Just months into the marriage, I’d suspected that I’d made a mistake, but whenever that recognition descended, I shook it off. I told myself that I had seized control of my life.
Sitting in the pew of a small, Mexican church and hearing the tears of a broken family while Mother Mary looked down upon them. Same pain, different name.
I heard about the end in July 2017, only a few months after Chris Cornell took his life, and a part of my youth seemed to die with you.
After Stevo so kindly triggered my discharge from Riverside, I settled in happily with a foster family and went back to school. I told no one about my summer, but I played And She Was nonstop.
I’ve been in the emergency psych ward for about 24 hours. There’s not much to do besides talking to other patients, and I’m feeling restless. I have three songs from Wave, the latest Patrick Watson album.
One of the romantic things Heaven and Driver did when they weren't Frenching in the driveway was make mixtapes for each other. I helped. One summer afternoon, Driver and I made a tape for Heaven.
It is a source of quiet pride – and privilege - that nearly a dozen contributors to Stereo Stories have entrusted their accounts of mental health with us.
Dreaming made the emptiness I felt less demanding, but there was a hole inside of me. The Trophy Eyes song helps me find my way.
Every morning he switches on the radio to my favourite station. He hopes it will help. Most of the time I barely notice it.
I had always imagined myself with tattoos. I saw myself covered in blackwork ink, beautiful artwork, and lyrics that meant something – but I was scared about getting one. With your first tattoo, you don't know what to expect. Is it painful? What if it gets infected? What if it turns out terribly?