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    • Anxiety and Stress Articles
    • Body Image Articles
    • Depression Articles
    • Disorder Articles
    • Eating Disorder Articles
    • Getting Help Articles
    • Mental Health and Others Articles
    • OCD Articles
    • Self-Harm Articles
    • Sleep Problem Articles
    • Social Anxiety Articles
  • LGBTQ+
    • Coming Out Articles
    • Gender Articles
    • Questioning Articles
    • Pride Articles
    • Sexuality Articles
  • Lifestyle
    • Addiction Articles
    • Beauty Articles
    • Growing Up Articles
    • Hobby Articles
    • Healthy Living Articles
    • Modern World Articles
    • Period Articles
    • Sex Articles
    • Sense of Self Articles
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    • College Articles
    • Life Skills Articles
    • Revision Articles
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Spring Cleaning

30/1/2025

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My brain is a mess,
But why bother cleaning it up,
No one’s ever going to walk in,
There’s nothing in here they’ll ever love.

There are a million different things screaming for my attention,
A million different fires that need redirection,
But each time I try to smooth over the traffic,
Another bomb drops and adds to the panic.

Many different things add to the noise:
School, friends, family,
With a plethora of commitments breathing down my neck,
I constantly feel like I’m sick.

It never shows though, it’s carefully tucked away,
Schooled expressions worn as masks to lead onlookers astray,
I can’t afford to take them off,
The dam I’ve been building will crack,
And then no one will want me back.

But,

I’m so tired of this mess,
I need help,
I need help with spring cleaning,
But it’s not even spring yet, maybe I should wait,
Procrastinate,
It’s all that I know how to do.

-Jahannavi

Jahannavi

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Delicate

25/11/2024

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The sunkissed flower is abloom, flourishing in the soft warmth, 
Pollinated by the selfless creature that flew 
Into an undisclosed world, beautifully unaware
Of the ephemerality of her survival.
Nature is innocent, its beauty raw and honest,
But the power that settles over it, like a dark shadow
Is waiting.
While our flourishing is timeless,
Nature is waiting to be tainted
By misuse and the force of its inhabitants; 
where is our love?

Kindness, dripped in sweet honey
Is delicate.
The dainty petals that radiate hope
Droop when their sun is no longer there to protect them
But to painfully tear them apart.
They’re captured, one by one,
Until the seeds of growth are left exposed,
Bleeding until there is nothing 
Left to flourish.
Where is our love?

The shield of peace and purity
Become weapons,
Sharp to the touch;
No longer the soft delicacy they once were.
Ruin and despair,
 Our love vanished.

​​Nicole
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Nothing but a name

25/11/2024

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I regret trying so hard –
Trying even when I knew it wasn’t going to work
Trying even when I didn’t hear from you 
Trying even when I could feel myself crumbling.
Because you weren’t trying – 
Not trying when the distance stretched on
Not trying when the days ticked by 
Not trying when the image of me began to fade.
So now I’m nothing more than a childhood name,
A whisper of a memory.

We started as something more than sisters,
And now I’m nothing but a name. 

I regret not moving on when I left you –
Not letting go when I knew it was time
Not forcing myself to stop when you didn’t respond
For bothering you for so long.
Because you were already moving on –
When I gave you one last hug
When I waved goodbye
When I disappeared from your sight.

We started as something more than sisters
And now I’m nothing but a name.

Nothing but a name that you’ll forget,
Nothing but a memory that will fade,
Nothing but a face you’ll only see in pictures.

I regret letting the doubt in–
Letting myself fall to pieces 
Letting myself think it was my fault
Letting myself cry over you.
Because you weren’t crying. 
You were laughing,
Smiling, 
Forgetting. 

We started as something more than sisters
And now I’m nothing but a name. 

I regret so much, 
But I don’t regret leaving.
Because now I am me,
And you are you,
And we’re where we’re meant to be. 

~Madeline

​
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Afterlife

25/11/2024

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There is no such thing as heaven.
How can there be?
Beautiful, empty words-
Fruition of history and wishful belief.

But I believe in Afterlife.
Not in a paradise or scorching inferno;
But through the sin that is
Intercourse.
Egg meets sperm
Under a million circumstances-
Under the same sun, 
The same moon.

Passing on,
The same blood.
Passing on,
The same basic elements-
That make up life, that sustain life,
That will nourish your son and mine.

How will they see us?
The continuance of our flesh and blood.
How will they live?
The angels with youthful faces and magically renewed life.
When they turn their soft, smooth faces
Backwards, and gaze at the path they’re on-
The path we’ve carried them thus far on-
What will they think?

Do they see wisdom?
Technology, diplomacy, discovery?
Do they see chaos?
War, explosions, plagues?
Do they see beauty?
Art, life, love?

Will they even look?

Everything I am doing
In this life, this short, transitory life
Is to redeem myself 
When I meet my Judgement.
And that, my love,
Will come through the hands of my children.
Therefore you must live,
Live to live on-
Live to pass on-
Our terrible, insignificant legacy.

​Jesse
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from afar

16/8/2024

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Anxiety is watching a blur of cars, their tires gliding swiftly through damp roads,
Drifting                                   --                                     away.
The sound of the crossing delays them-- a moment to breathe;
 A random pause in their flow of movement.
But moments later, they begin their smooth descent
To the known,

Their destination already decided.

Silent tears, the only things that can escape you;
A salty tasty of freedom against your lips,
The only way of knowing your tears are real,
And not just a river being washed from within you,
Turning you into the puddle cars manoeuvre around,
Or splash against, coating pedestrians with despair,
Their own feel for what anxiety did to you.

But anxiety is
Being left behind;
Watching life move without you.
Anxiety is frozen,
Knowing what to do, but disconnected from your ability to move,
Wondering how your legs once caught up to them,
A blunder in your memories.

Anxiety, your mind a jittery hand
You can’t control,
Your dreams spilled onto a page
But the pen, the key to your soul, 
                                                                      Is
       Slowly
                                 Losing
                                                    Ink

                                                             Anxiety 
                                                                    is the choked silence
                                                                        Frozen in your throat

Lodged between fear 
and freedom.
            

Nicole
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Where the silence travels

7/6/2024

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​The wistful whispers of the ocean as it glistens in the moonlight
Subdued by the tranquil air and the silence that gently travels,
Urge the pebble to edge further into the predictability 
Of the soft waves, finding safety in its delicate fluctuating motion
Unlike the tumultuous waves that possess the angelic 
Body of water when the sun rises.

The blue light is electric, reflecting and revitalizing
The gentle splashes provide a promise that they will
Guide your thoughts, rather than aggravate them.
Slowing them down, focusing on what truly matters.
Unlike under the scorching cerulean sky,
Where floating in the middle of nowhere
Is blinding
And being suffocated under the waves
Which choke your silence.

Here, silence is free,
Silence isn’t synonymous with fear.
Liberated by the soft waves of freedom,
The dynamic blue water is glowing,
Illuminating the truth in who you are,
The truth that only you know is there.
You’re safe here,
You’re protected by the breeze that 
Carries your trepidation away
Through the waves of discovery.

  • Nicole
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Bored games

7/6/2024

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Sometimes I wish I could rewind the clocks
and go -

go back in time,
be interested in the things I'm not,
play with the toys that collect dust,
climb the tree house before it’s all rot,
ride my bike before its covered in rust,
play games with my brother,
just give it another,
go -
 
go back in time,
and say yes to those scary things,
not be as shy,
listen to the bird sing,
cause the limit is the sky.
Oh, the places,
I will
 go -

 
but now I just sit,
and cry
as they all
go 
by.

​
By Josh
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A safe space

31/5/2024

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The cushions on the couch provide a comfortable place to rest -

the dog curls up beneath my feet to doze,   the rug is her place of vacation its soft strands intertwined with her fur,                   like warm sand underfoot.

The picture frames on the wall catch my eye as I examine the memories they hold,

As the books on the shelf call out to me, they long to be read,

the blanket wraps around me - hugging me tight as I read,                                                        travelling to a distant world from my living room,

whilst the vinyl spins round and round, dancing as it sings,

the candle joins in the dance - gently, flickering, as it bathes the room in a soft, warm light,
​

the warmth protects me from the cold outside,                                                       the storm that rages on can’t reach me,  here.

​By Josh
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Freedom

30/10/2023

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Freedom is the power, the right to act, speak or think as you want. It’s the privilege of not being imprisoned or enslaved simply because you’ve exercised the right to the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness.

Freedom is a gentle blissful feeling that manifests into a fiery, ambitious passion upon your first taste of freedom.

Freedom is a place where you are free to dance until your feet can carry you no further, for you to scream until every last living thing has heard the strength of your voice. It’s a place for you to express yourself to the fullest extent of your existence on this Earth.

​Freedom is a weapon used to break the chains that bind you to weight of oppression, to decay the mantle of hostility and to destroy the ranks of bigoted men and women
Freedom is the art of creating, being and expressing yourself until every last morsel of your body feels free.

Roisin

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Ordinary

30/10/2023

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​Ordinary

I am only ordinary,
And indeed it might show.
I’m nothing more than commonplace
Although, looking for a glow-

You might find a few,
Somewhere, sometime-
Among the shimmering sparks that stem
From that soul of mine.

I lose more than I win
But I have more than most.
I’m insecure, I’m confident
I lie, I dream, I boast.

If disappointment are stars
Loneliness is my moon-
Though I’m asleep, most of the time
Til the sun shines brightly through.

If I were to try to say,
With some words, in some way
The things I want to say-
I wouldn’t find the way.

‘Cause I’m clumsy like that.
I get mad. I get sad.
I’m nothing like the others,
Yet sometimes- that is bad.

Roaming about the world
I know that I am free-
To go this way, that way, my way-
And call it ordinary.

Except I am not;
I am blessed,
With a mind, with a family, with friends and teachers and dreams and woes-
Unlike anyone else’s.

Ordinary?
Ordinary.

Jesse

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The Bullet (poem)

30/10/2023

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Notes:

This poem was written in July 2020 and inspired by the HBO miniseries “Chernobyl”. Like the show it has five distinct sections, though the references are not, by any means, confined to Soviet Russia or nuclear power plants. I’d like to think of it as a reflection of all socialistic societies in the modern world, the mistakes they’ve made, and the status quo they have paved. 

The first and last section are intentionally untitled. Only they contain references to the show.

The word “bullet” is used many times throughout the show, mainly for three reasons. One, as a metaphor for the uranium radiation that Dr. Legasov used to explain the disaster at a meeting. Two, as used by soldiers when they kill contaminated pets, and how one must put bullets in them “one after another” until they are dead, so as to not let them suffer. Lastly, as a straightforward symbol of murder. “Fly us directly over the reactor and believe me, by tomorrow morning, you will be begging for that bullet.” “I am not brave enough to take the bullet by myself.” “They will give you the bullet, and take everything.” 

All three of these meanings convey death. My greatest wish is for all to read this, not to be scared, but to see and recognize. It is painful getting struck by the bullet but even more so being used as one. At the end of the day, life involves living. We must guard each other’s legacy, stories, and experiences. We must reform on what is alive, and understand that which has perished. We must construct protection from ashes, for if we do not the world we live in today will burn down, again, someday.

See the bullet. Understand the bullet. Despise not merely the bullet, but also the gun, the shooter, and the deliverer of the weapons.

It is a system of death.

I. 

“You’re one of us, Legasov.
Now, I can do anything I want with you,
But what I want the most is for you to know
That I know.
You’re not brave.
You’re not heroic.
You’re just a dying man
Who forgot himself.”

“I know who I am, and I know what I’ve done.
In a just world I would be shot for my lies
But not for this.
Not for the truth.”

“Scientists
And your idiot obsessions with reasons.
When that bullet hits your skull,
What will it matter why?”

II. The Forest

We are trees
With our numerous branches of thought,
With the natural desire to grow crooked
At every possible opportunity.
Orders & rules
Chop those sly branches off.
The soft growth 
Sprouting from our main trunk
That might
Distract, corrupt, or become difficult to manage-
Are often strangled in their cribs by the efficient system
That is our society.

So how does a tree know
If it is growing straight?
When it turns to look around,
The only types in the forest-
They are the same?
How can it tell?
Whether it is well?
It can’t, and that’s why
It is often suffocated with unknown bewilderment.

We do not let mere smog disturb our living, however.
At least we still have some sunshine, right?
How else could we have grown?
How else could we have grown this tall?
We comfort each other
And let the fog swirl around us-
The forest that is our home.

III. The Factory

A chain of command
Makes a good factory line.
You stay at your post
By your machine, with your crew
And do what you are designated to do.
It will be tolerable, of course
Not work too grueling to send you bawling
Nor pay too meager for you to scatter.
You get to work
And work, and work on
In a pleasant, cushiony mirage.

Chop, chop, chop up the trees!
Deftly but efficiently
Slice them into manageable pieces.

Cut, cut, cut the edges!
Punish the crooked trees
For being the way they are.
Remove the dangerous corners
And trim for aesthetics-
It’s an art, really.

Polish, polish, polish the sides!
Learn them the way of life.
Soak them in alcohol, lies and wealth
Then remind them it will be taken away if they don’t behave well.
Bend under your touch, mold against your hand
That is the way before the paper of sand
Is introduced, and even they
Must eventually succumb to the inevitable fate.

But for most wood
It doesn’t have to be that complicated.
Bullets are needed
For all shapes and sizes-
If anything, just to fill up the factory,
Keep the workers busy,
And the forest alive.
Nutrients are valuable, but
So is suffering!
Let them be who they are
And get discarded later down the line.
They contribute, too
To the great factory.

A chain of command
Makes a good factory.
The straightforward line of orders
Masses up the great power
Of the workers
And GETS THINGS DONE.
A chain of command
Makes a good factory, but
Not a laboratory,
Not a theater,
Not a classroom.
Not a restaurant, a hospital, a judicial court.
Not a people, and not a nation.
Not paradise, not hell either.

And so people work in factories.

IV. The Orders


We take orders.
We grow up taking orders.
We grow old, giving orders
While taking them all the same.
Why is it, why?
That it’s such a painful relief
Watching others refuse them 
For us?

“What are we delivering today?”
Asked the truck.
“Polished, round toys.”
The driver replied.

“But they are just the same as the bullets yesterday!”
The truck puzzled aloud.
“Well, they are toys.”
The driver replied.

The truck was silent
For he knew not to speak more.
The driver needed him for the job, 
But not more.
It stayed, obedient, 
Helped load itself up
Before out of thin air
An urgent question struck.

“But how- oh how- are bullets made from wood?”
“Well, you see, it simply is that way.”
The driver forgets to keep up the pretense
Of bullets being toys-
And says, matter-of-factly.

“You cannot make bullets from wood?”
The truck resisted.
The cloud of confusion
Swirled in front of its headlights.
The driver shifted gears
And stepped on the accelerator-
Together they set off
To deliver the orders.

“Why, of course you can. 
Very deadly bullets too!”
“So you’re meaning to tell me,”
The truck suddenly realizes,
“That we’ve been using wood
To make our bullets
This whole time?”

The driver swears once
And farts loudly on his seat.
Know your place, the fart said,
Before you make you take my shit.
The truck has dealt with this before-
It has long learned to hold its breath.
In doing so, it became silent.

The truck shed a silent tear for the trees
For he had known them once
For he had befriended them once
For he had been them, once-
Before he was made into a truck.

Anything can be made from wood, 
That was the way things were.
Wood is steel.
Wood is plastic and rubber,
Wood is stealaluminumcopperglasswood.
The truck learned this
From the driver.
And that was the way things were-
For everyone, even the trees,
Accepted that.

… 

Escape while you are still a tree.
For if you stay,
And wait for better days-
You’ll be chopped up,
Packed & delivered.
And even if you don’t,
Your seeds…
You see, there is no safety
In such a useful forest.

V.


I have become contaminated
With the air of justice.
It has contaminated every cell in my body
And held me hostage-
Body and soul-
To something called
“Universal truths”.

Love your enemy, 
This air says.
Right your wrongs,
The air says.
Understand the world,
The air says.

And so
My hair falls
Quietly
On the words that I read.
I am dying, I know.
As soon as I became exposed to it,
I was on the path to my grave.
But aren’t we all, though?
Are we not all?
On the flowered road to death?
On the highway to hell?
Those, who are less contaminated than I am
Who are not contaminated, for they are far away
Are they not doomed to die someday, as well?

I bow my head,
Humbled by the power of this air.
I have grown to admire its power
And relish it’s abilities.
But love, no.
I can never love justice.

For it pains you so.
Oh, it pains you so
To have it in your body
Shredding the things you used to know
Apart.
Why is it so slow to act?
Where is it, when I have gotten a taste and now seek a release?
Oh, if there is a God, tell me,
Why do you let such a thing exist?

Men are nothing, 
Nothing,
In the face of nature.
Societies have no way,
No way,
In the exposure of justice.

And so it must be hushed up!
Kept safe, 
Sealed with a bullet
No, many bullets-
Aimed just right.
But as long as it exists-
As long as it is there!
There can be no going back now.

The probability 
Of an explosion 
Someday.
In my great, socialist home country
Is imminent.

The bullet command obedience.
And threatens death.
But, I 
I choose to celebrate life.

jESSE

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Hide the Scars

10/10/2023

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Walking home,
From school.
I feel like I always do,
I feel like a fool.

Wipe the tears,
Which are threatening to break through.
I wish that I was,
I wish that I was someone new.

I see the sun,
I see it rising in the sky.
Now when I trace my scars,
I feel like I can fly.

I will always be true to me,
I know one day my bravery will set me free.
I will fight forever, I won't cry anymore,
Today's the day I will even the score.

I'm a survivor. 

I walk the streets,
Of my hometown.
And I reflect,
On just how often I've felt down.

No one understands,
Quite how I feel.
Makes me feel like my emotions,
Are not a big deal.

You see the scars on my wrist,
You see my hand in a fist.
My heart is locked like a vault,
Little do you know it's all your fault.

I will always be true to me,
I know one day my bravery will set me free.
I will fight forever, I won't cry anymore,
Today's the day I will even the score.

I'm a survivor. 
I'm a survivor.
I'm a survivor.

~ Kenzie.

​

Kenzie

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don't worry, Mom and dad

22/4/2022

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They say study hard and you’ll have a good life,
You’ll be successful and have a good wife.
They say stay at school and don’t have fun,
You’ll get a nice car and know how to run.
They say don’t cry and let it out
Just keep it in and go workout.
But what they don’t know is that I want to break free,
I want to laugh and sit under an oak tree
With my friends by my side as I break down
And let the mascara make me a clown.
I want to worry about the little things
As I consider them important and they give me wings.
I want to fly as high as I can, but mom and dad, don’t worry
I won’t go too far and I’ll be back in a hurry.

Picture

Sophie

(She/Her)
Sophie thinks creatively, turning her thoughts and worries into poetry. She hopes her poetry can inspire others too.

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her second face

1/4/2022

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She tries to carry herself strong in front of others but deep down she’s broken,
She smiles the brightest but there isn’t a single light in her, not even the slightest,
She’s changed from her outspoken self to now being soft-spoken,
And at this point, her life just passes in a blur.

She used to be the happiest person, even on the inside,
She used to feel the love from those she truly did love, 
But, now she feels that she has no one by her side,
She doesn’t know if she can even rise above.

She believed that finally, she had a sense of belonging, 
That for the ones she loved, she would do anything, 
But now, she finds herself eternally falling,
From her flower field, she’s been picked from her stem.

She thought that at the end of the day, they’ll be with her forever,
She thought that she found those who truly cared for her,
She thought no matter what, they would always be with her,
But she thought wrong.

She finally knew what people mean when they say you shouldn’t let your walls down,
She finally understood why she was so reserved in the first place,
It’s because there is no certainty on how long anyone will stay around,
So now, once again, she needs to put on that rusty mask she never thought she'd use again: her second face.

Picture

Ananya

(She/Her)

Ananya is a kind-hearted writer who wants to share her thoughts with the world in the hopes that they might speak to someone or help them understand themselves a little bit better. 

0 Comments

my immigrant mother

1/4/2022

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What must it be like, to be you, mother?

Do you ever think of yourself? Do you ever consider being selfish, greedy, self-centered, to be the one who takes and not the one who gives, the first one at the dinner table and not the last, every Ramadan you listen to the kitchen table food critics, demands, a blur of mental notes you made but never once a complaint, but mother, I want to hear you complain. 

Every Ramadhan you always kept your fast right at the end “there are 5 minutes left” I yell, upset that you couldn’t keep an eye on the clock or upset that you always put yourself last or upset that I was the only one who noticed.

Oh, what must it be like to be the fruit picker, to be the giver, but never intending on biting into the flesh?

What about home? Do you miss home? You miss home. You speak of your family, your sister, you tell us you see them in your dreams, you catch up with them but over the years you have become an outsider, a guest, we tell you. You protest. 

The only time you show ‘want’ and ‘need’ is when you want to go overseas, to your motherland, to kiss your fathers’ hands, to discuss your mother’s death, a million times again, out of fear that you might forget. Her.

We remember that morning, 6 o clock, a call from 1,000 miles away broke your heart, it cut it open never to be stitched back up again. “Mother has passed away,” your brother said, and you were never quite the same after. You became fragile, so helpless, so in pain, every part of your body grieving, your fingertips mourning, having lost the chance to touch her face, kiss her hands, goodbye. 

You picked up your bags to pursue your husband’s dreams and left half your joy at the border if you’d have known how much you were giving up, would you have stayed?

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Wania

(She/Her)
​Wania wants to share her stories and the stories of those around her in order to provide insight to readers to help build compassion and educate them on different perspectives. 

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Teenagers With Experience is an online organisation created to provide teenagers worldwide with an online platform to share their own experiences to be able to help, inform and educate others on  a variety of different topics. We aim to provide a safe space to all young people. You can contact us via email, social media or our contact form.

Please note that the content on this website is created by teenagers. While we strive to provide accurate and helpful information, it is important to remember that we are not professional experts. If you are experiencing a crisis or need professional advice, please reach out to a qualified mental health professional or a helpline.​

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