Adaptations (A Poem)

The human brain is cunning, it acquires you to pain

It can get you used to anything, even not quite being sane

I’m used to feeling tired but not getting any sleep

I’m used to reaching thousands when I’m trying to count sheep

I’m used to leaving parties when anxiety attacks

I’m used to calling parents just to hear a voice speak back

 After days of duvet cover, I’m used to tangling out my mane

And though I know I shouldn’t be, I’m kind of used to pain

Ross Lynn

Thank you for reading. Follow me on Instagram here for more of my writings.

Breathing – Diary Extract 5

I don’t think people take into account, not how hard it is to study or to work with depression, or even to function with it. But the effort and energy required to merely exist. To wake up in the morning and say “All I have to do today is breathe and make no attempt to try and stop and if the sun goes down today and I’m still breathing, then I have succeeded”.

Ross Lynn

Thank you for reading. Find more of my writings on my instagram.

Depression is…

Recently I find myself battling with the idea that I’m facing a legitimate disease and have had to spend a considerate amount of time convincing myself and the world otherwise.  Trying to make them see that I’m not just lazily sitting pretty on my bed doing nothing.

Cause Depression isn’t pretty, it isn’t all red healed lines on white pale skin.

It isn’t an aesthetic.

It isn’t Tumblr worthy.

A lot of the times it’s just a residue of oily skin. It’s a break out of painful cysts on your face. It’s a deep deep hunger, where you keep eating even though the eating hurts, but the sensation of taste on your tongue is the only thing distracting you from the sensation of pain everywhere else.

It’s 50 missed calls on your phone, 100 unread emails, 10 undone assignments.

It’s a gap year, and then two, and then three , until you give up on calling it a break and it just becomes life.

It’s body odours and ashy skin.

It’s flooded apartments that can’t be bothered to be mopped up.

It’s hoodies, and jackets, and sneakers, a neutral uniform attempting to cover up what’s really going on inside.

It’s yelled out conversations with your mother

There aren’t 3 seasons.

You don’t join the 27 club.

You disjoin your own family.

It’s everything but your next mood.

It’s everything but a metaphor.

It’s a real actual disease.

And I wish people would actually see that

Ross Lynn

P.S I post a lot of my writing on Instagram, for more follow here.

Weekly Writing Prompt 1

If you look back far enough you can see it coming.

Red lipstick stains on soda cans, mouth pressed tightly so they could never see that you weren’t swallowing.

After dinner bathroom breaks that were always spent with the tap conveniently on full blast.

Offers of popcorn and Pringles and muffins routinely declined because you had always “unfortunately” just eaten.

This was all done again and again, measured against a scale and if the results weren’t adequate you just tightened the schedule, increased the dosage. 

Subconsciously you had always blamed your mother. She was both the cause and the symptom of a generation of women who were taught the best they had to offer could be seen in the white of their smile, the length of their long skinny hairless legs. Consciously, you always blamed yourself; for being unable to put down the fork after the fifth time it had entered your mouth, for thinking that your fries needed ketchup – for thinking that you needed fries at all.

You may be smart and you may be brilliant. But the world didn’t want or need you to be any of those things, it wanted you to be pretty. And what was prettier than a stomach gradually caving in and thighs that didn’t even brush against each other when you walked?

What was prettier than each calorie obsessively measured by an app before you even risked buying it? What was prettier than purging your stomach of all of its contents if you thought that you had indulged more than absolutely necessary? What was prettier than no carbs, no sugar, no meat, no fat and no dairy?  What was prettier than restraint?

Ross Lynn


Stop pulling on my fingers

Stop tugging on my braids

Quit breathing over me in sleep so all my lighting fades

Stop humming in my eardrums

Stop singing while I sleep

And telling me I have no right to sadness due to keep

There’s someone else who wants you

I’m sure she’ll understand

I’m sure she’ll love the melancholic tugging on her hand

So if you’d be so kindly

My light you should not take

Go find some other lonely girl’s depression to awake

Ross Lynn