Debut Music Video From Hazel Bloom: “Was It All Worth It” – Dear Hope Premiere

Before we premiere the video, Dave Carlin, the singer and songwriter of Hazel Bloom, wanted to open up about his past struggles and the inspirations for the song and debut album, Temporary.

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 I first started writing songs for this album about a year and a half ago during one of the most emotionally draining periods of my life. I was dealing with depression, anxiety, and derealization, which felt like they were deteriorating my body. I was undergoing these symptoms for about 6 months before I even knew what was happening to my health. I had just ended a seven year long relationship and lost a good friend in a car accident. I spent a third of my life with this person, so it was a huge impact on my mental health to lose them. I always imagined that losing a friend would be difficult, but you never really feel the full emotion of it until it happens.

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I’ve always had trouble with these kinds of difficult situations. It was hard for me to express how I was feeling, and I bottled up a lot of emotion, which lead to a lot of unhealthy choices. I was drinking almost every night, sleeping most of the day and was late to work consistently. I was completely focusing all my efforts into forgetting and keeping my mind off of the past. I rarely expressed my thoughts and because of this, I caused a lot of problems in past relationships and friendships.

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I spent seven years with a person I considered my best friend. From the ages of 14 to 21, I was growing into myself and finding what it was I was passionate about. From a teenager to an adult, I spent almost all of this time with one person, and it was extremely hard to cope with removing them from my life. It took a huge toll on my health, and my mental stability. Some of the best times of my life were with this person and I became so comfortable that I thought it was impossible to live without them.

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So, I decided that writing this album would be a good way to express my feelings about situations I’ve been holding on to for so long and finally start to let go. I could place my feelings and thoughts over the past years into this album as part of a healing process that I would be able to look back on. I’d be able to look at how much I’ve grown over time and be able to remember the good times – not just the bad ones. It’s been almost 3 years, and some of the feelings still eat me alive from time to time, but I’m making progress.

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My friend, Mike Hazel, who passed away in January of 2016 had a huge influence on this album and band. He was always into the music scene and I knew he wanted to be in a band which is something I could really relate with. He’s also the reason why I named the project ‘Hazel Bloom’. I wanted to create a type of art that resonates not only his presence but for anyone that has ever lost somebody or something. Even though they are not in this life anymore, I wanted to make something that still projects their presence; something to show that they still are making an impact on people in a positive way and to show that their presence. They are still in ‘Bloom’.

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‘Temporary’ is what I decided to call this album/ art project I’ve been working on. As I mentioned before, when I started writing this, I was going through some very mentally strenuous times. But as time progressed I discovered a platform I could use to help me express myself, and things seem to be getting a lot better. My depression and anxiety seemed to be subsiding and I began feeling happy in my skin again. I’ve been working on talking about stressful and uncomfortable situations and I think it’s made me a healthier person. This made me think that even though things were dark for a while, those feelings are all temporary.

The other half of why I named this album Temporary is because I’ve had a lot of relationships, partnerships, and friendships fall apart. Countless people have come in and out of my life, some good and some not so great. But I’ve learned to cherish all those people as I’ll never know when they could disappear from my life. Although I don’t talk or see most of those people anymore, I like to remember all the great times I had with them. I wouldn’t change any of them for anything,. Those people and experiences help make me who I am today and I am very grateful for those experiences and those people.

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Album art for the upcoming album, “Temporary”.

Most of all, I want anyone who encounters my art to be able to feel something. Whether this art brings back good experiences and memories or makes you cherish the people and experiences you have now, I hope you can feel it.

Because I know sometimes when you feel lost and it’s hard to feel any emotion at all.


View the brand new debut video from Hazel Bloom: “Was It All Worth It” below. And be sure to check out the full album Temporary when it releases later this year on Bandcamp and Soundcloud.

The photos in this article were taken by the wonderful Giana Murphy. Check out her own post, The Insecurity Project, for Dear Hope here.

Video shot and edited by Zach Cooper. Find him on Instagram here.

Follow Hazel Bloom on Twitter and Facebook.

Always remember that you are not alone.

You are loved.

PF

Want to submit to this site and share your story, art, or article related to mental health? Email wemustbebroken@gmail.com

Follow us for more posts, inspiration and art on FacebookTwitterTumblr, and Instagram

 

 

 

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Article dear hope

The Many Forms of Self Harm

**Trigger warning: self harm

It’s been over a year since I last wrote something down for this site. I’ve been thinking and reflecting a lot lately, however, and feel I’ve come to a new understanding about myself personally that I just needed to write down somewhere.

I’m incredibly self-destructive in ways that I never really realized.

It’s a weird thing to say out loud. I never really considered myself to be someone who was that self-destructive, but there are certain patterns and habits I’ve developed over the years, including how I run this site, that make me realize that I’m self-sabotaging in ways a few years ago I would’ve never even acknowledged.

It’s seeing an email come in about someone submitting to the site, and deciding to wait to answer it.

It’s getting this website to a point where it could really grow into something even bigger, and then stepping back and not following through.

It’s having years of experience writing music, but feeling anxious and afraid every time I try to write something new.

It’s becoming less personal with friends after they’ve seen certain parts of you, parts that you tell others it’s okay to show.

It’s having a skill set and numerous talents that you stop pursuing because you’re bored.

It’s limiting the jobs you apply to because your head constantly tells you that you’re not good enough to do the jobs you know you’re qualified for.

It’s self-harm without the actual physical pain. 

It’s all of these small actions and thoughts amplified over time, building and building until you’re left with a scar when you weren’t even aware there was a wound to begin with. I’ve been self-harming for years and wasn’t even aware of it.

And I feel so incredibly empty right now from it.

We have a tendency to think of self-harm in a very specific blade-on-skin kind of way. But the truth of the matter is that self-harm can encompass all different kinds of self-destructive behavior. The depression and anxiety in my life that I identify with definitely aid in these recurring behaviors. It’s a reminder that I’m still struggling every day, and I’m trying to find new ways to push forward. It’s all I can do with this new information I know about myself.

Because honestly I’m not too sure what else to do.

But there’s always the comfort in knowing that I’m not alone.

And you’re not alone.

You are loved.

Paul Falcone

Want to submit to this site and share your story, art, or article related to mental health? Email wemustbebroken@gmail.com

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Article dear hope

Of Two Minds

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I don’t normally over explain my work as I’m happy for people to find their own meaning. This is a pretty personal piece as it’s a self-portrait.

I’ve been diagnosed with bipolar disorder since ’09. Before that, they thought it was depression, and before that, schizophrenia. Since I was correctly diagnosed and got onto the right medication, things have been more manageable. I still have highs and lows, but I’m a bit more balanced.

My psychiatrist has been very supportive of my artwork as it has become a form of therapy for me. Combined with some lifestyle changes (no alcohol, no meat, no excuses), art has made a big difference in my day-to-day life.

“Of Two Minds” is the name of a really good documentary on BPD, and my piece is a nod to that as it helped me in my recovery, too. The piece itself is really a bipolar Venn diagram with the purple face representing mania, the blue face representing depression, and the space where they interlink is where that ever-elusive balance is hiding!

 

 

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The artist, Chris, with his piece

A huge shoutot to Chris Eaton, otherwise known as Stanley Sprays, for sharing his story and this phenomenal piece of art with us. For many, creativity and art can be essential in our recovery. We are so grateful to Chris for sharing that message and showing how art has helped him manage his own struggles.

If you want to see more art from Chris, you can find him on Instagram and his personal website. Chris also has a really fantastic clothing line; you can find that on both Instagram and their website.  Be sure to give lots of love to Chris in the comments!

Always remember you are not alone.

You are loved.

Sandra

Want to submit to this site and share your story, art, or article related to mental health? Email wemustbebroken@gmail.com

Follow us for more posts, inspiration, and art on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram

A Lens Into Our World dear hope

1 in 4: a selection from “Behind The Mask” by Rivka Korf

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Hands of Dread

 

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Relief at Last

 

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Screaming Hydra

 

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Mask of Hands

 

A big thank you to Rivka for sharing her beautiful artwork with us. These four pieces were part of a larger exhibition called Behind The Mask, a solo exhibition highlighting the inner struggle of 1 in 4 Americans. You can find the full collection on her website, and more of her artwork on Facebook and Instagram. Be sure to give Rivka lots of love in the comments!

Always remember you are not alone.

You are loved.

Sandra

Want to submit to this site and share your story, art, or article related to mental health? Email wemustbebroken@gmail.com

Follow us for more posts, inspiration and art on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram

Artwork dear hope

you are loved

stay with me.

right here,

right now.

 

it’s so much easier to love you

when you aren’t so far away.

it’s so much easier to hug you

when you aren’t so far away.

 

i love you over here

i love you over there

but most importantly

i love you everywhere.

 


i love you to the moon and back.

back to the moon again

and then far beyond that.

 


you may be asking

who is this for?

i’m not even sure.

 

my love is for everyone

and everything

and everywhere

because nothing

and nobody

deserves to feel unloved.

and i love everyone with passion

 

 

 

Thanks to Rachel for sharing another of her beautiful poems. You can read her previous submission here. Be sure to give her some love in the comments!

Always remember you are not alone.

You are loved.

Sandra

Want to submit to this site and share your story, art, or article related to mental health? Email wemustbebroken@gmail.com

Follow us for more posts, inspiration and art on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram

Creative Pieces dear hope

World Suicide Prevention Day: a conversation

What’s most agonizing about suicidal thoughts are not the thoughts themselves, but the confusion behind them.

For what it’s worth, I want to live. There are hundreds of things I haven’t done, places I haven’t gone to, people I haven’t met, feelings I haven’t felt. Sometimes just the vastness of my “haven’t done yet”s make me so anxious, it cripples me into doing nothing at all. Motivation: lost.

I want to live, I do. I haven’t finished my first book (ETA, December 2017). I haven’t road-tripped across the country, purchased a piece of furniture, or learned how to rollerblade. I still haven’t broken my nail-biting habit (it’s gross, I know, okay?), and I still haven’t mastered ASL (working on it, though). There are things I want–maybe even need–to do before my time on earth is up, things that keep me up at night (maybe not the rollerblading thing, but definitely that impending CC-road trip). There is so much left to say, to do, to feel. I want to say it all, do it all, feel it all.

I want to live.

But sometimes? I just don’t.

Sometimes I convince myself that I am not worthy of love, of friendship, of the opportunities I’ve been given, of the oxygen flowing into my lungs. Sometimes I convince myself that those around me see me as nothing more than a burden, a nuisance, a blemish they cannot get rid of. Sometimes I convince myself that they will be better off without me. Sometimes I convince myself that my bedroom contains all I’ll ever need, and that leaving the comfort of it will bring me only anxiety, only sadness, only more feelings of inadequacy. Sometimes I convince myself that it would be easier to disappear than it would be to continue trying to find comfort in visibility, that it would be easier to end the cycle of misery at my own hands than to continue living a life I will never truly love.

On today, World Suicide Prevention Day, I want to open up a dialogue about suicidal thoughts and ideation. An uncomfortable conversation that many people are afraid to have, myself included. But not having the conversation at all has proven to be less-than-ideal. That almost innate refusal to speak on the things that are difficult hasn’t helped anyone suffering from mental illness.

It took a long time to feel comfortable enough to even say I dealt with suicidal thoughts and ideation. I was ashamed, embarrassed, and scared. I didn’t know what I was feeling, I didn’t know how to express what I was feeling, and I didn’t think anyone should have to listen to me attempt to explain what was going on inside my head. Living alone with my self-deprecation felt easier than burdening anyone else with those morbid thoughts I couldn’t even explain to myself.

So, openly offering my support to those who may need is is the step I’m taking today. I don’t want anyone to feel as if they are alone in their more difficult emotions, alone in dealing with the urges they bring up, or alone in their confusion behind the things they are feeling. I want to be the person I needed when I was younger, a sounding board for the suicidal ideation thrust upon me that I didn’t quite know how to navigate despite feeling everything so harshly and so deeply.

Open up a productive dialogue with your loved ones today. I know I’ll be doing the same for mine.

“Suicide prevention is important to me because I am alive because of people who cared enough to make sure I was okay” – TWLOHA.com

Always remember you are not alone.

You are loved.

Sandra

Want to submit to this site and share your story, art, or article related to mental health? Email wemustbebroken@gmail.com

Follow us for more posts, inspiration and art on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram.

 

Article dear hope

A poetry selection: Ali Z, part 2

**Trigger Warning: mentions of self-harm, death, and suicide

 

STRAWBERRIES AND JELLY BEANS

The past few times I have scoured my scalp for grey hairs, I have found white. The last time I checked, three stark white hairs grow in the roots among my curls.

I do not grey.

So why white?

One white hair for my grandmother whose hair was white at sixty and gone at seventy when the chemo treatment was unsuccessful. White for her thin pale skin, for the teeth before they rotted inside out, for the bedsheets she died in, for the dress she was buried in, for the lining of her coffin, and for the snow on the January day she died on, white.

My grandmother held our family together with paper-flaking fingers. It took her feeble body caving in for us to see her as the solid pillar she had always been. When my grandfather argued with his children, including my mother, over petty rings and inheritance, I went to the fridge to find comfort in strawberries and jelly beans: grandma’s two favorite things. He didn’t know how to keep it stocked without her. All that was there were white empty shelves and black licorice flavored jelly beans left.

That was when I knew she was gone.

The second for my father’s hospital room, for the clean blank slate on which we started over, the white for the van he worked in, the white for his knuckles when he held onto the white kitchen bowl, spilling red from his mouth in the back of my car.

I hated myself for hating hospital rooms. I realized he was sick when I forgot to visit and had to be reminded that he missed me now. I realized we were friends when the concept of him missing me seemed strange and friendly. I bought him a card once, and couldn’t think of what to write, so I left it blank but for my name, a cold, empty white.

And the third, for me. For the mountain of papers that shut me up, that said “you’re healed with this money, so stop being sick.”

For the robes of the doctors that operate in heads and minds, white for the piano keys that made me feel alive, for the moments of light in a sea of black, for the sheet music I couldn’t read, for the class rooms and waning moons that gave me any routine, for the pills when they left the red bottle, for the label that defined me, and the white lies that reminded me I wasn’t worth the truth to some.

I do not grey.

~

NOTHINGS

When I was in 7th grade, I heard that a fellow female student had written a bomb threat on the bathroom mirrors with her menstrual blood.

My first thought was that I hoped I got my period soon so I could hate the school has much as she did.

So long as our class criminal intended on blowing up the entire school, I didn’t mind, for if my bullies suffered, I’d pay the price and sacrifice my own life for justice. At 12 I felt I’d seen enough.

When I did, eventually, get my period, I wondered how she used her body’s ink, as it didn’t seem easy to write with.

On the days we were doomed, the police officer who taught me ‘boys will be boys’ stood guard by the entrance, irritated, another cry for help painted on the mirror.  Another lie, another false alarm, another girl reaching into her pants and using her only resource to scream to the reflection because it was the only one who listened. Another day and nothing to worry about.

Nothing to worry about, echoed the parents.

Nothing to worry about, echoed the teachers.

Nothing to worry about, echoed the administration.

I was nothing to worry about, echoed the corpses with cut wrists, the gentle giant of our school toppled and rocked the foundation with his suicide. The RIP statuses, the funeral preparations by parents burying a son. Blame it on his state of mind and not the environment. We, said the town, are not the problem. We had our rules, you see; we don’t want our children involved with police. If one life falls in between the margins of the anti-bullying laws and the stacks of homework, who’s to say who’s to blame?

My friends at other high schools joked that their school was built by an architect that designed prisons, therefore modeled after such.

I said that my peers were designed after prisoners, and acted as such..

My prison gang was the rejects, the uglies, and the disabled. We were not the blonde hair cliques trading lunchboxes with red apples, we were not the tattooed and the badass, we couldn’t rap or breakdance. We still excused ourselves for cursing.. We were the ones that watched the populars stroll from the view inside a locker and the bottom of the stairs. They always looked taller when we were pushed at their feet but I swear to God, they were not giants.

We rioted in the quiet stalls when we wrote poetry and foul language; we rioted with blood on bathroom walls with things we didn’t have the strength to say yet. We gauged our ears with sharp bracelets until life’s ink told us to stop and we leapt down stairs so no one could push us We laughed on every painful step so as not to give the prison guards the satisfaction of seeing us break.

We were the nothings they always had to worry about.

 

 

Another big thanks to Ali Zagame for sharing her beautiful poetry with us and our community. If you haven’t already, check out part 1 of her poetry selection. You can find more from Ali at her website, Facebook, and Bandcamp. Be sure to give her some love in the comments!

Always remember you are not alone.

You are loved.

Sandra

Want to submit to this site and share your story, art, or article related to mental health? Email wemustbebroken@gmail.com

Follow us for more posts, inspiration and art on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram

 

Creative Pieces dear hope