloated face skin tight and shiny jaw slack, pale open lips with turned up corners his eyes follow me as I dry my hair, but he won’t blink. When I lay in bed at night his knock is hollow on my door mom said not to answer not to let him in. They never speak his name aloud a ghost; it lingers on the edge of lips unsaid. I break the silence whisper Tim turn the doorknob, let him in.
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It's All My Fault By Brooke Schulzkump I sneak up next to you at night. You won’t know that I’m coming, But you will feel my presence. Your heart starts breaking again As you think about the pain my love brings Trying not to think of the small joy. You stare at my back, a sight too sore for your tired eyes, as I stroll out of your life once again. You wait for the day I come back, you want me to need you like you need me, you wish that you weren’t the underdog. Gazing in the mirror you see your body at its most vulnerable. The hilly surface you call legs, lifting up your shirt you see the fullness of your stomach and purple worms crawling up your thighs. All I see is pure beauty. These attributes are what make you, you. I see past all of this, but you don’t. You see your mascara run. The face that is hidden, lifts up the veil. You stare at the red dots that line your cheeks.
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The tears aren’t from a broken heart, they are from always thinking you will never be good enough. No one will see you as a 10, You won’t be remembered for beauty. Not a Marilyn, just plain. What you will be remembered for is for how the camera stopped rolling, how the curtain came down. You will be known for the bullet, The one you shot through your skull. When you thought there was no one. You thought I didn’t care, I hid you to protect you, From my judgmental friends. That doesn’t justify my actions, But I regret not telling you, Before you ended your beautiful life. I love you.
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Philophobia By Bailey kruse One of my biggest fears is being trapped in a tight room with little to no escape. I have a fear of elevators, each one making me shake. Agoraphobia combined with claustrophobia and my own anxiety makes an elevator’s simple travel terrifying. My heart racing, my mind twisting, losing sobriety each time I walk into one. I rarely feel peace in here until suddenly those things cease as we walk in together. Seven strangers including you traveling in this elevator and only you make my racing heart beat regular. I’ve been afraid of falling in love, but this feeling is brand new because I didn’t believe in love at first sight until I saw you. My only hope is knowing that you saw me back, but this invisible conversation in my head is the reason I drink to the bottom of my flask each weekend. Five strangers exit one by one until we are the only two left and this tight room immediately fills with massive stress. Our same destination, the highest floor, time is ticking and I feel my frustration leaking out my core. Imagine, a cowardly lion longing to roar with nothing in her way, not even this tiny elevator door, but saying hello is like Dorothy having her mouth taped shut with her hands tied behind her back, no way to cut free. You’re holding my words
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hostage, no escape and you don’t even realize. Thousands of emotions my mind cannot stabilize. A gun to my head would not release these feelings; there is no rescue, no superman, no police. There’s not much to see in this prism, but I still notice your expression. You radiate sensitivity, I see stress, I see disconnection. Perhaps you feel just as I do, after all not everyone meets their soul mate in an elevator after school. Soul mate, wow, such a bold statement. But this energy feels like Romeo and Juliet with absolutely no engagements. We stand on opposite ends only there are no Montagues and Capulets; just you and me three feet apart waiting for the other to step forward without risking a broken heart. My feet are bricks that weigh thirty pounds each. I cannot move because I’m distracted by the sound of your speech that I may never get to hear. What could possibly be the thoughts in your brain? Are they calm or are they driving you insane just like mine? You check your watch, is that a sign? Maybe you’re scared like me; chronophobia, the fear of time. Only seconds remain until our separation, but please hold on just one more moment, let’s wait longer to see who makes the initiation. As the doors open we approach another entrance. You held the door for me as I held my breath. I said thank you but you stayed silent and abandoned your Juliet. I can hear the elevator start to descend. All these phobias, and my biggest fear is that I may never see you again.
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Jail By Brooke Schulzkump I’m a prisoner to my own body. It’s a world that I am unable to escape. My mind is the warden and he doesn’t play. One slip up and it’s straight to isolation. I’ve tried to fight back. Once. He held me down for so long until I any will I had to keep fighting was gone. I wish that I could be set free, But “it’s all in your head” That’s what is hard about it! It is in my head, so there isn’t a way to be free of my mind. Whoever said that being in jail is hard, but Have you ever been held captive by your psyche?
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Losers By Aryn Huck My friends are all Failed suicide attempts And botched eating disorders. Scars from slits and burns. All I can think is What a beautiful bunch of Failures.
Artwork By Abigail Ervin 17
A Beautiful Mess By Brooke Schulzkump May, the longest month of the school year. I know that the moment I realize that it’s May and know there are only two weeks left of the school year, I jump out of my seat. Then what tends to happen is that it feels like an eternity, those two weeks are the longest in my life. I should say were. You see, I decided that life wasn’t worth living. All of the difficult things that accompany life, made me realize that it won’t get better. Nothing will ever make this life “better”. I was a junior at University of North Carolina, but now I am just non-existent. When I was younger, I seemed to be the happiest child. There is nothing that could take a smile off of my face. Then one day when I realized that life was unfair, no matter who you were. It was New Year’s Eve, I was nine. My sister, Stephanie, left to go stay at a friend’s house and it would be the first time that I could remember that we were ever not together overnight. While I was laying in my bed on the bottom bunk, I looked at our shelf of plush animals. I could have sworn that they were slowly coming toward me. I started crying and screaming, which led to my mother to come to my room.
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“Brylee, what’s wrong?” is what she asked me. I told her that the bears were coming toward me. This is when she proceeded to carry me downstairs to sleep in her and my father’s bed. This is where it went downhill. I slowly fell asleep and then suddenly I felt something rub the waistline of my pants. My eyes shot open and I soon realized it was my father. His hand then slid down my pants as he, well I am assuming your imagination can help you to decide what happens next. As I was laying there for what felt like an eternity, I just held in my tears because I didn’t want to wake up my mother, in fear of her getting upset with me. All I could feel were the tears running down my face, no sounds, barely breathing, just tears. Looking back, I wish I would have yelled or screamed. It may have saved my life. This is what began the downward spiral between my father and me. This event has never breached my lips since it has happened. I have never even said it aloud to myself. Fast-forwarding to my years in junior high, I would run around with my friends and we would find ways to get into all kinds
of trouble, consisting mostly of stupid little things like eating snacks after midnight. We wouldn’t dare do that at my house; when we did, my father woke up and yelled at us. “What the hell are you girls doing up at this hour?” We told him that all we wanted was to eat a few late night snacks, which he then said, “Get your asses upstairs, I have work in the morning and I don’t want my sleep to be interrupted by you again!” There was a rule in my house, Stephanie could go out and do whatever her heart desired, so long as she was home by 11:30 p.m. I couldn’t. I had to be home at whatever irregular time that my father says. If I was even a minute late, I would be grounded, one week per one minute. It was great, yet another example of life being unfair. One day I was at my friend, Keryn’s house, she lived a few doors down from us, so I thought, as long as I leave at the time I should be home, I’ll be on time and he shouldn’t be too upset. I was only down the street. I was wrong, I should have known better. “Where the hell have you been?” is what I have shrieked in my ear when I walk into the house. 7:02 p.m. My curfew was 7 p.m. “I was at Keryn’s, just down the street. I lost track of time. I’m sorry.” I honestly thought that he wouldn’t care.
“Well you know the rule, you are grounded for two weeks. This is unacceptable. You know exactly what happens when you are late. I don’t understand why you are such an ungrateful child.” “Why do I have such an early curfew? It’s unfair that Stephanie gets to stay out and can show up late and be untouched, and I’m a minute late and I’m grounded. It’s just not fair at all.” “How dare you, you are such a little slut, since you are so ungrateful I should make you live on the streets. That’ll teach you to respect me.” That shut me up real quick. I just stood without moving for five minutes before he told me to go to my room. How does one respond to being called a slut by their own father? It’s heartbreaking to even be called one at all, but by your supposed “protector”. That is something that you never forget. It happens in school after some fucking girls your age are running their mouths, the rumors fly and the boys start calling you names and then you seem to realize that your only solace is being in your house, but now that turns to being in my room, alone. Even my own father thought I was a slut. After that incident, I hardly left my house to be with my friends. I would tell them that my parents said no, but the truth was that I was too scared to ask. I spent most of my weekends throughout my high
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school years in my room with a pen and paper, or with my skin and a razor. The few interactions that I had with my father consisted of either light banter, or aggressive fights. There was no inbetween. He was this way with my mother as well. My mother and I always confided in each other about my father’s antics. How he would call her a drunk or say that she is a slut. She knew that he said half of those things back to me. She was my rock. Always has been. One night I couldn’t fall asleep, and as I started down the stairs I could hear them arguing. I stopped and listened. “You’re a dirty whore, who did you sleep with now?” I heard my father scream. “I didn’t sleep with anyone, I was at Becca’s having a few drinks. We both had long days at work, why don’t you ever believe me?” This was 100% true, I knew my mother was at her best friend’s house because I stopped up there after school to see them. “Because you are a liar and a slut, no wonder Brylee is just like you. She is nothing like me. All like you. Is she even my daughter? Or did you fuck another guy and just say she was mine?” At this point, my mother burst into tears, out of pain, anger, and brokenness. After 22 years of marriage and this is what she gets? “How dare you say that, she is your child! If you really believe I am capable of
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having another man’s child… maybe my mother was right about you.” “Do not bring your mother into this, she raised you to be a whore. Just like you are raising your daughter. I want you to take Brylee to get a paternity test, because if she isn’t mine I don’t want either of you in my house.” “Fine, or how about I make the decision easier for you. If I am not here in the morning I’ll either be gone or dead.” This was the last phrase I heard of the conversation before I went back into my room. Speechless. Bawling. I hope she wasn’t telling the truth. She was the only one on my side. I couldn’t lose my mother. That was a thought that I carried with me until the day that I died. That night I put down the pen and grabbed the razor. If she was gone, I want to be gone too. And I sliced deeper than ever before. That was the worst I was when I was in my parent’s house, they fought constantly. There was maybe once or twice that we went an entire night without a fight between the two. When I graduated from high school, I was more than ready to get out of my parent’s house and small town. I was accepted into my dream school, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. It is two hours from my parents’ house, but any amount of space between my father and I isn’t enough. My freshman year, I came in as one major
and left on my third. I think that’s how you do college right? I was dating my high school sweetheart still, don’t do that. Just don’t. We were pretty good together, I sometimes wonder if we would have ever ended up back together, but I suppose I will never know now. Anyway, we would fight all the time, but only about stupid things that don’t even matter. I guess we just liked to fight. He was the only one who knew when I was diagnosed. “Major Depressive Disorder, Anxiety, and Bipolar Disorder.” That’s what my doctor said as he slid me a slip for my prescriptions that are supposed to just fix it all. As I left with Jared, I just sat in silence. I didn’t know that there was an underlying cause as to why I was the way that I was. When we came to his apartment, he looked at me with sad, pitying eyes. This is not what I wanted to happen. “Hey babe, are you ok? You haven’t said much since we left the doctor.” “I’m fine, it’s just I don’t know how to act now. You know how broken I am. And you are looking at me and I can feel you thinking ‘poor girl’” as I said this, my eyes swelled up with tears and I couldn’t keep calm anymore. I said those words. I’m broken. A few months after the medication has circulated my system, I can see that they do make a difference. Until it comes and jumps into my face and tells me that
they can’t control it. This can come into many shapes and sizes, but this time it was the shape of my father’s voice. After he found out that I failed my test, he screamed at my through my phone until I was nothing but a hollow shell of myself. I was a disappointment. That’s when I opened all of the bottles, dumped the pills out onto the bed and took them. I then went into Jared’s bathroom and locked the door. I found some Tylenol, a full bottle. I took it too. I needed to feel something. I was nothing. I heard Jared walk in the apartment as I was passing out on his bathroom floor. He tried to open the door a few times before he realized what was happening. He knocked the door down. That’s when he saw me, I’m pretty sure I looked like I was dead. I didn’t feel dead. I felt more alive that I even felt. He put me in the shower and gagged me until I threw up most of the pills and he just sat there. Crying. Holding me and making sure I was still breathing. He knew not to take me to the hospital. I didn’t want my parents called. That would put me over the edge. A month after that incident, school was over and it was summer. Jared called me and asked if he could talk to me. I was ecstatic to see him because we spent a few weeks apart, but now I know that those weeks were intentional.
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“Bry, I can’t do this.” is the first thing out of his mouth when I climbed into his truck “What? Can’t do what?” “This. I know I said I would be there, I love you so much. That is why this is so hard. I just can’t handle with the constant thought that you could be gone and it was your choice to leave or stay.” I started crying. It’s over. “You are the only person who cares, the only one who knows for that matter. How can you leave me when I need you the most?” He’s probably only doing this because he never loved me, it was all a charade. He was pretending the whole time. It was all a lie. But maybe it wasn’t. I need to know why. “I’m sorry Brylee, I will be here, but I just can’t. I love you.” I sat in the passenger seat for the five minute drive back to my apartment, silently crying. The one person who was there, is gone. There is nothing else that I can live for. I lost the best thing in my life. What else can I do? When I got back to my apartment, I fell into an abyss. My world fell before I had time to ask it to stop. Everything came rushing back to me. My childhood. My father. My illnesses. I needed Jared. I called and called and called. He wouldn’t answer. He was the only one who knew what was happening with me, but he couldn’t handle it so he left. I didn’t have anything left.
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Then I saw his name on my phone. The message read, “I care, but I told you I can’t do this, please stop messaging me. It’s already hard enough.” That’s it. I went into my bathroom, filled the tub, and grabbed my pills and razors. I was ready. No one was there. No one cared. I just didn’t want anyone but him, and he didn’t want to help. He “couldn’t” help. So the only thing I could do was help myself. The only way I could think to help is to end it all. So after I took the bottle of 500mg Acetaminophen, around 250 pills, I sank deeper into the tub until I felt numb. When I felt like I was almost ready to pass out, I took my razor and started writing. I wrote the most beautiful story in the space on my arm between the crook of my elbow and my wrist. This was the last story my hands would ever write. As I sink deeper into the tub, I am drifting in and out. I fall into the tub as I feel my life slipping away. If I don’t love me, how can anyone else?
Artwork By Brooke Schulzkump
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Rain By Meghan McAuliffe She missed the rain and its constant retelling of what she had done wrong that day. Why did you turn left, when I would’ve gone right? Oh, you cook your spaghetti al dente? Oh. The rain tirelessly beat the rooftop that, in turn, tirelessly wore on the foundation of their meek home until it finally broke through, into their unimpressive dwelling and their kitchen with the cheap appliances. It made its home in a bucket in the middle of their kitchen, in their quiet home in the neighborhood that she never wanted to live in in the first place. At the time, the house’s foundation was solid with only a few minor cracks. But somehow the rain seeped its way into the cracks it could find and worked endlessly until it destroyed their meek home from both the inside and outside. The rain beat down on the rooftop until the rooftop caved to the rain’s every wish, and every time the pitter patter played tag on their ceiling she feared she was one drop away from collapsing to the floor.
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What You See... By Brooke Schulzkump You see me and all you see is a pretty girl, A college girl, A smart girl, A quiet girl. But what you don’t see is that last week my world was turned upside down. My future changed before I could ask it to wait for me. There are so many things that I cannot do anymore: Be alone, Shave my legs, Sleep without nightmares, Worry about my future, Have pills that aren’t locked up. There are so many things that you cannot see as you pass me on the street: The scars on my legs and arms, The tattoos that scatter my body, The cellulite and stretch marks that society says is repulsive, The curves that I am ashamed to show, The heart that I am constantly sewing back together. You don’t see these things, how could you? All you see is a pretty girl, A college girl, A smart girl, A quiet girl. You don’t see the suicidal girl, The struggling girl, The broken girl, The girl who I am inside.
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Happy By Brooke Schulzkump I wish I could write love poems, or happy poems. But what fuels my creativity is sadness, depression. I am happy, I just can’t write happy.
Artwork By Abigail Ervin 27
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Artwork By Abigail Ervin
“
Every Minute
Without You Here Feels Like an Eternity to the ones who love you. Don’t Be another statistic. Be strong. Be Brave. Be you.” - Hailie Sklenicka
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Playlist A Compilation of songs to help you cope 1-800-273-8255 - Logic, Alessia Cara, Khalid Goodnight Moon - Go Radio Learn to Let Go - Kesha I Fall Apart - Post Malone Boys Will be Boys - Stella Donnelly Broken - Lindsey Hahn A Little Bit Stronger - Sara Evans Iridescent - Linkin Park Robot Boy - Linkin Park Pink Tires. Smile Lines. - Olivver the Kid Unsteady - XAmbassadors Praying - Kesha Save Myself - Ed Sheeran
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Resources Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255 Crisis Text Line: 741-741 National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE Family Violence Prevention Center: 1-800-313-1310 Alcohol Treatment Referral Hotline: 1-800-252-6465 Drug Abuse National Helpline: 1-800-662-4357 Eating Disorders Awareness and Prevention: 1-800-931-2237 S.A.F.E. (Self Abuse Finally Ends) 1-800-DONT-CUT LGBTQIA+ Helpline: 1-800-398-GAYS Homeless Hotline: 1-800-231-6946
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Author Bios Abigail Ervin studied studio art at UNL from 2014-2016. She is an artist and storyteller. If you are interested in viewing more of her work her website is AbigailErvin.com. Aryn Huck is a Senior at UNL and will soon be a technical writer. They hope to carry on writing prose and poetry. Aryn is a bi asexual transmasculine non-binary (AKA queer) person who wants to produce queer-centric texts for other queer folks. Aryn also enjoys writing teenage angst, which goes hand-in-hand with young, queer angst. Pamela Kilzer graduated from Nebraska Wesleyan University with a Communication Studies degree. She started out by working in marketing as a content writer, eventually branching out as a freelance writer for small businesses, nonprofits, and professional individuals. Pamela specializes in ghostwriting, SEO writing and social media marketing, but also enjoys writing for her personal blog and working on her novel. Bailey Kruse is a Senior at UNL majoring in Accounting and minoring in English and Women & Gender studies. She writes to interpret her feelings about what she’s experienced. Though this is her first publication she hopes to someday publish more of her work to reach anyone who may find her writing a comfort. Meghan McAuliffe is a Senior at UNL majoring in English. She hopes to pursue work with a nonprofit upon graduation, but plans to never leave writing behind. She writes to make sense of her surroundings and to hone her skills in finding what style works best for her. Though this is the first time she has been published, she hopes to work up the courage to publish more of her work in the future. Madeline Moore is a student at UNL expected to graduate in 2019. She lives in Lincoln, Nebraska with her two cats, Isolde and Roscoe. Madeline hopes to pursue a career in the publishing industry. She currently writes whenever the mood strikes her, but her real passion is helping other writers with their work. Brooke Schulzkump is a Junior at UNL majoring in English. She aspires to be a successful poet as well as an Editor at a publishing house. She was interested in writing for this magazine because her main way of coping is by writing and painting. She has a minor in Psychology, which also lead her to her fascination with mental illness. Hailie Sklenicka is a Senior at UNL. She is studying Advertising and Public Relations. Hailie writes to help express what she’s feeling. She served as the design director for this literary magazine, inspired by her passion for mental health and wellness.
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Meet The Team Brooke Schulzkump is a 20-year-old Junior at UNL from West Point, Nebraska. Her major is English with a poetry concentration and a minor in Psychology, she wants to turn that into a career as an Editor at a magazine or a publishing house. She was chosen as the Copy Editor for this literary magazine because she wants to eventually become one. Brooke wanted to be apart of this project because of her interest in mental illnesses and how they affect literature. Hailie Sklenicka is a 22-year-old Senior at UNL from Lincoln, Nebraska. Her major is Advertising and Public Relations with concentrations in English, Psychology, and Business. She served as the Creative Director for the literary magazine, designing the layout and cover of the magazine.
Jessy Gilbert is a 20-year-old Junior from Bellevue, Nebraska. Her major is Advertising and Public Relations and she hopes to one day work for an advertising agency as a copywriter or strategist. In this project she acted as the Acquisitions Editor. Her interest in this anthology revolves around her love of psychology and reading poetry.
Meghan McAuliffe is a 21-year-old Senior at UNL from Ogallala, Nebraska. Her major is English and she hopes to eventually work with music journals and magazines. She served as the Managing Editor for this literary magazine because of her interest in the work that goes on behind the scenes of each published work. Morgan Knobbe is a 23-year-old Senior at UNL who was born and raised in West Point, Nebraska. Her major is English, and her dream is to become a professional author focusing on fictional works including the sci-fi and horror genres. She served as the Marketing Director for Tragic Comedy Press because of her past experience in sales and advertising.
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