I don’t want
forever
to come in an orange bottle.
Don’t want my mornings
measured in milligrams,
my stability
scheduled between refills,
my future
printed in tiny pharmacy text
I can barely read.
I know what they say—
that this is help,
that this is balance,
that this is how I stay
safe
and here.
And part of me
is grateful.
Because I remember
what life felt like
before the quiet
was possible.
But another part of me
keeps whispering:
Is this the only way?
Will I ever stand
without the scaffolding?
Will healing ever mean
freedom instead of maintenance?
I don’t want to fight
the people trying to help me.
I don’t want to romanticize
the chaos I survived.
I just want to believe
there is a version of living
where my body
knows how to be steady
on its own.
Where peace
isn’t borrowed.
Where calm
isn’t counted.
Where staying alive
doesn’t feel like
a prescription.
Maybe forever
isn’t the point.
Maybe the point
is staying
long enough
to grow into someone
who has choices
I can’t see yet.
So for now
I hold two truths
at the same time—
I don’t want this
to be forever.
And I still want
to be here
long enough
to find out
what isn’t.
Through the Fog 