Mental health short stories 2025

Lottie5433

So i have decided at i think im ready to share my stories with the community, its been on my mind d for a while whether I share them or not just because each story highlight aspects of my life that i have go through and ultimately lead to me being where I am currently.
Although I have hidden these struggles for years from people and may not have been honest with those who have supported me - i think I just needed the time and space to actually be ready to figure out and work on these issues.

Each story shares an aspect of my life that ive hidden for so long. But I feel the time has come to share my story..
I chose to do it this way, giving each part its own piece so I myself can come to terms with what happened and so i don't feel so attached or controlled by the past.
I want to be in control of my future life and not be guided by my past. Its time to release the grip and let each of my demons that have ruled my life for too long now. It's time to take the wheel and steer my life to where I want to be !

ps i just want to make all aware that I am safe, and these depict past events that have happened in my life

I hope this highlights to others you can make it through tricky and tough paths, it may not happen instantly it may be a long exhausting battle until you find peace and the past no longer bares the hurt it once did.

If anyone ever need to chat I'm always available on boards if needed 💛

Lottie5433

"A Ray of Hope"

TW: depression, anxiety, isolation, emotional distress, disordered eating, social withdrawal, and hopelessness

Mira sat at the edge of her bed, staring at the pale gray walls of her apartment. The room felt like it was shrinking. She wanted to open the window for air, but there were no windows. Not anymore.

Three weeks ago, she had stopped drawing the curtains. The world outside felt too overwhelming—too loud, too bright, too much. So she’d taped blankets over the glass, muting the sunlight and muffling the sounds of cars and people. At first, it felt like safety. Now, it felt like a cage.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, the sharp vibration breaking the heavy silence. She glanced at it but didn’t reach for it. Another missed text from her best friend, Nadia.

Hey, just checking in. Wanna grab coffee? No pressure.

Mira sighed and let the phone go dark again. She didn’t have the energy to explain why she couldn’t face a coffee shop full of strangers. Why she couldn’t even face herself.

The shadows in the room grew longer, and the weight on her chest heavier. It wasn’t like she hadn’t tried to fight this thing—this relentless fog that pulled her under. She’d gone to therapy, tried journaling, even bought one of those plants people swore would make you feel alive again. The plant sat wilting on her kitchen counter now, another silent witness to her failure.

Her stomach growled, but she ignored it. Hunger had become just another dull ache, blending in with all the others.

Suddenly, there was a knock at her door. Mira froze. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

“Mira, it’s me,” a voice called softly. Nadia.

Mira clenched her fists. Why couldn’t she just leave her alone?

“I know you’re in there,” Nadia continued. Her voice was calm, but firm, the way you’d talk to a frightened animal. “You don’t have to open the door, but… I brought you something. It’s on the step.”

There was a pause, then the sound of footsteps retreating down the hallway. Mira didn’t move for a long time, her heart thudding in her chest. Finally, curiosity—or maybe guilt—pushed her off the bed.
She cracked the door open just enough to see a small package on the floor: a brown paper bag with a sticky note attached.

“For the days that feel impossible. Love, N.”

Inside the bag was a warm container of soup, a slice of bread, and a tiny potted cactus. Mira stared at the cactus for a long time. It was small and spiky, but somehow… alive.

She set the bag on the kitchen counter, next to the dying plant. For the first time in weeks, she poured herself a bowl of soup.

As she ate, she kept glancing at the cactus. It didn’t need much to survive—just a little water and sunlight. Maybe she could manage that.

Maybe, tomorrow, she could pull the blanket off the window.

Lottie5433

Outlasting the Storm

TW: depression, loneliness, sadness, isolation, anxiety, self-doubt, implied suicidal ideation, and emotional distress

The rain beat against the window as if it were trying to break through. Riley sat on the edge of her bed, knees pulled up to her chest, staring at the water streaming down the glass. The world outside seemed so relentless, so alive. Meanwhile, she felt empty—like a hollowed-out shell that couldn’t keep pace anymore.

At 27, Riley was tired. Not the kind of tired you fix with sleep or coffee, but the deep weariness that settles in the bones when every day feels like a battle. She had struggled with her mental health for years: the unshakable weight of depression, the anxiety that turned her thoughts into blizzards of what-ifs, and the sharp loneliness that followed. Life had become a series of half-finished attempts and friends who, despite their love, didn’t quite understand.

She used to have more of them—friends who laughed with her in college, stayed up late watching movies, and swore they’d all grow old together. But over time, their lives moved forward while Riley’s felt like it was folding in on itself. They got jobs and promotions. They fell in love, got married, and had babies. Whenever she saw their pictures online—smiling faces, milestones reached—she felt both happy for them and utterly left behind.

“I’m so sorry I’ve been distant,” she had texted Jenna a month ago, her last remaining close friend. Jenna responded warmly, as always, but it was hard to ignore the gap growing between them. Riley canceled plans more often than not, her excuses varying but her reasons the same: the energy to leave the house just wasn’t there. After enough cancellations, the invitations dwindled.

Today marked her fifth day without speaking to anyone. The silence felt like it might consume her. She’d scrolled through her phone earlier, hovering over contacts she hadn’t messaged in months. “I should call someone,” she whispered to herself. But what would she even say? The truth? That every time she tried to explain her struggle, the words came out wrong? That despite people telling her to “reach out,” she couldn’t shake the guilt that she was a burden?

Instead, she stayed quiet. Quiet had become safe. Quiet didn’t ask questions she couldn’t answer.
Outside, the sky darkened, and the rain picked up. Riley could hear the faint sound of cars splashing through puddles on the street below. In some distant part of her mind, she imagined people heading home to warm houses, to dinners with family or movie nights with friends. That life felt a universe away, untouchable.

As the evening wore on, she grabbed her journal—a battered notebook that had become her only confidante. The pages were already filled with tear-streaked entries and half-formed thoughts. She opened to a fresh page and, with trembling hands, began to write:

“I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this—watching everyone else move forward while I’m stuck here. I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a storm, screaming for someone to hear me, but no one turns around. Maybe they’ve given up on me. Maybe I’m not worth saving.”

She stopped, pen hovering above the paper as tears spilled onto her cheeks. She hated feeling this way—resentful, hopeless, invisible—but she didn’t know how to stop it. The isolation only made it worse. She’d convinced herself that everyone else had outlasted her—that she was the friend they once loved but now quietly mourned.

But then, a notification lit up her phone. A text. Jenna.

“Hey. I know we haven’t talked in a while, but I just wanted to let you know I’m here. No judgment, no pressure. I miss you, Riley. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Riley stared at the message, her vision blurring with tears. She re-read it a dozen times, trying to absorb it. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was enough. Enough to remind her that not everyone had left. That maybe, even if she couldn’t see it, someone was still standing in the storm with her.

She picked up her phone and, after a long pause, typed back:

“I miss you too. I’m not okay, but I’m glad you’re here.”

It felt small, fragile even, but it was a start. And sometimes, when you feel abandoned and outlasted, the smallest step can feel like a victory. Riley didn’t know if she could outrun the storm, but tonight, she’d decided not to let it drown her.

eylah

love this lottie hugs 🫂

Lottie5433

Silent Storms

[TW: depression, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, bullying, emotional abuse, implied childhood abuse, domestic struggles (Family conflict, financial hardship, and lack of emotional support at home.), isolation, suppressed emotions, Anxiety, and hopelessness]

The girl’s name was Kara. At seventeen, she had mastered the art of disappearing in plain sight. Each morning, she rose with the sun, her face meticulously arranged into an expression of calm that betrayed none of the chaos within. Her family would see her bright smile as she floated through the house, effortlessly engaging in small talk. No one noticed how her hands trembled when she reached for her coffee cup.

Kara’s days were a battlefield. Not one fought with swords or guns, but with the unrelenting voices in her mind. They whispered cruel things, accusations born from years of bullying in school, where she was the quiet, awkward girl too shy to fight back. Words like freak and worthless had sunk deep into her skin, scars invisible to the world. Even at home, there was no escape. Money was tight, arguments frequent, and love scarce. Her father’s angry voice and her mother’s defeated silence had taught her long ago that she was on her own.

And then there was the abuse—a secret so heavy it left her gasping for air when she was alone at night. She tried to push it down, to forget it ever happened, but the memories came unbidden, sharp and unforgiving.

She had become a master of pretending. She laughed at jokes she didn’t find funny. She said "I'm fine" even when her throat tightened around the words. Kara didn’t want her family or friends to worry. They had their own struggles, and she didn’t want to be a burden. So she carried her pain alone, her fake smile a fragile mask that hid the cracks in her soul.

But inside, the storm raged. The thoughts of self-harm came in waves, uninvited but persistent. They told her she didn’t deserve to be here, that the pain would stop if she just let go. She hated how seductive those thoughts were, how they whispered promises of peace. But Kara fought them every day, clutching to a thread of hope so thin it sometimes felt imaginary.

There were moments, though, that pulled her back from the edge. A kind word from a stranger. The way sunlight painted the world gold just before sunset. The laughter of a little girl she saw at the park one afternoon. These small, fleeting moments reminded her that the world could still hold beauty, even if she couldn’t feel it fully.

One night, as the weight of everything threatened to crush her, Kara did something she’d never done before. She picked up a pen and began to write. She wrote about the bullying, the abuse, the financial struggles, and the relentless fight against her own mind. The words poured out of her, raw and unfiltered, filling page after page. For the first time, she wasn’t pretending. She was honest—brutally, painfully honest.

When she finished, Kara sat back and stared at the notebook. It was the first time she’d ever given her pain a voice. It didn’t fix everything. The storm inside her still raged. But there was something different now—a small spark of release, a tiny sliver of relief.
Kara didn’t wake up the next day miraculously healed. She still had to fight the same battles. But she kept writing, pouring her thoughts onto the page every night. She began to consider that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to fight alone. She thought about reaching out—not with her practiced smile and hollow "I’m fines," but with the truth. The idea terrified her, but it also felt like the only way forward.

As she walked to school that morning, her mask firmly in place, she passed a tree with delicate, pale blossoms. She stopped and stared at it, mesmerized. It was the middle of winter—far too cold for flowers. But there it was, blooming anyway, defying the season.

Kara took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, or if she could keep fighting. But for now, she would try. She owed herself that much.
For the first time in years, Kara allowed a real smile to touch her lips. It wasn’t big, and it wasn’t bright. But it was real.

Lottie5433

Silent Nights: A Holiday Struggle

[TW: eating disorders, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, depression, anxiety, family struggles]

The house was filled with the smell of cinnamon, pine, and something too sweet—like sugar cookies that had spent too much time in the oven. Sarah sat in the corner of the living room, pretending to scroll on her phone as her younger siblings decorated the Christmas tree. Their laughter punctuated the air, light and carefree, in stark contrast to the oppressive heaviness sitting in her chest.
Christmas was supposed to be the happiest time of the year, but for Sarah, it was the loneliest. With school on break and therapy sessions paused for the holidays, the fragile structure she’d built to keep herself afloat had crumbled. At school, she could hide in the library, sink into her journal, or reach out to her counselor when the pressure built too high. But here—at home—there were no escapes. Just endless days of family cheer and bright lights that felt like they were mocking her darkness.
Meals were the hardest. Every evening, her mom would place a plate heaped with holiday foods in front of her, coaxing, “You’ve got to eat more, sweetheart. It’s Christmas!” Sarah could feel the stares of her family as she pushed food around her plate, her stomach a tangled knot of shame and fear. They didn’t understand how loud the voice in her head was—the one that told her eating would make her worthless, unlovable. That same voice whispered cruel reminders of every imperfection when she caught her reflection in the glass ornaments on the tree.
When the pressure became too much, Sarah would slip away to the bathroom and lock the door. Her trembling fingers would find the razor hidden behind the sink. For a few moments, the sharp sting on her skin drowned out the screaming in her mind. It was a release, a way to silence the relentless self-loathing. But afterward, guilt would flood her like a wave, and she’d wrap her arms around her knees, feeling small and hollow.
The nights were the worst. In the silence of her room, the weight of everything—her eating disorder, the scars on her arms, the unshakable feeling that she didn’t belong—pressed down on her chest. She thought about the bottles of pills in the cabinet downstairs and wondered if the pain would finally stop if she just… stopped.
Her family didn’t notice, or maybe they just didn’t know how to. They saw the surface—a tired girl who didn’t smile much, who stayed in bed too long and barely ate. But they didn’t see the storm inside her. Even when her mom would knock gently and ask, “Are you okay, honey?” Sarah would force a tight smile and say, “I’m fine,” because it was easier than explaining why she wasn’t.
One afternoon, a week before Christmas, Sarah sat by the window watching the snow fall. It was quiet, except for the hum of the heater. She clutched her journal to her chest, feeling the pull to write down everything she was too scared to say out loud. But instead, she opened it to a blank page and stared, her pen hovering over the paper. The words wouldn’t come. What was the point? Who would care?
And then her phone buzzed. It was a text from Mia, a friend she hadn’t seen since school let out.
“Hey, just checking in. How are you holding up?”
Sarah’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She wanted to lie, to say she was fine, to shut Mia out like she did everyone else. But something in the warmth of that small gesture cracked her resolve. She typed back, slowly.
“Not great. Can we talk?”
The response came almost instantly. “Of course. Call me.”
For the first time in weeks, Sarah felt a flicker of connection, like a tiny light in the vast darkness. She hesitated, staring at the screen, then hit the call button. As Mia’s voice came through the phone, gentle and concerned, Sarah felt her chest tighten—not with despair this time, but with the weight of the words she had been holding back.
“I don’t know how to get through this,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I feel so… broken.”
Mia didn’t try to fix her or offer platitudes. She just listened. And for the first time, Sarah let herself cry—not in secret, but where someone could hear.
The holidays didn’t magically get easier after that call. Sarah still struggled with the family dinners, still fought the urge to harm herself late at night. But Mia’s daily texts became a lifeline, a reminder that someone saw her pain and cared enough to stay.
On Christmas morning, as her family opened presents around the tree, Sarah sat quietly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She wasn’t okay—not yet. But she wasn’t alone. And for now, that was enough.