TriggerWarning The following pieces and artwork contain and depict images that deal with topics including but not limited to anxiety, eating disorders, suicide and other difficult subject matter. Please be gentle with yourself as you experience this content. If you find yourself struggling, the end of the magazine has a list of resources you may find helpful.
Use these symbols as your guide
Sensitive Topic & Language
Addictions
potential Eating Disorders
Suicidal Ideation
Self-Harm
Violence
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Cancer Diagnosis
Anxiety
Daybreak
Contents.
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............................................................. 00 Cover, by Gabrielle Edgecombe 01 Trigger Warning and Symbols, by All Staff
Noon
............................................................. 05 Winter Waves, by Dezyrae Batzer 05 Beach Goers, by Dezyrae Batzer 05 Sunset on Lake Michigan, by Dezyrae Batzer 06 a letter to anxiety, by Deanna Ray Luton 06-07 My Anxiety Toolkit, by Leslie Nelson 08 Just Be Kind, by Neil Evans
Dusk
............................................................. 09 Three Sisters, by Caroline Schaefer-Hills 09 Close Edge, by Caroline Schaefer-Hills 09 Broken, by Caroline Schaefer-Hills 10 Swing and Trees of the Mind, by Mikey Sims 11 winter storm warning, by Andrea Grabowski 12 Abstract Expressionism, by Shelby Bigelow 13 2 A.M. in My Head, by Kyle Hoffman 14 In Therapy, by Christopher Carey 15-16 Anxiety, by Anna Parsons 16 Cognition, by Hannah Strong 17 When Facing Agents Anxiety, by Kane Williams 18 Stop Looking at Me, by Miranda Roy
Sunrise
............................................................. 19 Above the Worries of the World, by Moon 20 Birds have feelings Too, by Aidan Wodehouse 21-22 Baking Relaxation: My Comfort Chocolate Chip Cookies, by Moon
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23 Haiku, by grace lambert 23 chill, by grace lambert 24 It’s Not “Just a Bad Habit”, by Martha Sprout 25 Anticipation, by Lyra Whinnery 26 A Warped Reality, by Quinn Springsteen
Night
............................................................. 27 Peninsula Reds, by Chris Fulton 27 The Cold Wind, by Shelby Bigelow 27 Shadow Lands, by Caroline Schaefer-Hills 28 So How Are You Feeling Today?, by Gabrielle Chavarria 29 Postpartum Depression and Anxiety Infographic, by Gabrielle Edgecombe 30 Rotten, Heavy Body, by Rod Meyers 31-36 no promises, but, by Liam Strong 37 Big Decisions, by Meredith Keeler 37 Arachnophobia in the Deep, by Mikey Sims 38 Wasted Words Upon the Water’s Edge, by Evan Primeau 39 S.A.D, by Rachel Nickerson 40 Drowing on Solid Ground, by Madeline Jenkins
Dawn
............................................................. 41 Nesting Turtle, by Dezyrae Batzer 41 Strange Horizons, by Shelby Bigelow 41 HBird, by Chris Fulton 42 The Runaway, by Rachel Nickerson 43 Breathless as Prey, by Lizzie Brown Art, by Erica Whiting 44-47 Butterwalkers, by Julia Belden 48 Self-Care, by Lily Briggs 48 Dreams in Gold, by Shelby Bigelow 49 Tech Anxiety PROJECTions, by Caroline Schaefer-Hills 50-51 Living Remotely, by Susan Odgers 52 A Continuation, by Lizzie Brown
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Midnight
............................................................. 53 Fire in the Sky, by Chris Fulton 53 Moody Lines, by Chris Fulton 53 Medalie Bench, by Chris Fulton 54 Anxiety, by Dezyrae Batzer 55 Dead-Tired and Desperate, by Gabrielle Chavarria 56 The Art of War, by Silas James 57 Phobias, by Samuel Miller 58 Anxiety and Alcohol, by Jenna Olszewski
Sunup
............................................................. 59 Distant Memory, by Caroline Schaefer-Hills 59 South Leland Morning, by Gabrielle Edgecombe 59 Stopped Waterfall, by Caroline Schaefer-Hills 60 Where I Go When I’m Feeling Anxious, by Alissia J.R. Lingaur 61 Crisis in Ukraine, by Mikey Sims 62 Roots, by Julia Belden 63 Anxiety in Adolescents, by Lindsey Wormell 64 ThunderJacket, by grace lambert
Daylight
............................................................. 65 Sundog Sky, by Caroline Schaefer-Hills 66 Downtown 4 A.M, by Chris Fulton 67 Ice Reflection, by Caroline Schaefer-Hills 68-69 Letters From the Editors 70-71 Staff Page 72 Mental Health Resources
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Winter Waves Beach Goers Sunset on Lake Michigan
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by Dezyrae Batzer Anxiety
a letter to anxiety by Deanna Luton
Whisper in my ear every little thing that could go wrong. Your claws dig deep into my synaptic network, my cross to bear. Twist reality into blasphemy. Your overreactions wrap me in waves of worry, work their way through my bloodstream. Benzodiazepines are the only sweet relief. Anxiety avoids the punchline, avoids conflict, avoids the edge of excitement like a sharp blade. Cloaked in anticipation, you leave me tongue-tied and bound by isolation and self-destruction. Redefine myself as thrill-seeker, adrenaline junkie, daredevil, risk-taker, chaos personified. Chase that uneasy feeling, chills up and down my spine, swarms of nervous butterflies. Lean into uncertainty. Embrace possibility. Combat nerves with artificial courage. Take deep breaths. Watch falling snow. Be thankful for your sovereignty. Manic thoughts breed manifestation. Create your own destiny. Quiet overactive imagination. Mute the metaphors. Beautiful mind: burden and blessing.
My Anxiety Toolkit by Leslie Nelson
I’m a gray-haired student in Two-Dimensional Design at NMC. I entered adulthood unprepared for anxiety and depression. Luckily, I was fortunate to have a good friend and husband who helped me develop a toolkit for coping.
After retiring, I lost purpose, routine, challenge, and community. My husband and I moved back to Michigan and found new friends and activities. After the pandemic hit, I took the three Covid-19 shots, masked-up, and enrolled in a class at NMC. Now I’m mentally engaged, meeting new people, and improving skills for a long-awaited love interest—art.
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Last year I learned I had heart disease requiring a procedure called a cardio-version that shocked my heart back into normal rhythm. Now I take medicine, and routinely walk at least 8 miles per week. Sometimes I don’t have time to walk, but I have another rule: No guilt or punishment. Just get back on the routine train. Because time in nature has been proven to reduce stress and help people relax, it is one of my best tools for almost any type of anxiety.
Three years ago I developed a melanoma mole on my left leg. Melanoma sucks! For a while, I couldn’t walk, but now I’m cancer free and walking again. (Get help from qualified others.) I now get regular medical exams for early detection, and rather than avoid the sun, (find a work-around) I’ve invested in hats, swim leggings, and UPF 50 clothing for short exposures to pick up rocks along the beach.
Perhaps the greatest challenge for me after a productive career is accepting loss of control over external things and taking control over my reactions instead. I remind myself that ordinary people make extraordinary contributions. I want to reduce my carbon footprint and protect the places where I hike and kayak. I can volunteer and donate to causes I believe in, but sometimes I need to limit my news exposure, meditate, or do artwork to find temporary rest.
My best friend and my husband are among others who are my support system now. I’ve internalized the tools I’ve gathered over a lifetime—life is full of surprises, so it’s best to be prepared (Girl Scout Motto). Motto) One of my favorite books is Dune, and I use the following as a mantra: I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. . . the little death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. . . permit it to pass over and through me. And when it has gone, I will turn . . . to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain. –Frank Herbert, Dune, p. 12. I still feel anxiety, but I calm myself and face it with information, tools, support, and skills.
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Just Be Kind by Neil Evans I’m an old pine who’s grown over time, I’ve observed life for centuries. Stretch towards the sun, absorb all its heat, listening to nature’s melodies. In branches and up my spine, birds climb skittering about with their small feet. And fuzzy be my old memories, when in the earth my roots grow deep. I spread strong spears, like a porcupine, on high and wide arms, beyond reach. Head in the sky, young and worry-free, but in my roots I sensed landmines. Squirrels warned me, through their chittering teeth, of the pain known by humankind. Fellow trees taught history to me with waving limbs, roots intertwined; despite their greed, nature they mistreat, humans succeed eventually. War time to celebrations with wine, after tragedies come parties, following a famine is a feast. These smart monkeys need empathy, their intellect is before their time: bright, but deaf to nature’s heartbeat. Boundaries set between families, but of love, unity, they dream. We pines are actors, gesturing mimes, who act towards love, where humans speak. Every day’s an opportunity to act towards the dream. Just be kind.
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Three Sisters Close Edge Broken
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by Caroline Schaefer-Hills Anxiety
Swing and Trees of the mind by Mikey Sims
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winter storm warning by Andrea Grabowski “and in one little moment / it all implodes”—Snow Patrol, “This Isn’t Everything You Are” there are no taillights to guide me, but at least i know to pull over, tires skidding on ice, breath skidding in my lungs. this trembling is a sliver of a ghost, a trauma not yet rewritten. if only remembering that came easy. don’t keel over now, don’t keel over. the snow falls thick on my windshield, mirroring the inside of my head. but all blizzards end. & a poet from oregon, who knows what it’s like to be so soft that everything just bruises, sends me my horoscope & it calls pisces porous & it’s true. how can we stay soft & not ache this much all the time? i don’t want to freeze over, not like kettle lakes. i want to stay wild & open like the waves at otter creek beach, even when the ten degree skies ransack my serotonin. even when civilization wants me apathetic. if 19th century doctors would call me mad, then let them. if the live, laugh, love signs in target mock my unease, then let them. let me be not palatable. an inconvenience. let me listen to badlands and manic every day. still learning who’s in control. or metalcore on cedar run & west front street, a pounding in my chest reminding me to not forget the sun, even if i haven’t seen it in days. a pounding in my chest that’s not this lingering feeling of being chased by wolves that should’ve evolved out of my neurons centuries ago. but even prehistoric slavic wolves can be befriended. i am just so exhausted. maybe i should become an electrician to fund this writing career. so i can replace all the fluorescent lights with warm ones that don’t pull neon-yellow wool over my brain. too often i have weighed anxious lies with red-flag instinct. i think i am learning the difference. watering tulips & pear trees & chili peppers, juniper bushes & strawberries, & watching them not become thorns. none of us are well. but we’re trying, & in years like these, what a goddamn victory. maybe i should start drinking more tea. but i want coffee & validation. i know there’s no shame in that, or liking kintsugi & to write love on her arms. or some days, wanting to break gold-repaired pottery so the crash is loud enough to end all the stigma. standing in the desert, i can see how far i’ve come. dust on my boots, a bolder stride to make my shoulders know it’s the present day.
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Abstract Expressionism by Shelby Bigelow
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2 A.M. in My Head by Kyle Hoffman An endless row of nice Books Can supply anyone with anything. Dad kicks back with an action-packed book. Everyone is snuggled into an oversized bed with a comforting book. Friends bond in their designated basement over a dramatic book. Grandparents pass time with old, dusty, brown books. Hell! I can’t find the time for 10 minutes of any book. Just one more day though, I’ve been frantically busy, at least I hope that’s the look.
Kyle’s got this! Let everyone else enjoy them for now. Mom goes to luscious green meadows with a fantasy book, Not me. But I shouldn’t let myself get shook. Others gain historical knowledge from an enlightening book, Pretty sure that explains why they’re all smarter. Quiet. Real Silence. That’s what every book could provide. Ulterior motives of mine must be to blame. Very deep, hidden motives, clearly. Why not just do it? Pick up a damn book! X-out the chances,
You’ll never read. Zzzzzzz
zz
z
zzz
zz
And another thought…
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In Therapy by Christopher Carey
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Anxiety by Anna Parsons Hello, darling. It’s nice to see you again. Did you miss me? Did you miss the way I steal your breath? The way I make your heart pound? Your knees weak, and your palms sweaty? Yes, you feel me. In your veins. I’m electricity. I’m the bugs writhing under your skin and the strain in your muscles. I’m pyretic. I make you burn. I make your back tingle most unpleasantly. You can’t sit still anymore, or you’ll scream. Isn’t it awfully crowded in here? So many voices, I can hardly hear myself speak. Can you hear me?
I’ll just be louder, the only thing you hear. Oh, out the door we go. It’s much cooler outside. The sun slumbers, and darkness reigns. The shadows reach for you in the gentle breeze. Maybe they’re monsters. Oops. Not helping, am I? Good. Let the monsters come. Let them embrace you and squeeze the air from your lungs until there’s nothing left. You’re paralyzed. Sorry. That was me, too. Deep breaths? Hah, that’s cute. I’ll count with you. In. One, two, three. Hold. Hold. Ho— Hey, now. Who said it was time to exhale? You’re breathing too quickly, still. Inandoutandinandoutandinandountandin—You’re dizzy. I see the haze in your teary eyes. Did I mention that wretched tingle under your skin? Scratch it, I dare you. It’s fruitless. Can you hear me humming? Can you feel me in your bones? Curl up as tightly as you want, dear, but you can’t hide from me. No. In your head, I am king. I decide if you go outside today. I decide if you send that text, or answer that call. Your voice doesn’t work unless I want it to. Just try to speak. Try it. See? Nothing. You don’t need to talk to anyone else. I’m always here, and I keep you plenty company myself. Here come the tears. They burn, don’t they? Your cheeks are pink already, and your eyes are red as the devil. I love that color on you. Cry me a river. I can go all night. I’ll still be here when your eyes are closed, swirling that mind of yours. Try to sleep and I’ll drag you into a riptide, desperate and
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drowning in your own bed. I’ll make you spin and stumble until you’re seasick. You’re getting tired. I’m exhausting, aren’t I? Sorry. Can’t help it. I just love getting your blood pumping. Hear your pulse thunder in your ears. Watch your hands quake. Fumble your phone and watch the screen shatter, just like you. Feel your back ache as you hang your weary head between your knees. I want you to see me, hear me, taste, feel, and smell me. I’m the spinning room. I’m the shrieking alarm. I’m the bitter bile on your tongue, the thrum under your skin, and the odorous sweat in your pores. I’m the arms that hold you, tight and oppressive. I’m part of you. Always have been. Always will be. Get used to me, darling, because
I’m not going anywhere.
Cognition by Hannah Strong
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I’m the bitter bile on your tongue, the thrum under your skin
When facing agents Anxiety by Kane Williams
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Anxiety
Stop Looking at Me by Miranda Roy
Nobody can know. Heart Beating. beating. Beating. You stare at me with unblinking eyes, lips planked, smug. My words stick in my throat—no wait, there are no words.
Or wait, maybe too many? The umbra behind my lids doesn’t bring me comfort. Everything gets so much worse. I am whipped around by a tornado. Stop! I need it to stop. My hands cover my ears to block the roar— sprawled on the floor, the shield fails. The whisking wind loots the life Gaia has given. My energy. My oxygen. I. Can’t. Breathe. Frost creeps up my back. That doesn’t make sense… I’m sweating. Buckets of icy rain. Poseidon drags me further and further into the sea. I’m drowning. So. Cold. Yet so warm. A fire! It hugs me. Shit, that’s not a hug. Liar. Hades’ wrath is fierce. Maybe drowning is better than burning alive. I open my eyes. Your gaze still pierces me. I remember Aristotle’s words, and clutch my diamond heart—my power— I breathe. Anyone can know.
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nu S r i se
Above the Worries of the World
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by Moon
Anxiety
Birds Have Feelings too by Aidan Wodehouse
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. Baking Relaxation. My Comfort Chocolate Chip Cookies by Moon
When I am stressed, I distract myself with a big objective target like collecting all 898 Pokemon, or I bake. I make a variety of cookies and cakes for others to enjoy. I find happiness in seeing others love my baked goods. One time I made cookies for my hometown’s theatre department. Apparently, they were devoured before the actors even had dinner. I hope you can find some solace in this recipe as I do. This recipe is from On Baking: A Textbook of Baking and Pastry Fundamentals by Sarah R. Labensky, Priscilla A. Martel, and Eddy Van Damme. For this recipe you will need: 2 cups unsalted butter, softened 1 cup granulated sugar 1 ½ cups dark brown sugar 3 eggs 2 tsp vanilla extract 2 tsp salt 2 ½ cups all-purpose flour 1 tsp baking soda 4 cups chocolate chips 1 cup pecans or walnut pieces Step 1 In a mixing bowl with the paddle attachment, cream the butter and sugars together until smooth.
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Step 2 Add eggs one at a time, allowing for the egg to completely incorporate. Then add the vanilla extract to the mix. Step 3 Stir the salt, flour, and baking soda in a separate bowl. Then add it to the creamed mixture. Step 4 Stir in chocolate chips and pecans (if using) or you can add your favorite candy like M&M’s or Reese’s cups (would recommend). Step 5 Portion out onto a baking sheet with parchment paper. Then bake at 350 F for 10-12 minutes. Pull out of the oven and let the cookies cool. You can make them as big or small as you like, and the cookie dough is an excellent treat to eat. I tend to eat the cookie dough while I am waiting for the cookies to bake. (You’re more likely to get salmonella poisoning from raw chicken than eggs.) SUBSTITUTES FOR ALLERGIES Egg: Applesauce. One-fourth cup is a common substitute for one egg in a baking recipe. Or use a banana. Half a mashed, ripened banana can work in place of one egg. Flour: Teff flour, brown rice flour, chickpea flour, pureed black beans. Any of the flour subs can be used in the same amount.
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Haiku by grace lambert puncture, pull, repeat, pause. unknot. repeat. admire. pull, trim, tie. finish.
chill
alternatively! nothing ends, seasons cycle like bike tires in sun
by grace lambert
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Anxiety
It’s Not “Just a Bad Habit” What are Body Focused Repetitive Behaviors? i.e. a group of behaviors in which an individual damages his or her appearance or causes physical injury.
Dermotillomania (Nail Biting or Skin Picking)
Trichotillomania (Hair Pulling)
-aka Excoriation disorder, characterized by uncontrollable picking, peeling, biting at skin or nails.
-The recurrent pulling out of one’s own hair, leading to hair loss and emotional distress.
- Affects around 1.4% of the population.
-Pulling occurs most commonly from the individual’s scalp, eyelashes, and eyebrows.
-could also include cheek biting and joint cracking
-This condition is thought to affect about every 4 in 100 people or 3.5% of the population.
Symptoms / Triggers
Other Disorders/OCD Body focused repetitive behaviors can coincide with other mental problems such as - Depression - Anxiety - Body Dismorphia - Obessive Compulsive Disorder
The root cause differs but can be brought on by stress, bordom, anxiety, and depression. -Can be a coping mechasism brought on my chaos or trauma in childhood. -The symptoms cause significant distress, shame, or impairment
What Are Treatment Options?
Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and/or meditation practices
Medications -N-Acetylcysteine (NAC), -antidepressants - anti anxiety
by Martha Sprout
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Stimulas Control - practice mindfulness -buy a figet toy or bracelet -do some journaling - find a support group
Anticipation by Lyra Whinnery Why I’m slumped until barely in my chair: my orchestra teacher directs the violin section and my leg bounces, urging me further down.
What time is it? My orchestra teacher directs the violin section; my focus slips.
What time is it? The clock whispers, less than ten minutes. My focus slips, I wipe my palm on my pants and pass my viola and bow from hand to hand. The clock whispers, less than ten minutes, but Tyler, overly keen, smirks and interrupts to ask why I wipe my palm on my pants and pass my viola and bow from hand to hand again. I draw and hold my breath to bury a quavering sigh because Tyler, overly keen, smirked and interrupted to ask why my eyes flicker to the clock again. I draw and hold my breath to bury the quavering, sigh, my mom’s picking me up early is all. And now my eyes flicker to the clock before I face him to explain
my mom’s picking me up early, is all. And now I make a wish to the clock before I face him to explain why I’m slumped until barely in my chair.
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A Warped Reality by Quinn Springsteen
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Peninsula Reds by Chris Fulton
The Cold Wind by Shelby Bigelow
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Shadow Lands By Caroline Schaefer-Hills Anxiety
So How Are You Feeling Today? by Gabrielle Chavarria
I’ll describe it as a tense, close to shattering feeling but really it’s the sensation of being broken glass, warped and weathered and one misperceived-pointed-comment away from bursting into infinite shards of shrapnel capable of inflicting nothing—just nothing—because that’s all I’m capable of doing today and probably tomorrow and definitely yesterday even though somehow I’m weaker and more brittle now than I was then, which seems impossible because I really didn’t think I could feel more threatened or boxed in by simple noises like the start of the vacuum or the hum of the man I love as he moves around the kitchen in cacophonies of pots and pans all for the purpose of feeding me because he thinks that what I want, no, need right now is scrambled eggs and toast as if I’m not full from chewing the inside of my cheek all morning and swallowing every negative thought like they’re my lifeblood pushing and sustaining me so I can walk this razor’s edge between a voiceless scream and a vicious shout at all the external forces I blame for making making me this way even though Jim says my mood is my responsibility and not anyone’s fault and that I’m the only one in charge of my emotions but the things I make myself feel must mean I’m going crazy because who would want to feel like a piece of glass at risk of being so unrelentingly pressurized it turns into nothing but vapor and atoms and recedes back into the muck, useless and spent? So yeah, a tense, close to shattering feeling.
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Experience postpartum
depression diagnoses This equals about 600,000 per year
Postpartum 69% depression & anxiety
report having
Men experience Paternal
Postpartum Depression almost
50% Some of the most common phrases said to new parents:
of women who experience postpartum depression
Never seek help.
S f I YoY o I f
psr g yoep w e e in u’ u h ll ho hen t h S y babsp oil tfeeo ur dp a ld her ye ou’ll m b ym ll t it
ht f u an yo fe just hisant’tweaig t yo t w a u think this bisou bad, jus
by Gabrielle Edgcombe
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Rotten, Heavy body by Rod Meyers
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no promises, but by Liam Strong
the ambulance gets lost in not a snowstorm but the haze of Ativan. we end up in Rogers City, which was meant to be Alpena. we lounge our necks at the sardines lightless in the parking lot of the incorrect hospital. “oh,” says the EMT driving. “oh,” replies the EMT with us in the back. “oh,” we think, our arms corralled to the gurney like bundles of hawthorn. not-so-hidden beneath the blanket, our arms have roadmaps leading toward wherever we point. currently, our arms are pointed back toward home. *** we read a book about ghosts in heaven. we read another about megalodons. military plague ship fiction. backpacking the Appalchian trail. we read plenty and not enough. we think about how people describe psychiatric hospital walls. the canon dictates: abysmal white. our reality at Pointe East: kalamata olive. hardwood floors. our arms will eventually look like olives for the bruises. the rends of our right arm resemble beastclaw. we call the beast by our own name. makes it feel familiar, comforting, a ghost limb awaiting severance. we tell ourselves the beast is a puppy. we name the puppy Winnipeg.
we take Cobain’s lithium with cups that remind us of communion.
***
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the puppy wants us to die. it is not complicated to see why. *** the slipper feeds on our foot. then the other. we recite our birthdays like we’re scatting jazz. we take Cobain’s lithium with cups that remind us of communion. it’s fortunate that Jesus isn’t in this place. before group we watch Adam Sandler get dumped fifty-one times. mostly our eyes are on word search pages, finding sentences that, when strung together, create a meaningless clothesline. this, too, is comforting. *** a longstanding admit, Shanna, smashes the hallway phone on some day of the week. we lose one of our own, Jeremiah, later in the day. gone to Midland for electroshock therapy. Jeremiah tells us this—the only time we’ve seen him really smile. we look out the windows just to see Subarus skim across the slush. our puppy nips at our arm hair, little follicles static with some kind of want. we don’t know what it is. the puppy may also sound like a person. the puppy may also sound only like thoughts, the feelings of stratus rubbing against our skull. the puppy doesn’t want any particular part of us. Winnipeg will take whatever it can. *** during group we’re allowed to use colored pencils, beads, Wii remotes. healing is together and individual. we often don’t know what we are healing from. or how to heal. but we can at least bring flowers to life on a page. puppies won’t eat these. social worker Caitlin plays pop music on the stereo. eventually we learn all the songs, but don’t know any of their names, their artists. Ralph Compton and Danielle Steele fortify the tiny library. social worker Thomas teaches us positive affirmations in the key of Zesta saltines crinkling in our hands. we were obsessed with these as kids. we’re obsessed again. ***
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we are worthwhile we are worthwhile we are worthwhile. repeat it as we stretch in the morning. repetition loses potency after a while, so we write new affirmations in our journal. 90s grunge bands seemed to know that our minds aren’t always in our heads. we are capable people we are capable people we are capable people bark bark bark yip yip yip growl growl growl *** we trade ideas for tattoos to cover up our scars in the patient lounge. the nurses call the lounge “the Fishbowl.” is it because the room is circular with windows? because we’re floating about with little to do? admit Elizabeth wants to get something on her forearm about staying clean from drugs and drink. admit Ayden says he wants a cute character from a Cartoon Network show we’ve never heard of. we say we’re worried more that new scars will fuck up a tattoo after we get one. the room nods without nodding. transphobic episodes of Maury play nonchalantly in the background. sometimes, the night nursing staff let us smuggle ginger ale, ice cream, and Lorna Doone cookies into the Fishbowl. we watch Netflix there since the social workers are gone for the day. breaking rules becomes a brand of healing for us all. our slippers collectively clap a quiet eureka. perhaps such little goodnesses would transform into a great tomorrow. *** the doctor is the only person who never sets foot in Pointe East. he lives in Wisconsin, a great lake away. when it’s our turn to check in each morning, the screen delay could hide smiles or empowerment. because of this disconnect, one day we eventually profess to never having heard voices before. the next day, we divulge to hearing more voices than actual people. doctors do not inform us that people are too a kind of beast. our doctor hangs his jaw low like a Boston terrier. it’s hard to conjure honesty when our nurses and social workers do most of the heavy lifting. but at least our doctor gives us pills. half the time we don’t even care what they do.
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*** on what is probably a Tuesday, Ayden stops coming to the Fishbowl. not at group therapy. not at dinner. the scavengers we are, we collaborate in eating Ayden’s food alongside our own. the cooking staff only rations 250ml of juice per person anyhow. we rejoice, the seven of us in the unit, for an extra half a chicken tender. Ayden doesn’t show up for another eight meals. when he returns to the Fishbowl with gauze masking his forearms, we want to know what lies beneath. to admire. to compare. to discover methods of improvement. but we think we hear a dog in the background of our skull, and attempt to disregard its banter. we are
better than our diagnosis we are better than our diagnosis we are better. we are happy to see Ayden again, though. his lips crusted, a shaky knitted yellow sweater of himself—he’s one of us. between commercials of Jeopardy and Wheel, we congregate over our meds and evolving diagnoses. we talk as if we’re discussing trading cards or what kinds of car brands we like (and which we don’t). most of our insurances don’t cover Latuda, despite the doctor starting us all on it. admit Carolyn, in her sixties, has had half a dictionary of things to treat her delirium. she sees us, though. we see her. Elizabeth needs meds to keep her heart rate from escalating, to keep her hands from shuddering. Ayden only takes liquid medication, refuses
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them in any other form. pills create the sense of choking. we’ve wondered what swallowing many of them tastes like. probably like drywall mud. the thoughts dissipate easily. our Seroquel and lithium are wiper blades, decluttering anxious ice. perhaps due to the therapy, or simply being with others who bear scars on our brains like ours, this way of life clicks for us. the meals dispel the myth of horrible hospital food. we even have bedrooms and bathrooms to ourselves. in fact, we don’t really want to leave. *** the word discharge feels bloody because it is. and yet it’s supposed to mean an unshackling. it’s supposed to be a good word for behavioral unit admits. we’re again admitted, but this time to the outside world. we’re supposed to feel proud. we shouldn’t be sad to say goodbye. but healing feels like a vice, its papery arms weak and uncertain. suppose we give our healing a name. like Winnipeg. a cold place wanting to be warm. our body wants to be a warm place. one with flower tattoos, steaming echinacea tea, a word search book, and a garden of colored pencils in hand. we can make any place warm with a bundle of healing. ***
life. again have we been
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our map has vanished for the most part. scars turn into pursed lips, canyons that can be seen from space. we’re granted our belongings again; we pick crusted blood from our keys with our thumbnail. we try to convince ourselves it’s rust. time easily erased. social worker Thomas says the first week back is always the hardest to acclimate to. normal life is not normal life. but then again what have we been living? our dad and sister drive three hours to pick us up, wearing matching Pokémon t-shirts. they take us to KFC for lunch—the taste is unreal. we’re getting used to details, its vertebrae scattered about this new-again world. the snow in dad’s goatee, our sister’s pronounced dimples, little forgotten sprinkles. everywhere is a detail. it’s practically overwhelming. and yet the breeze flowing into the rental car from Lake Huron seems like a forgotten kind of touch. do we feel touched? to have those who love us carry us home? do we feel ready? the answer can never be yes, but it can be a word like it.
*the following playlist evokes my time in the behavioral health unit for reasons of self-harm and suicidal ideation:
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Big Decisions by Meredith Keeler
Arachnophobia in the deep by Mikey Sims
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Wasted Words upon , the Water s Edge
by Evan Primeau For I am he, whose wish could never be. The ocean’s cold oblivion I face, a lonesome fish, amidst a crushing sea. In roiling waves of doubt, too drowned to flee, my mind concocts the chains that bind and brace, for I am he, whose wish could never be. And will my written word become debris if in these troubled tides I dare erase this lonesome fish, amidst a crushing sea? Reflections in the water speak to me: they whisper of that distant dream I chase, but I am he, whose wish could never be. The depths sing out a morbid guarantee: a siren’s song, the void’s unbound embrace of lonesome fish amidst a crushing sea. To flash and fade is life’s unfair decree, but in that time, I’ve further falls from grace, for I am he, whose wish could never be: a lonesome fish, amidst the crushing sea.
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SAD
Seasonal affective disorder
Common SAD facts Four out of five people who have SAD are women Typically, the further one is from the equator, the more at risk they are for seasonal depression.
5%
5% of the u.s. population is diagnosed with SAD
The main age of onset of seasonal depression is between 20 and 30 years of age, however symptoms can appear earlier
Treatments of SAD In light therapy, also called phototherapy, you sit a few feet from a special light box so that you're exposed to bright light within the first hour of waking up each day. Light therapy mimics natural outdoor light and appears to cause a change in brain chemicals linked to mood.
Antidepressant medication: Sometimes, providers recommend medication for depression, either alone or with light therapy.
National Suicide Prevention Hotline
800-273-8255 by Rachel Nickerson
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Drowning on Solid Ground by Madeline Jenkins
My lungs are tight and heavy as an anaconda drowns me in its grip. A water wall weighs me down. My mind fills with rocks. A breach of the South Fork dam smothers my face and hurls from my eyes. My lungs are tight and heavy as an anaconda drowns me in its grip. Flailing, I grasp aimless space, and each boat of stability caves in. My mind fills with rocks. My entire throat clamps shut. I pray some air squeezes through as my lungs are tight and heavy and an anaconda drowns me in its grip. Screaming my wails into empty air, either way, no one can hear. My mind fills with rocks. The ground crumbles before me. What can I do to make it solid? My lungs are tight and heavy with this anaconda and my mind is filled with rocks.
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D
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Nesting Turtle by Dezyrae Batzer Strange Horizons by Shelby Bigelow
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HBird by Chris Fulton
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The Runaway by Rachel Nickerson
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Words swirl around my head Little else fills the void Words words words A boa constricts my lungs I am breathless No more air
Breathless as Prey by Lizzie Brown Art by Erica Whiting
Friends tell me to dance (Ribs compress with every stomp) Mom offers a walk (No relief) My therapist prescribes journaling (Write to lift a neverending weight) I want to escape the elephant crushing my chest the pressure, feather-light to feel less and live more to feel less and become a robot (Will robots take over the world?) So much to do yet it’s hard to inhale against the snake’s coil I set the timer It starts at 10 and marks down Each minute I choose to let go Soon the squeeze loosens Not all the way (it never goes away) but for a minute it lifts— I am a space manatee floating with no boundaries no worry of predators The sun expands basking me in light filling me with warmth One star shoots beyond
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Butterwalkers
by Julia Belden “What the heck is a walker?” I asked. It was my first day at the zoo, and I stood in the greenhouse garden, holding a laminated copy of a closing duties checklist. One of the items on the checklist instructed staff to “gently escort the walkers out into the main garden” after the zoo had closed for the night. I was a seasoned zookeeper, having cared for exotic animals for a decade. However, my new workplace focused heavily on invertebrates: insects and arachnids, mostly. Animals I had no experience with. My coworker held a hose, carefully watering the thirsty tropical plants in the center of the garden. She glanced at me and secured the hose between a couple of large rocks. “Those are the butterflies that can’t fly. We call them ‘butterwalkers’. They’re over here.” She led me to a corner, off the paver-lined pathway and into a graveled area somewhat contained by wooden fence-posts. “Watch where you step!” Tucked safely out of reach of over-excited children, the butterwalkers surrounded a plate filled with soggy bananas. Multiple species were present: blue morphos, famous for their iridescent blue coloration; owl eye butterflies of the genus Caligo, large and moth-like; paper kite butterflies with dainty black-and-white bodies. All of them had damaged wings: broken, missing sections, or wings crumpled like old newspaper. “Sometimes we get ones that emerge from their chrysalis all messed up,” my coworker told me. “Many people would just euthanize them. If they can eat, though, there’s no reason they can’t have a decent quality of life. We even let them scurry around the garden at night.” I squatted and looked closely at a butterwalker with two crumpled wings perched on a banana. Its proboscis extended like a tiny straw, slurping banana juice. I loved them immediately. *** I interviewed at the bug zoo, unsure if I was ready to care for animals again. I’d recently upended my life, quitting my dream job and moving from Florida to Michigan to be closer to family. I had emailed the zoo’s curator about volunteering—she offered me a job instead. We came from similar backgrounds—educated and trained as keepers, working with exotics at large corporations. Both of us had burned out of that environment. She understood when I told her I needed to move on, that I was
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exhausted by the grind and lack of control keepers had over animal welfare (and our own welfare). She understood when I told her I had hung on for years, trying to move up in my career, afraid to leave, telling myself it would get better. I didn’t tell the curator I had been diagnosed with a rare and debilitating disease that was shredding my body and making it difficult to do my job. I didn’t tell her the combination of physical illness, job stress, and a pandemic had reactivated the severe depression I thought I had conquered years ago. I didn’t tell her I had stopped eating for days at a time, that I couldn’t sleep, that I was throwing up every morning for over a month. I didn’t tell her that, merely a few months prior, I was lying on the bathroom floor in my apartment, staring at the mess of pill bottles on my counter and wondering if I should just take them all so I wouldn’t have to feel this way any longer. Those are the sorts of things you leave out of a job interview.
What about the butterf ly that emerges from its chrysalis deformed and unable to f ly?
*** There are tens of millions of insect species, and humanity is grossed out by most of them. Butterflies are a rare exception. The transformation from drab, worm-like caterpillar into beautiful, iridescent butterfly is the subject of countless paintings, tattoos, instagram posts, and cliché wall art of the “Live, Love, Laugh” variety. Butterflies are a symbol of change, growth, and overcoming challenges. The caterpillar undergoes an extraordinary metamorphosis inside the
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chrysalis: almost the entire animal dissolves and reforms at the cellular level to create something completely new. It’s an incredible feat of nature, worthy of our wonder and admiration. “Be like a butterfly,” people say. “You may have gone through a mighty struggle, but you’ll transform into something beautiful and strong.” What about the butterfly that emerges from its chrysalis deformed and unable to fly? Is it still worthy? *** I’m standing in the garden, looking into the chrysalis room as my coworker attempts a rescue. A freshly birthed butterfly sprawls on its back at the bottom of the glass enclosure, legs wiggling wildly. Emerging from the chrysalis usually takes a few moments; afterward the butterfly hangs upside down for several hours, pumping fluid into its wings to stiffen them and prepare for flight. This particular individual had hatched with misshapen wings, and had quickly lost its grip on the chrysalis and tumbled to the bottom of the enclosure. My coworker uses a paintbrush to carefully scoop it into a small container. “This guy’s gonna be a walker, I think,” she says when she hands the container to
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me. I carry it to the secluded gravel area, open the container, and ever-so-gently grasp the gnarly wings between the knuckles of my index and middle fingers. The butterfly waves its legs around indignantly. I place it on the food plate. When I check back a few minutes later, it’s happily slurping banana juice with the other walkers. I’ve been at the zoo for months now. Medication stabilized, able to work, go back to school, and have a life, looking after my lovely and unique butterwalker friends. I’m still damaged—a piece of my soul is charred and scraggly—and that’s okay. Radical transformations aren’t always pretty. The butterwalkers taught me that imperfection has its own sort of beauty. Each of their little butter souls has value, and so does mine. *** Sometimes, early in the morning before anyone else has arrived, I walk around the garden with a butterwalker standing in my cupped palm. I move my arm up and down to simulate the sensation of flight. She stretches her broken wings and wiggles her antenna in what I interpret as pure butterfly delight. As the sun fills the garden with morning warmth, I feel something akin to peace, frolicking through the greenery with a butterwalker. For more than an instant, we both fly.
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Self Care by Lily Briggs
Dreams in Gold by Shelby Bigelow
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Tech Anxiety PROJECTions by Caroline Schaefer-Hills
Video infographic on the anxieties technology triggers in us! Authenticity < Technology > Humanity Projections are featured against the soundscape of human voice mirrored by the computer even down to the copying of taking breaths. Natural imagery floats on moving surface that quietly gives way to the man-made as users interface and reflect on these harrowing statistics.
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Living Remotely
by Susan Odgers Thirty-five years ago, before the Internet, personal computers and cell phones, we moved north from the big city. Friends were surprised. “Do they even have take-out?” they asked. “What will you do for fun? It's so remote.” Grandma said looking at her traverse curtain rods would remind her where I'd gone. My husband and I longed to exchange freeways and distractions for the natural beauty, a simpler life. We hardly knew anyone; never owned a house or a lawn mower. No jobs. Newly marrieds, we had each other. Pioneering a new life. Our single question: “If we could live anywhere, where?”
We r e
We built a life. Got invited to northern graduations, weddings and funerals. From time to time, we wondered if we'd run away from some thing or towards some thing else. We learned lots of people hid out in the north.
r e m ot e , dist an
In 2020, the pandemic struck and the north went remote; work, school, medical appointments and play. Our relationships with family and friends locked in screens. Everyone on the planet now lived remotely. I literally didn't leave my house for a year, yet worked online daily with people on the other side of the globe. In 2021, I got diagnosed with breast cancer, not Covid. And now slowly, thinking the coast is clear, the north is moving away from mask wearing, social distancing and checking vaccination statuses. Instead of celebrating our coming back together, we seem socially awkward with one another. The leap from complete isolation to live interaction is big. We're remote, distant, even with ourselves.
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t,
Before the pandemic, we'd been led to believe that technology ruled. In the abstract, it could make everything better, easier and less expensive. In reality, we ached for physical human touch. To eat, drink, worship and bury our dead together. We grew tired of performing for cameras and having our every interaction recorded. Our half-exposed facial expressions couldn't hide our weariness. Conveniences abounded, yet we were always tired, always tired. At the same time, we learned lots of new ways of doing things. The world became an experimental laboratory like never before. Normal was redefined. Inequities were harshly exposed. Nature kept us sane. From our porches, at the same time each night, we banged pots and pans letting each other know we were still here. That became our ancient human call and response drumbeat. Holding the Janus coin in my hand, I wonder what's next? How will we mourn what we lost? What will we do with what's left, what's been gained?
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A Continuation by Lizzie Brown Clink! Swish, flip, rotate, pull, three rings connected: one for anxiety; one for ADHD; one for newfound grief. Flip, swish, clink! Three silver circles slink together. Raise up, nestle on my finger fiddle with the three rings warp and hold an x as a circle lies beneath. Snug at the base of my finger, tug up, slide down, twist, wrest, three bands interlooped. Each move releases me; enables me. I battle the anxiety I dredge up the difficult, a dragon raises its head. I continue the motions. Push. Pull. Flip.
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M d ig t h n i Fire in the sky Moody Lines Medalie Bench by Chris Fulton
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Anxiety by Dezyrae Batzer
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i
dead tired and desperate
by Gabrielle Chavarria
please, i beg writhing with my hand on the headboard and sobs escaping in ragged breaths, please. want me like i want you, fuck me like i fuck you, rip me apart or rip me open.
figure out what makes it tick so you can dig it out and break it. dig. i’m so fucking tired of excavating myself. my ribcage is a tomb and my fingernails are filled with dirt and decay. but you whisper you love me. i play mary in my Pieta wearing an impenetrable sheet of sheer fabric sculpted out of marble to cover my unseeing eyes wondering why why why won’t you reach for me? or give yourself to me? or take me? please just take me. this knowing, or unknowing, it’s the same, my doubt sits stone heavy, balanced on the edge of our bed and mocking me for my faith in you: when will you remember that no one is ever who you want them to be when you want them to be that? i’ve closed every door and every window between you and me so i live alone in an empty room in the home you built for us. and i’m sorry that it’s my fault.
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The Art of War by Silas James
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by Samuel Miller
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ANXIETY & ALCOHOL 1 in 5 individuals with anxiety report using alcohol to deal with stress
11.5%
6.4%
Men are more likely to abuse substances. 11.5% of boys and men above 12 years old have a disorder related to substances. 6.4% of girls and women above 12 years old have a substance disorder. However, they are more likely to go to the ER for overdose.
Individuals that have anxiety are
2-3X more likely to have an alcohol problem by Jenna Olszewski NMC MAGAZINE
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S un up Distant Memory by Caroline Schaefer-Hills South Leland Morning by Gabrielle Edgcombe
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Stopped Waterfall byCaroline Schaefer-Hills Anxiety
,
Where I Go When I m Feeling Anxious by Alissia J.R. Lingaur
Twenty acres of maples and oaks, the occasional hemlock with branches so wide and dense, a porcupine nests there at night. Along Jenison railroad tracks to a clearing where dragonflies mate and sun spotlights dew-wet leaves, where exams and essays can’t follow. To the old Girl Scout camp and the avenue of tamaracks, myrtle glen, burl as gnarly and bulbous as a tumor. Boardman River Trail and the skipping water, unaffected by my sorrow; cedars— elbows bent into benches and climbing rungs I grip with gloved fingers. Two-track straight to Cedar Run Creek when I’m tired, boards span wet, planks on mud; with no tether to time, Tucker’s three mile loop, past the hiker’s cabin and marsh. Convenient powerline, but avoid the berry prickers, the dead chicken fox-offering, and trek the hills until I reach the metal transmission tower, turn around, go home. Thighs flanked by dogs, their exposed bellies soft and vulnerable under my fingers as I lean against pillows near our fireplace, the flames blue, yellow. And heat, so much heat.
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Crisis in Ukraine by Mikey Sims
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Roots by Julia Belden
Past brambles and muck, a white oak thrives in the meadow, deep inside, roots threading down neurons’ tendrils reaching across a synapse connect at last in loamy embrace. In the meadow, deep inside, roots threading down within, the gray grubs nibble on decay connect, at last, in loamy embrace weaving a network, gathering strength to persist within the gray, grubs nibble on decay. A neuron’s tendrils reach across a synapse weaving a network, gathering strength to persist past brambles and muck, the white oak thrives.
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https://childmind.org/topics/concerns/anxiety/
by Lindsey Wormell
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ThunderJacket by grace lambert dash out my door, desperate for every full body contact “hiii” !!! pathetic with fresh heartbreak you taught me tricks, knotted macrame adornments on your floor wore your woven hoodie to smoke at the football field on 14th never touched that grass before pack into dented two-door, windows down drive 69 miles to Baldwin just for the scent of it and French fries—a treat, now I’m bored buying the same meals over and over because that is what adults do when they meet I want to be like puppies piled together, rolling fearlessly like moving back to the mountains. this hoodie thing, this drug rug like, I would never buy one of these but you played road dog until Illinois slipped in at your heels bare-wristed slept sprawled in your small tent I want to live in my friends’ choices outfit me in security
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Da
yli g
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Sun Dog Sky by Caroline Schaefer-Hills Downtown 4 A.M by Chris Fulton
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Ice Reflection by Caroline Schaefer-Hills Anxiety
Letters From the Editors Dear Reader, This is my ‘anxiety issue’: When I open my eyes in the morning, I think about all the things to accomplish. When I lay my head down at night, tomorrow’s problems and worries keep me from much needed rest. If you’ve experienced this then you know it can feel like running on a never-ending hamster wheel day after day. Some days feel like I’m drowning in my expectations as well as the expectations of others. I try to pull my head above them, coax them back into a box I can open and deal with later. But they spill over before I can even get a lid on, and I choke and sputter on the newest waves of worries. The deeper the water gets the darker it becomes; you can see it in the lines of the coast where the bright turquoise turns to a deep navy. And then even deeper still. You can get lost there. Some days I feel like staying there. I feel the words of others, their criticisms and their slight disapprovals tied to me, anchoring me. In those moments, I think of staying and just floating away with their opinions; it seems so much easier to crumble than put up a fight. The thing about it is, I’ve never been able to give way. I’m not sure if it’s my children, my wonderful, exceptional husband, my family or friends, or maybe even a higher power, but for some reason, I always dig my heels in and resist the breakdown. I’m a fighter. I always have been, and when others called me determined or stubborn, I should have been flattered because those qualities have made me relentless in my pursuit of something better. I’ve been too stubborn to let the anxiety rule me or keep me from life, determined to shed the weight of other’s negativity. I’ve fought for my own mental healing so that hopefully, someday, my children won’t have a reason to need healing. With every shot that comes my way, I have always come back swinging. I hope that in this issue, at the very least, you find some solidarity and a community of compassion whose members understand that drowning feeling. I hope you see that even when it feels like you’re being overcome with life and its troubles,
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there are others who are in the same fight who could use a friend like you. I hope you find your fighting spirit, and the power that comes from connection with others. I’ll leave you with a few phrases that keep me steady, and I sincerely hope that the “Anxiety Issue” pulls you back toward shore if you’ve drifted: “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” –Matthew, 6:34 “The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a very mean and nasty place and I don’t care how tough you are, it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gunna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard ya hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done!” –Sylvester Stallone, Rocky Just keep swimming! (And swinging!) Gabby Edgcombe, Design Editor
*** I’d like to thank you for reading this emotional and informational edition of the NMC Magazine, Volume 44, Issue 2 . Many of the pieces have the souls of their writers and creators put into them. They worked so hard to make these to help inform others about different ways that stress and anxiety affect lives. As literary co-editor, it’s been an interesting experience especially with topics I can really relate to. Lily Moon, Literary Co-Editor
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Letters From the Editors Anxiety is a many-headed beast that I am all too familiar with. I know the grip and pull of a heart hitched by worry and despair, and I know what it’s like when it’s over. The sense of freedom and relief that washes over someone is enough to keep them going for another day, another hour, another minute. Sometimes, that brief moment of respite is all we get. Reading over the pieces in our Anxiety issue, I have had the immense pleasure of kindred experience. Mental health struggles can isolate us, but this collection is proof that none of us, no matter how solitary we feel, are ever really alone. Every one of our writers and artists have brought their unique experience to the page, and it’s been the editors’ and staff’s great responsibility and honor to compile them into something tender and tangible. The beauty of the magazine is thanks to everyone who contributed to its pages, from those who submitted their writings and art, to our wonderfully creative design team who helped bring the pages together, and our own literary staff that read (and read, and read again) and edited. You all have made this experience worth more than the sum of its parts. Working on this magazine has been the privilege of a lifetime. I’m beyond proud of what we have accomplished this semester, and I can’t thank everyone enough. Thanks for reading. Thanks for taking it in. I’m so happy to be here. I’m so happy we’re all still here. Gabbi Chavarria, Literary Co-Editor ***
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As we re-entered the roaring 20s, the entire country felt great anxiety as the pandemic began its course. People felt a halt as everything from college and work, to music festivals and concerts were suddenly put on pause. Many people needed an outlet for their anxiety, and that’s the beauty of art and literature. Even in unprecedented times, these two things thrived as people turned to writing poems and songs, creating paintings, and even tie-dying clothes as a way to express their feelings and anxieties within the current world. So much art has come from these unforeseen circumstances, and this issue of the NMC Magazine only just touches the surface of all the art to be created and all the stories to be written by these wonderful artists. When we think about anxiety, it is always important to remember that art and literature are just some of the many ways one can cope with anxiety. If you find yourself struggling, always remember there are so many resources out there to help you. For some, listening to music is an outlet (I suggest Taylor Swift, Greta Van Fleet, or Harry Styles), and as you went through the magazine, many people shared their playlists as a way to help. If none of that is for you, according to the ADAA you can do anything from taking a time-out, eating well-balanced meals, getting enough sleep, exercising daily, taking deep breaths, accepting you cannot control everything, welcoming humor, maintaining a positive attitude, learning what triggers your anxiety, or talking to someone. And the list continues. After 4 semesters on the magazine staff, first as a design team member, then as design co-editor and full design editor, this is my final semester with the magazine, and I couldn’t be more proud of everyone involved. From those who submitted, to those on staff, I couldn’t have imagined a better team to work with. I thank you as the reader for hearing our stories and appreciating the art created. As you went through this issue, I hope that as you experienced this content, you were gentle with yourself, and maybe from it, you will be inspired to create your own pieces as an outlet.
I wish safety and health for you all, and want to again, remind you to be kind to yourself and be kind to others.
Shelby Bigelow, Editor-in-Chief
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Julia Belden
Lizzie Brown
Grace Lambert
Lit Co-Editor
Lily Moon
Lit Co-Editor
Gabrielle Chavarria
Lit Advisor
Alissia J.R. Lingaur
Staff Page
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Martha Sprout
Dezyrae Batzer
Mikey Sims
Chris Fulton
Design Co-Editor
Editor in Chief
Design Advisor
Caroline Schaefer-Hills
Gabrielle Edgcombe Shelby Bigelow
Design Co-Editor
Kamron Williams
Mental Health Resources National Eating Disorders Association https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/help-support/contact-helpline Call (800) 931-2237 Text (800) 931-2237 Trans Lifeline https://translifeline.org/hotline/ (877) 565-8860 National Suicide Prevention Lifeline https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/ 1-800-273-8255 National Sexual Assault Telephone Hotline https://www.rainn.org/about-national-sexual-assault-telephone-hotline 800.656.HOPE (4673) National Domestic Violence Hotline https://www.thehotline.org/ 1.800.799.SAFE (7233) Finding a Local Therapist https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/therapists/mi/traverse-city In person or over zoom Now Matters Now https://nowmattersnow.org/ For those who struggle with suicidal thoughts (or overwhelming emotions in general). Julia’s favorite mental health crisis website!
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