Tag Archives: mental health

Those Four Words That Send Your Brain Into Overdrive

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What makes you nervous?

It’s funny, the things that can knock you off balance.

Not the big, dramatic moments. Not the obvious stuff you can see coming a mile off. Life has a way of dressing those up with warning signs, flashing lights, a bit of build-up so you can brace yourself.

No… it’s the quiet ones that get you.

The ones that slip in under the radar.

The ones that arrive with no context, no explanation, and absolutely no warning.

“Can we talk?”

That’s it.

No follow-up.
No tone.
No hint as to whether you’re about to be congratulated… or maybe fired.

Just four words, dropped into your day like a stone into still water.

And suddenly, your brain does what brains do best…

It fills in the gaps.

Badly.

You replay every conversation you’ve had in the last week.

Was it something you said?
Something you didn’t say?
Did you miss something obvious?
Did you accidentally offend someone without even realising?

Your mind doesn’t just go to one possibility either—it goes to all of them.

Simultaneously.

Like a greatest hits album of worst-case scenarios.

The thing is—and I’ve learned this the hard way more times than I care to admit—most of the time, it’s nothing.

Or at least… nothing close to what your brain has cooked up.

But that doesn’t stop the initial jolt.

That little spike of unease.

Because, as I’ve scribbled about before, it’s often the unexpected that throws us the most .

We like a bit of warning.
A bit of context.
Something to hold onto so we’re not just guessing in the dark.

“Can we talk?” with no warning is the conversational equivalent of being told to wait outside the headteacher’s office as a kid.

You don’t know why you’re there.

But you’re fairly certain it can’t be for anything good.

And maybe that’s the real point.

It’s not the conversation itself that makes you nervous.

It’s the space before it.

That gap where your mind is left to wander… and inevitably wanders somewhere it shouldn’t.

So if you ever find yourself about to send that message to someone, do them a favour.

Give them a clue.

Save them the internal meltdown.

Because trust me…

Their brain has already written ten different versions of that conversation.

And nine of them end badly.

Stay safe,
Bc

The Place With No Map (And No Way I’m Ever Going Back)

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What place in the world do you never want to visit? Why?

There are plenty of places in this world I haven’t seen yet.

White sandy beaches, bustling cities, and quiet forests where the only sound is your own thoughts echoing back at you.

But if you asked me

“What place do you never want to visit?”

There’s only one answer that comes to mind.

And you can’t find it on any map.

It’s that dark place.

You know the one.

The place where the lights are on, but everything still feels dim.
Where you can be surrounded by people, yet feel like the only person left on earth.
Where your own mind becomes the loudest, cruellest voice in the room.

I’ve been there.

And I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

I remember what it felt like…

Like being swallowed whole by something you couldn’t explain.
Like trying to scream underwater  – all noise, no sound.
Like your own thoughts turning against you, convincing you that the world might be better off without you in it.

That’s the thing about it.

It doesn’t look dramatic from the outside.
No thunder. No lightning. No warning signs flashing in neon.

Just… quiet.

Dangerously quiet.

There’s a line from one of my older scribbles, Gone, that still sticks with me:

“Swallowed by a darkness they can’t escape.” 

And that’s exactly it.

It’s not a place you walk into.

It’s a place that closes in around you.

What makes it worse is how convincing it is.

It tells you things that feel like truth:

  • That you’re alone
  • That you’re a burden
  • That this feeling will never end

And when you’re in that headspace, those lies don’t sound like lies anymore.

They sound like facts.

But here’s the part that doesn’t get talked about enough.

That place lies.

It always lies.

Because I got out.

And if there’s one thing I’ve learned since then, it’s this:

Feelings aren’t permanent, even the worst ones.

As much as that darkness insists it’s forever… it isn’t.

Do I ever want to go back there?

Not a fucking chance.

No return ticket. No sightseeing. No “just popping in for a visit.”

That place can stay exactly where it belongs

In the past.

But I will say this.

If you’re reading this, and you recognise that place…

If you’re there right now, or hovering somewhere close by…

You’re not the only one who’s been there.

Not even close.

And more importantly

You don’t have to stay there.

I’m still here.

Still scribbling, still fighting, still feeling.

And that, in itself, is proof that even the darkest places in the world…

Don’t get to keep you.

Stay safe.

Bc

“This Poem Ends every 40 Seconds”

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Years ago, I learned some truly shocking statistics about suicide—800,000 lives lost every year. That’s one life every 40 seconds. It’s a deeply uncomfortable topic, but it’s one we can’t keep ignoring.

The truth is, suicide is the leading cause of death for men between 20 and 49. And while this affects all men, over 60% of newly-diagnosed autistic adults report having suicidal thoughts.

These numbers are devastating. We’re finally starting to talk more about mental health, but there’s so much more to be done to prevent people from reaching that point. To remind them they’re not alone.

I nearly became a fucking statistic so many times. 

“This Poem Ends Every 40 Seconds”

Every forty seconds
someone ends their own life.

Not a metaphor.
Not a number on a website.
A person.
A real human soul
punched out like a clock card,
because the noise in their head
was louder than any help ever offered.

Forty seconds.
By the time you finish reading this stanza,
someone else is gone.

But we don’t talk about it.
Not really.
We whisper it behind closed doors,
use soft words
like “passed away,”
or “lost them,”
as if they just wandered off into the woods
and forgot to come home.

Mental illness is still a dirty word.
Still something we hide in drawers
with old medication bottles
and family secrets.

We tell people
to “reach out”
but give them nothing to grab onto.

We applaud strength
but punish vulnerability.
We ask, “How are you?”
but only want to hear
“I’m Fine.”

We romanticize broken artists
but ignore the broken people
in our inboxes.
At our dinner tables.
In the mirror.

Some of us scream with silence.
Perfectly dressed.
Perfectly functional.
Perfectly invisible.

The truth is
we lose more people
to quiet despair
than to war or violence.
And still,
we treat therapy like a confession booth,
instead of healthcare.
Still,
we treat emotion like weakness,
and stoicism like bravery.

It’s not brave
to bottle the storm.
It’s brave
to name it.
To say, “I’m not okay.”
To cry in daylight.
To take meds,
see a shrink,
open the wound
and not apologise for bleeding.

If you think this is heavy,
good.
It’s fucking supposed to be.

Because someone you love
is already counting the seconds.
And they don’t need a pep talk.
They need
a world that listens 
before the silence becomes permanent.

(c)BobChristian