It’s a Fucking Problem

I keep saying it’s nothing—

just a phase,

just stress,

just something I’ll get a handle on

when things slow down.

But things don’t slow down.

They pile up.

And I keep reaching

for the same relief—

the same distraction,

the same escape

that works just enough

to keep me from dealing with it.

Until it doesn’t.

Until I’m sitting there

staring at the mess

I swore I wasn’t making,

wondering how it got this far

without me noticing.

Or maybe I did notice.

Maybe I just didn’t want

to call it what it is.

Because calling it something real

means I have to face it.

Means I can’t pretend

it’s under control,

can’t keep telling myself

I’ll fix it tomorrow.

But tomorrow

keeps moving.

And I keep staying

right here—

in the middle of something

that’s starting to look a lot like

it’s not going to fix itself.

So yeah—

it’s a fucking problem.

Not because someone else said so.

Not because it looks bad

from the outside.

But because I feel it—

in the way it pulls at me,

in the way it keeps showing up,

in the way I keep choosing it

even when I know better.

And maybe that’s where it starts—

not fixing it,

not solving it all at once—

just finally

telling the truth

about what it is.