Mill P Writes

  Sex Addiction: It's Not Just a Punchline in Rehab, Folks If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my time in rehab, it’s that nothing is sacred. Everything— everything —gets joked about, from the food (is this meatloaf or a science experiment?) to the very serious issues that landed us there. And yes, that includes sex addiction. If you’ve never been in a room full of recovering addicts trying to outdo each other with dark humor, let me paint a picture: it’s like a comedy club where the cover charge is trauma. But here’s the thing—while the jokes fly, the pain behind them is very real. That brings me to this fascinating PsyPost article, which digs into how men and women experience concerns about sexual addiction differently. Spoiler alert: there are some stark contrasts, and they’re not exactly what you’d expect. According to the article, new research reveals that men and women diverge significantly in their worries about sexual addiction. While men are more likely to focus on the...

Old News, New Perspectives: Analyzing a 14-Year-Old Article Like It Just Dropped Yesterday I don’t know how I stumbled across this gem from The Guardian circa 2010—maybe the algorithm got sentimental, or maybe I’m just incredibly skilled at finding the internet equivalent of forgotten attic treasures. Either way, Clare Allan’s “It’s My Life” resonated with me in ways that made me laugh, nod furiously, and wonder if she’d been eavesdropping on my own battles with mental health. Sure, it’s 14 years old, but hey, great writing is timeless. Or at least that’s the excuse I’m going with for this real-time dive into archival journalism. Right from the jump, Allan’s take feels refreshing. She reflects on how mental illness has been viewed over the years, pointing out how “the rhetoric surrounding mental health is overwhelmingly negative.” She’s not wrong—mental illness often gets the PR treatment of a villain in a B-grade horror flick: misunderstood, overdramatized, and painted in a single,...

            On a string of sultry summer nights, with nothing but the hum of a box fan and the glint of distant stars to keep me company, I dove headfirst into the uncharted wilds of my imagination. The result? A science fiction story stitched together from sleepless hours and caffeine-fueled epiphanies. It’s raw, it’s weird, and it’s unapologetically mine. Starting this week, I’ll be serving the novella up in bite-sized pieces—like cosmic breadcrumbs for anyone curious enough to follow. Buckle up; it’s going to get strange. Part One     The twin suns of Kepler-442f loomed low on the horizon, their dying embers staining the jagged crags of Theta-13—a moon so desolate it made Mars look like a botanical garden. Aiden Sol—a name chosen by his father to be as much of a beacon as it was a burden—trudged through the neon haze of the mining colony’s thoroughfare. His boots scraped against the ferrocrete surface, each step echoing faintly in th...

  There’s something oddly clinical about the word “unhoused.” It feels like the kind of term a marketing team would come up with after a three-hour brainstorming session, fueled by overpriced coffee and a deep fear of offending anyone. Somewhere along the line, “homeless” was deemed too harsh, so now we have “unhoused,” as if the problem isn’t the lack of shelter but merely a temporary oversight. It’s like calling a fire “spontaneous heat redistribution.” This word choice was on my mind as I read the recent article from ABC News, which delves into the perception of unhoused people as dangerous. The piece begins with the stark statistic that “unhoused individuals are 16 times more likely to be victims of violent crime than housed individuals,” a fact that immediately flips the narrative. The real danger, it seems, isn’t from them but to them. I’ll admit, I’ve crossed paths with my fair share of unhoused folks during my own struggles with addiction and recovery. Some were brilliant, ...

  There’s something endlessly fascinating about how our brains work, particularly when it comes to resilience. It’s like trying to reverse-engineer a magic trick while the magician keeps pulling rabbits out of hats. The recent article from ScienceDaily, titled "Resilience may depend on how reward signals are processed in the brain," takes a deep dive into this enigmatic concept. While some of it feels like it could belong in the “Captain Obvious” folder, it’s still an eye-opener for anyone who’s ever wondered why some people bounce back from adversity while others feel crushed under its weight. The article explains, “The way reward signals are processed in the brain may influence a person’s resilience to stress, new research suggests.” It’s the classic chicken-or-egg scenario: do resilient people naturally process rewards differently, or does the act of seeking rewards train the brain to be more resilient? Either way, it’s clear that resilience isn’t just about “pulling you...

Ah, the Super Bowl—the grand, gluttonous gladiator match of our modern era. It’s a time when America collectively decides to drown itself in queso and high-stakes bets, all while yelling at their TVs as if their screams could influence the trajectory of a football. For some, it’s a cherished tradition; for others, it’s a yearly reminder of how much money you can lose in a single night. And if you’re like me, it’s a mix of both, with a side of existential dread. The 2007 Super Bowl? That was my peak. I had just turned 21, and the Giants’ victory felt like it was tailor-made for me. It wasn’t just a win; it was a moment . I was guzzling beers like they were the cure for life’s problems (spoiler: they weren’t), and for one glorious night, I was on top of the world. Fast-forward to 2011—another Giants victory, another night of unbridled celebration—but with the faint whisper of “Maybe you’re overdoing it” starting to creep in. By then, my drinking had gone from “fun” to “functional” to “p...

Part One Part Two Part Three All You Can Eat Part Four             The morning came with a cruel light, filtering through the gaps in the trees and slicing into his closed eyelids. He stirred, the ground beneath him hard and unyielding, every muscle in his body protesting as he shifted. His stomach—oh, his stomach—it felt as though it had grown overnight, a grotesque, swollen orb that pressed against his ribs and made every breath a struggle. The ache was relentless, a deep, pulsing throb that spread through his entire torso. He rolled onto his side and immediately regretted it. A wave of nausea surged through him, and he clutched at his belly, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat. His mouth was dry, his tongue thick and heavy, and his throat burned as if he had swallowed hot coals. He needed water. Desperately. The thought consumed him, overriding even the pain in his belly. Pushing himself upright, he blinked blearily at his surroundings. The par...