Through the Fog

Author: Emery Lane Grey

  • Healing

    The concept of healing is often portrayed as a voluntary decision. It is depicted as a moment when one wakes up, decides that enough is enough, and begins a journey towards enlightenment. However, my experience with healing has been quite different. 

    To me, healing feels like a forceful process. It feels as though someone forcibly took the bottle from my hand, extinguished the fire within me, and abandoned me in the cold. I did not willingly step into this phase – I was pushed into it. The path I was on was leading me towards destruction, and I had no option but to change course.

    And now, here I am, embarking on a journey that I never sought. Every day feels like a struggle, not just to rid myself of substances, but to break free from the emotional numbness that had become my refuge. Currently, I do not yearn for life; instead, I long for the quiet, the haze, and the comfort of oblivion.

    While they say that healing brings liberation, to me, it feels like a confinement. I find myself constantly clock-watching, confronting every suppressed thought that I once drowned out. The absence of the bottle has amplified the voices in my head, and the absence of the pills has thickened the fog. I detest this process, but I am aware that the alternative path leads to only one destination.

    Thus, I persevere. One day at a time, one week after another. Not because I choose to, but because I must. Survival allows for no other alternatives. Perhaps one day, healing will feel like a choice. Perhaps one day, I will be drawn towards the light. But for now, healing is not serene. It is imposed upon me, and it is the sole reason I am still standing.

  • The Unseen Depths of Despair

    There were no flashing lights of emergency, no sirens blaring, no crowd forming in the streets. The rock bottom I hit was a silent one.

    It was a room shrouded in darkness, curtains drawn tight, empty bottles strewn like tombstones on the floor. An overflowing ashtray held the remnants of broken promises, while the incessant buzzing of the phone carried messages left unanswered. I lay on the bed, gazing blankly at the ceiling, contemplating the ease of letting go versus the challenge of holding on.

    Depression whispered that I was already lost, while addiction lured me with the temptation of one more round. Caught in the middle, I felt consumed by darkness, drowning in the vast expanse of my own despair.

    No one suspected. Not the friends who witnessed my laughter the next day, not the family who saw through my facade, not the colleagues who deemed me dependable without knowing the turmoil within me.

    Rock bottom wasn’t the end; it was the moment of realization that even the numbness I felt was slowly killing me. It was the bitter taste of hopelessness that finally forced me to confront my breaking spirit. It was the first time I uttered, if only to myself: Something must change, or I won’t survive this.

    That night didn’t offer salvation, nor did it bring healing. However, it did puncture the silence, planting a seed of defiance within me, declaring: I refuse to meet my end here. Not yet.

  • The Mask

    I became good at wearing faces.

    The smiling one.

    The laughing one.

    The hardworking one who had it all together.

    People praised that mask like it was me,

    and I let them.

    It was easier to play the part

    than to let them see the ruins inside.

    Behind closed doors, I was unraveling.

    Mornings were battles.

    Nights were wars.

    The bottle kept me steady enough to pretend,

    the pills quieted the screams long enough

    to make it through another day at work,

    another dinner table,

    another conversation that began with, “How are you?”

    and ended with me saying, “I’m fine.”

    But “fine” was a lie I told so often

    it carved itself into my throat.

    And every time I said it,

    I swallowed a little more truth,

    buried it deeper beneath the mask.

    People thought I was strong.

    They thought I was thriving.

    They didn’t know I counted every hour I survived

    as if it were a punishment.

    They didn’t see the nights I couldn’t bear the silence,

    so I filled it with smoke,

    with drinks,

    with anything that numbed the storm.

    The mask was convincing—

    until it wasn’t.

    Until cracks began to form.

    Until exhaustion made me careless

    and sorrow leaked through my practiced smile.

    Until someone close enough asked the question differently,

    not, “Are you okay?”

    but, “I can see you’re not.”

    And in that moment,

    the mask felt heavier than the truth.

  • Through the Fog

    Through the Fog

    I walked into the silence,

    where even my shadow felt too heavy to carry.

    The world was blurred—

    a dim horizon,

    a weight pressing against my chest

    like an anchor I never chose.

    But still, my feet moved.

    One step, then another,

    through the ache,

    through the doubt,

    through the fog that whispered I’d never make it out.

    And somewhere inside the gray,

    a flicker.

    Not fire—

    not yet—

    but the faintest glow,

    soft as breath,

    enough to remind me

    that even the smallest light

    can guide you home.

    — Emery Lane Grey

  • Living with Depression: What It Really Feels Like

    Living with Depression: What It Really Feels Like

    Depression is often misunderstood. People hear the word and imagine sadness, but it is so much more than that. It isn’t just a bad day or a passing cloud—it’s a weight that settles into your bones, a fog that lingers long after the sun comes up.

    For me, depression has never been loud. It doesn’t always look like tears or breakdowns. Sometimes it’s just silence—sitting in a room surrounded by life and feeling completely disconnected from it. It’s forgetting the sound of your own laughter, or forcing a smile so no one asks questions you don’t have the strength to answer.

    One of the hardest parts of depression is the invisibility of it. You can be dressed, smiling, and even functioning, while inside you’re barely holding on. People might tell you to “think positive” or “get over it,” not realizing that if it were that simple, none of us would be suffering. Depression is not weakness, and it’s not a choice—it’s an illness, a shadow that rewires how you see the world and yourself.

    And yet, in the midst of it, there are moments of light. I’ve learned that healing doesn’t come all at once. It comes slowly—in the small decision to get out of bed, in the courage to reach out to someone you trust, in the act of writing down feelings instead of letting them consume you. Sometimes healing looks like survival, and that in itself is a victory.

    If you are living with depression, please know this: you are not broken beyond repair. Your story matters, even on the days you feel invisible. You are allowed to take up space, to rest, to fight for yourself even when the fight feels impossible.

    And if you love someone who struggles with depression, remember that your presence matters more than your advice. Sometimes just sitting with someone in their darkness is the most powerful form of love.

    Depression may be a part of my story, but it does not get to define the ending. Writing has become my way of reclaiming my voice, of shining a light into places I once thought would always stay dark. My hope is that by sharing my words, someone else will see a reflection of their own struggle and know they are not alone.

    You are not alone.

    — Emery Lane Grey

    Let’s Talk

    Have you or someone you love faced depression? If you feel comfortable, share your story in the comments below. You never know who might need to read your words.

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