depression press

She is a library. A mess of words. Of thoughts unspoken. She is a thousand pages, all waiting to be read. Touched.

All she needs is for someone to take her off the shelf.

—  she’s the kind of book only the heart could understand || Monica Lynn
5sos as things my very drunk friends have said

ashton: “i paid four dollars on this beer, i don’t care how sick i feel, i’m gonna finish it" 

“who the fuck is this jesus guy? the only lord and savior i know is harry styles”

calum: "i’m presso-depresso. it might sound like a type of starbucks drink, but it actually means i’m pressed by depression”

drunk friend: *starts crying*

even drunker friend: i know, the president of the united states can have that effect on a lot of people

michael: “you need a good set of balls to be a fairy" 

"listen, i’m a good christian” *chugs down shot of tequila without even taking a breath* “but i will suck a dick" 

luke: "hey y'all look, the floor is my sober self!” *jumps like an inch off the ground and then manages to knock over a plant pot*

“why is it called wild salmon? did they not train it properly?" 

"is the jewish church called the anti-jesus church?”

You wanted a war
when all I wanted
was peace.

When I tried
to wave the white flag;
you shot it down.

You silenced my words
before they could
be uttered with
sounds of gunfire
and distant keening.

You stabbed a friend
in the back–
abandoned family
for fame.

It will only dawn on you
how much you
needed an ally
when every gun is pointed
directly at you.

—  There is no love in war || Monica Lynn
I am more than just this body,
just this skin.
Yet people look at me
and can’t see within.
They don’t care about me
or what I have to say.
They just want to use me,
then toss me far away.
I have known this since
I was about five:
That women are useless
and only good for a night.
Our mouths should
stay shut.
Our faces made up.
They’re only listening
when we’re being fucked.
But I am sick of being
visually undressed.
Of living and breathing
and even sleeping in stress.
I don’t want to be
just a sock on your door.
I know I am worth more
than being your whore.
So wake the hell up and
actually listen:
I am much more
than simply soft skin.
—  I am feminism || Monica Lynn

I’d like to thank the American Dialect Society for giving me one thing to laugh about today.

Time left me
faster than any lover could.

I blinked,
and five years flew
right out the window…
never to be seen again.

Every now and then,
I catch wind of some
I want to go back–
I want to be that girl again.

But five years from now,
time will have
taken even more.

Who knows where
I’ll want to be
by then..
where I’ll want to go.

—  5 years from now || Monica Lynn
in the down

the absolute turmoil -  yoongi/ofc drabble series
part one

words: 1,559
warnings for mental illness and related mature themes.

go here for more info on this drabble series

Originally posted by dreamyoongi

Swallowing, she accepts the call and hits the speaker button while simultaneously pausing her fourth-in-a-row rerun episode of Project Runway.

“Hey,” she says into the room and the mic of her phone.

“Hey,” Yoongi’s voice comes through the speaker, his deep voice slightly muffled from the terrible phone service she gets. “How are you doing?”

She clears her throat and answers, “Well, I just ate three packets of Annie’s gummy bunnies for dinner, so that probably answers your question.”

“That bad, huh?” he asks. She’s silent, and she hears him sigh over the increasing crackle of a poor-quality phone call. “Mina, I wish you’d talk to me.”

Her laugh comes out strangled and she looks up at the ceiling of her apartment. “I just… I feel like I’ve said everything I can say. At least without repeating myself, you know?”

“I know you – repeating–”

“–Yoongi, I’m sorry, I can’t hear shit again, you know my service is so bad. Text me?”

“No, I hate – about stuff like thi – coming over, okay?”

He either ends the call before she can answer or it drops altogether and Mina lets out an ugh. She contemplates a quick shower before he gets to her place–she’ll have time. She knows for certain he’ll pick up food first, unsatisfied with her sugar-and-gelatin dinner. Her hair is just in need of a wash, and while her face was clean and dewy with what felt like a thirty-step skincare routine, she knew her dark circles were more purpled than usual and her skin-tone was looking a bit on the sallow side.

Keep reading

I take
another drink when I know
I should be answering your calls.
I’m the
kind of person who shows their
heart through bulletproof walls.
—  I’m bad and I thought you knew that || Monica Lynn

anonymous asked:

AAAAA oh god pleasse do lams 25!! i adore you and your writing!


“What the hell,” John grumbles angrily, flipping through the school paper in frustration. His article has been bumped, again, replaced with something whoever this A. Ham kid has written. He huffs through his nose, annoyed. The pages crinkle a little as he lets his tension out through his fists, and he wants to ball up the entire paper and then jump on it, but he doesn’t want to cause a scene in the middle of the hallway.

That article was good, damnit. He worked hard on it. Angelica promised him that it’d get in, and yet again he’s been passed up. John wants to punch that A. Ham kid in the face, whoever the fuck they are.

He puts in extra effort over the next week, finding the most interesting and topical subject he can and editing and polishing until it’s perfect. He pesters Angelica until she all but promises him in blood that it’ll get in, and grins in smug satisfaction when he reads his article, which he knows off by heart at this point, in the paper the next week.

A. Ham isn’t anywhere in the paper. John checked. Twice.

He’s smiling over a particular turn of phrase that he’s really proud of when he’s jolted out of it by someone yelling from the other end of the hallway.

“Hey!” an angry looking short boy with very nearly ink black hair tied up in a ribbon of all things is waving his arms and stomping down the hallway, eyes on John, headed towards him like a missile.

“Uh,” John says, stumped. “Do I know you?”

“You’re J. Laurens right?” the guy snaps. His nostrils are flared. John’s reminded of his baby sister seconds before she throws a temper tantrum and hastily moves his bag in front of his crotch, lest this kid decides to knee him in the nuts.

“Yes,” he confirms slowly, warily.

“I’m A. Ham,” the kid says firmly, holding out his hand. “Alexander,” and John finds himself nearly getting his arm pulled out of his socket with the force of the handshake.

“John,” he provides faintly. “But most people call me Jack.”

“Don’t ever call me Alex,” Alexander warns, and John quickly lets go of his hand. This guy is intense, what the fuck. His eyes are like deep dark wells, endless, and John feels a bit entranced.

“Anyway,” Alexander continues like he didn’t just implicitly threaten John, “I wanted to talk to you about your article. Although I enjoyed reading it, I don’t think my piece deserved to get tossed and replaced by yours.”

John bristles, offended. “Excuse me, my pieces have been getting bumped for weeks because of you,” he hisses.

Alexander narrows his eyes. “Maybe that’s because my pieces are better than yours,” and all of John’s patience flies out of the window.

“What the fuck, dude, you don’t get to decide that. My work is good, it was a staple of the paper until you turned up and ruined everything. It’s not my fault that your work this week was subpar and mine was superior.”

Alexander’s mouth drops open. “You’ve not even read the article I wrote for this week! No one has! Because it’s not in the paper!”

“You’ve not read my articles for all the weeks you were in the paper and I wasn’t either!” John retorts. “Who gives you the right to say yours is better than mine?”

“Fine,” Alexander says through gritted teeth. “We’ll ask Angelica.”

Angelica takes one look at them and starts shaking her head. “No, no, I am not doing this, you can take your pissing contest somewhere else.”

“Angie,” John tries, “Just settle this one thing between us and then we’ll be out of your hair, I swear. Just… Who’s writing is better, mine or his?”

Angelica pinches the bridge of her nose. “I am not doing this. Both of you are brilliant. If I had my way you’d both be in the paper, but we don’t have enough room for two political commentaries every week. People would find it too depressing to read!”

“But-” Alexander starts, but Angelica holds up her hand to halt him. “No, I’m done with this, I have actual work to do. See you boys around,” and with that she’s gone.

John crosses his arms. Damn her for being so reasonable.

“What does she mean there’s not enough room for two political commentaries? The whole paper would be political commentary if I had my way. Who cares if people think it’s depressing, the press is there to inform and present the world. They can’t just bury their heads in the sand and pretend it’s not happening. This is the political climate we’ll be going into when we graduate, we need to know as much about it as possible!” Alexander rants, and John finds himself nodding.

“People are dumb,” he says, and Alexander nods his head vehemently in agreement.

“Oh well,” he says, “I guess we’ll just have to write our own paper, huh?”

John blinks at him. “What?”

“You in? We could go half and half. That way we’d both be in the paper and we’d get to write as much as we want about whatever we want.”

John stares at him, at his big earnest eyes, and then smiles slowly. “I’m in,” he holds his hand out for Alexander to shake.

“Hey!” he yelps, when Alexander nearly pulls his shoulder from his socket, for the second time. “I need that arm to write with!”

“You mean you’re not ambidextrous?” Alexander tilts his head, smirking. “I guess I am better than you, after all.”

But maybe I was too bright
a flame for you to handle
and instead of warming your hands
you got burned
when you tried to get close.

fun way to tell someone you’re sad is to go “I’m very depressed” but put the emphasis on the first syllable of depressed “I’m very DE-pressed” like an old southerner

But sometimes something happens to a person and they just shut down. They stop. And everything they were good at suddenly turns to dust in their hands. Just falls apart.

And sometimes, a person can rise up from their knees and stand tall. With help or without. And suddenly, that dust can turn into gold.

The real Donald Trump has stood up… again.

There will be no pivot. There never was going to be.

There will be no becoming presidential. There never was going to be.

There will be no humility. No decorum. No sense of justice or empathy. There never was going to be.

We are far past the time for excuses, for anyone.

In one of the most surreal and depressing presidential press conferences ever, Mr. Trump said what most people dreaded but already knew. His blatant false equivalence between Nazis and those who oppose them that he said on Saturday, that’s how he really feels - times a thousand.

With any other president this would be unbelievable. But with Mr. Trump it is all too believable. It is clear that he doesn’t consider himself to be the President of the United States of America - no matter what his official job title says. Down where he lives he is the president of his base, which includes a lot of bigots and even Nazis and members of the Klan. Not everyone who voted for him is in this category, not nearly. But they make up a large majority of his personal base. And thankfully for all of us, this is a distinct (but frightening) minority of our nation. The vast majority of Americans are decent people of conscience. And I believe in the end this vast majority will prevail.

The question is whether those who defend the President, or seeks to normalize him or change the subject, will be seen as worse than enablers. Will they be viewed by history as sympathizers to the worst instincts of American hatred?

—  Dan Rather
Conor Maynard - This Is My Version

Anon:  (This is now my third request since your last post sorry lol) but maybe one where your best friends are Conor and Jack and your going through a bad breakup and they help you through it (basing it off of This is My Version?? HONESTLY MY FAVE SONG EVER) Also you’re such an amazing writer ❤️❤️

Requested: Yes

A/N:  I know this is a little different from my usual writing style but somehow it made sense for this particular imagine. I tried a few different things but this was the only one that seemed to work. Also this was something very personal to write, so if it seems a bit off, I’m sorry. I hope you guys like it anyway. Let me know what you think, if you even notice the difference and if you like it better.

Word Count: 2150

They said time healed all wounds. You believed it. But that time had not come for you yet. So, you sat waiting. You waited for time to heal. It seemed time had other plans though.

Four months had passed.

The logical part of you had accepted it. But of course, the naïve little girl who grew up on Disney tales and stories of happily ever after still had hope. I mean all of them had happy endings, didn’t they?

Sat on Conor’s bed, with your laptop perched on your legs, your eyes remained glued to the screen. Conor had probably assumed you were doing work, seeing as you hadn’t spoken in a while, your focus mainly on the bright screen before you.

The tears wouldn’t flow anymore. Even they had reached its end, you thought. Ben’s old shirt hung loosely on shoulders, the fabric coming to rest mid-thigh. Even though the shirt had become yours a long time ago, everything about it reminded you of him, even more so after the break-up.

Conor got up from his position at his desk, moving to the bed. He sat by the side, facing you, one hand resting on your knee. As he sat down, his eyes automatically found its way to the screen. A sigh escaped his lips as he saw the pictures on your screen. “I should’ve guessed shouldn’t I?”

You didn’t meet his eyes. You couldn’t. An empty gaping hole was left somewhere in you. Maybe you were pushing the blame around, but you attributed the lack of you, to the situation you were in. Had things not turned out the way you had hoped, everything would have remained the same. Same was good, right?

A tear slipped out of the corner of your eye. Conor’s pulled your laptop away, closing it shut, and placed it on the other side of the bed. His hands reached up to cup your face, gently running his thumb under your chin.

“I know it still hurts love, but you can’t stay in the past. You gotta live in the present”, he spoke.

Laughing, you responded, “Easier said, yeah?”

“There’s a party tonight. One of Joe and Caspar’s friends I think. We’ve all met a while ago and everyone’s invited”, he tried to tempt you.

Before the break-up, you were never one to turn down a chance to party. It wasn’t that you got wasted at every party, you just knew how to have some fun. Besides, the occasional drunkenness was always allowed.

“C’mon love. Baby steps? I can’t watch you wallow in self-pity and lead yourself to depression”, he pressed on. “Really though, you’re not gonna end up in a good place if this continues. And I do not want to see you like that.”

A smile crept onto your face. “I could do with it I guess.”

“YEAH!” he cheered. “That’s my girl! Party’s around 8.” A satisfied smile was plastered on his face.

Rolling your eyes, you head to your room across the hall. It was almost 5pm, which left you with more than enough time to get ready, but you knew the difficult part would be finding an outfit.

Conor mentioned that everyone was invited. You had to look good seeing as you could bump into anyone at the party. And your friends would definitely point all fingers to your broken heart if you didn’t show up at your best.

8pm had come and gone. Out of the three boys you lived with, one had still yet to appear. You were sat on the sofa with Jack and Josh, waiting for the diva to finish getting ready. At long last he emerged, not appearing to aware that he had made the lot of you late.

“Sure the party hasn’t ended yet?” Josh joked.

You got into your Uber, mocking Conor on your way. The party was in full swing when you arrived. No surprise considering how late you were. You were not too bothered if truth be told. It was always more fun being late than the first one to a party.

The night went great. You got to spend some time with a couple of your friends, having cut yourself off a little bit for a while. This was what you needed. The energy level was definitely getting to you. You were having way too much fun, but you let yourself have it.

After a while of dancing, your feet started to ache, but there was this newfound energy and excitement in you. You hadn’t the slightest intention in retreating from the makeshift dancefloor. Most of the friends you were dancing with had left the dancefloor, leaving you with someone you considered to be more of a mutual. She beckoned you over, since there was previously a considerable number of people between you. You shimmied your way over through the mass of sweaty bodies. Some even grinding on you as you passed them.

You bumped into a couple that was in the middle of a make out session. You were about to manoeuvre around them, but you stopped short when you looked up. You felt tears well up in your eyes. Blinking them away, you did your best to stand tall in front of the happy couple. Words were not in your favour right then, seeing as you could not utter a single one.

“Hey (Y/N)”, the guy before you said, his voice rather soft. The girl next to him stayed silent, trying her best to avoid looking at you.

“Hi”, was all you managed. You nodded at the girl, making the first move.

There was no response from her. Instead, it came from the boy. “So how’ve you been?”

You let out a dry chuckle. “You’re one hell of a guy aren’t you. Break up over text after I find out you were cheating on me with my best friend. And only because I called you out, when one of my girls caught you two together. And now after four months, you ask me how I am in the middle of a dancefloor, dangling my best friend on your arm.” A sinister smile took over your face, “I’m fantastic, babe.”

He looked at you, loss for word. You turned away from him, looking to the girl you once considered your best friend. The girl whose house you spent more time at than your own. The girl who treated whose family treated you as if you were their own. The girl who you despite not always spending time together was there when you needed a shoulder to cry on. That girl now stood beside the boy who used to love you. That girl could not look you in the eyes. That girl wanted nothing more than to be done with this conversation.

“Don’t have anything to say to your best friend?” you mocked.

Greeted back with silence, you turned around to leave, only to be pulled back. The hand holding on to your arm was all too familiar. It was the hand that held yours every day and would have been there to wipe away the tears that were now threatening to spill over.

You raised an eyebrow at him in question. “I’m sorry. Look I never meant for that to happen. It just did. I couldn’t-“

“No.” you stopped him. “You could. Whatever it was, it didn’t have to happen that way. But it did, because you chose that.”

You mustered up the widest, most genuine smile you could, and turned around to leave. You pushed through the crowd, with no intention of joining your friend anymore. Your sole purpose at this moment was to find an exit. Your body craved fresh air and peace. You wanted to be alone at this moment.

You made your way to the backyard. A handful of people littered the grassy patches, but it was peaceful enough where no one would notice you. Most of them were smoking something anyway. You walked as far out a you could, creating as big a gap between you and everyone else. The tears had fallen even before you could make it to seclusion. Leaning on the low brick wall, you let the tears fall freely, heaving heavily as memories flooded back.

Looking up at the night sky, you had never felt more alone despite the huge crowd just meters away from you. You wanted to numb the pain that was resurfacing.

Not too long after securing your peace, you felt a hand brushing your matted hair out of the place. You looked up to see a worried expression on Conor. As soon as his eyes fell on your tear stained face, he let out a soft “fuck”, and pulled you into his arms.

“(Y/F/N) told me what happened”, he said, referring to the girl you were dancing with earlier on. “What did he do?”

“Nothing. Nothing happened”, you replied.

Conor raised his eyebrows at you.

“He didn’t do anything”, your voice quavering. “Neither did she. You’d think they’d both feel an ounce of remorse. No, they were perfectly happy fucking behind my back before, and now they’re just glad they can do it in my face.” You tried to stay angry, so you would not break down.

Right as Conor was about to speak, a figure came rushing at the pair of you. “(Y/N)!”

Conor’s face grew hard upon seeing the boy who broke your heart. He stepped in front of you, blocking most of your view of the guy in front of you. “What the hell do you want?”

“I just need to talk to (Y/N). I need to explain”, he pleaded. “(Y/N) please? I just wanna talk.”

You stepped around Conor, giving him a look to say you knew what you were doing when he looked incredulously at you. “Go on”, you urged.

The boy you once thought of as a strong man, now stood before you looking unsure and uncomfortable. Scared even, as his eyes shifted behind you to Conor. “Could we go over there?” he asked pointing to an empty area.

The part of you that still loved him was willing to agree. Thankfully you had Conor there, which forced you to appear stronger than you felt. “Here’s good”, you looked straight at him.

He tried to turn away from Conor to block him out of the conversation, but there wasn’t much success.

“Look I know we shouldn’t have gone behind your back. I know that wrong. And I’ve apologised, I’m sorry. But you were my best friend, and I don’t want to lose you completely.”

You looked up at him in shock. “You’re sorry? That might have been the first time you said sorry to my face (Y/Ex-BF/N).”

He kept silent for a bit, looking down at the ground. “I know. And I am really sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I just-”

“But you did”, you cut him off. “You know I can understand falling out of love with someone and falling for someone else. But there are other ways of going about that situation (Y/Ex-BF/N).” Your throat felt chocked up.

“I still love you (Y/N)”, he reached out to hold your hand.

You blinked away the tears, pulling out of his grasp. “But as a best friend.”

A sad smile sat on your face when he didn’t respond. He held your gaze for a while, his eyes piercing through yours. You felt yourself breaking. Your barrier and composure were both crumbling to the ground.

But before it could shatter right in front of him, Conor walked between you both. “I think it’s time you leave’, his voice cold and sharp, very much unlike Conor.

It took a while before he budged, but eventually he walked away with a sad smile on his face. The look on his face told you enough. He had given up. He was not going to try again. He may have said you were his best friend, and that’s exactly it, you were. It was all in the past. Somehow, she had managed to wrap him around her finger. To him, you were a thing of the past. Nothing more. It was time to close that door.

You were brought out your bubble of thoughts by Conor’s concern. A lone tear escaped your eyes. Conor reached out, pulling you into his embrace. As you stayed in his arms, a new, fresh feeling washed over you.

“I think I’m okay”, you pulled away from him, that sentence almost coming out as a question.

His eyebrows rose in question. “You sure ‘bout that?”

Nodding, you responded, “Yeah, or I’m getting there at least.”

There was a hint of pain visible on Conor. “I just don’t like seeing you like that. I don’t like what he made you become. And I really never want to see you like that again.”

“It can only get better right?”


The ends of Earth, the depths of the sea, the darkness of time, you have chosen all three.
—  E.M. Forster