Through the Fog

Category: Mental Health

  • Where Is My Mind?

    Where is my mind?

    I swear

    it was here yesterday—

    before the overthinking,

    before the memories

    started rearranging the room,

    before every quiet moment

    became another place

    for my thoughts to wander.

    I search for it

    in unfinished conversations,

    in songs

    I should’ve stopped listening to,

    in old photographs

    that remember

    more than I want them to.

    Maybe I left it

    in a version of my life

    I never got to keep.

    Maybe it’s still sitting

    at a table

    where I thought forever

    meant forever.

    Or maybe

    it’s buried beneath

    every expectation

    I couldn’t live up to,

    every mistake

    I replay

    like changing the ending

    is still an option.

    Some days

    my head feels

    like a house

    with every light on

    and nobody home.

    Every room

    filled with noise,

    every hallway

    echoing

    with questions

    that don’t have answers.

    But every now and then—

    there’s a moment.

    A deep breath.

    A quiet sunrise.

    A laugh

    I didn’t have to force.

    And for a second,

    everything settles.

    The noise steps back.

    The weight

    loosens its grip.

    Maybe my mind

    was never lost.

    Maybe it was just

    buried beneath

    everything

    I never gave myself

    permission

    to put down.

    So I’ll keep looking.

    Not for the person

    I used to be—

    but for the peace

    I’ve been carrying

    inside me all along,

    waiting

    for the noise

    to finally make room.

  • How Much Longer?

    How much longer

    do I have to keep telling myself

    it gets better?

    How many more nights

    do I have to survive

    before survival

    starts feeling like living?

    I’m tired.

    Not the kind of tired

    sleep fixes.

    The kind that settles

    in your bones.

    The kind that comes from carrying

    the same hurt

    for so long

    it starts feeling

    like part of your identity.

    People tell you

    to keep going.

    And I do.

    God, I do.

    But some days

    it feels less like courage

    and more like habit.

    Like I’m just showing up

    because I showed up yesterday.

    And the day before that.

    And the day before that.

    Waiting for something

    to finally make sense.

    Waiting for the weight

    to loosen its grip.

    Waiting for life

    to feel like something

    I’m participating in

    instead of enduring.

    But maybe

    that’s the lie.

    Maybe life

    was never waiting

    on the other side

    of my pain.

    Maybe it’s been here

    the whole time—

    buried in small moments

    I was too exhausted

    to notice.

    A deep breath.

    A quiet morning.

    A conversation that lingered.

    A reason to stay

    that didn’t feel like enough

    until later.

    I don’t know.

    I don’t have some beautiful answer.

    Just this:

    I’m still here.

    Still asking the question.

    And maybe

    there’s something hopeful

    about that.

    Because if I were truly done,

    I wouldn’t still be wondering.

    I wouldn’t still be looking

    for a reason.

    So maybe

    for tonight,

    that’s enough.

    Not certainty.

    Not happiness.

    Just the stubborn possibility

    that the story

    isn’t over yet.

  • Stay

    Some nights

    the world gets too loud

    inside your head—

    every thought

    echoing,

    every memory

    sharper than it should be.

    And there’s a door there—

    not a real one,

    but close enough

    to feel like an option.

    It whispers easy answers.

    Shortcuts.

    Silence.

    And for a moment—

    just a moment—

    it feels like relief.

    But there’s another voice too.

    Quieter.

    Not convincing.

    Not strong.

    Just there.

    The one that says

    wait.

    Not forever.

    Not fix everything.

    Just—

    stay.

    Stay through this hour.

    Through this breath.

    Through the part

    that feels unbearable

    right now.

    Because feelings lie

    about how long they last.

    Because the version of you

    that made it this far

    didn’t do it

    by accident.

    Because even now—

    with everything heavy,

    everything blurred—

    you are still here.

    And that matters

    more than anything

    the dark is trying

    to tell you.

    So don’t decide tonight.

    Don’t close the door

    on something

    that might still change.

    Just stay.

  • It Scares Me

    It scares me

    how fast my mind can go there—

    how something small

    can open a door

    I didn’t mean to touch.

    Like there’s a version of me

    that knows the way out too well,

    that whispers in quiet moments

    when everything feels too heavy

    to carry again.

    I don’t always believe it—

    but I hear it.

    And that’s enough

    to make my hands still,

    to make me sit with myself

    a little longer

    than I want to.

    Because there’s another part—

    quieter,

    harder to hear—

    the one that stays.

    The one that waits

    for the storm to pass

    even when it doesn’t feel like it will.

    The one that knows

    these thoughts

    aren’t the same

    as truth.

    So I stay.

    Not because it’s easy.

    Not because I have answers.

    But because something in me

    is still choosing

    to be here—

    even when it scares me

    how close the edge

    can feel.

  • I Survived Myself

    Nobody talks about

    the version of you

    that almost didn’t make it.

    Not the dramatic kind—

    not the one that leaves

    a clean story behind.

    I’m talking about

    the quiet destruction.

    The nights

    you sat in your own head

    too long.

    The mornings

    you woke up tired

    of being you.

    The way you kept going

    not because you were strong—

    but because stopping

    would’ve meant facing it

    all at once.

    I have been

    my own worst place.

    My own war zone.

    My own reason

    for almost giving up.

    And still—

    I stayed.

    Not gracefully.

    Not beautifully.

    Not in a way

    anyone would applaud.

    I stayed

    out of stubbornness.

    Out of spite.

    Out of something in me

    that refused

    to disappear

    just because it hurt.

    People think survival

    looks like progress.

    Like healing.

    Like light.

    Sometimes it looks like

    getting out of bed

    when nothing in you

    wants to exist in the day.

    Sometimes it looks like

    breathing

    through something

    you don’t even have words for.

    Sometimes it looks like

    not ending it

    when you could have.

    So no—

    I’m not proud

    in the way they expect.

    I’m not fixed.

    I’m not finished.

    But I am still here.

    And if that’s all

    I’ve done—

    then that’s everything.

    Because I didn’t just survive

    what happened to me.

    I survived

    what it did

    to me.

  • Losing My Mind

    I think I’m losing my mind—

    not all at once,

    not in some dramatic collapse.

    Just slowly.

    In little ways

    that nobody notices

    unless they’re looking close.

    Forgetting things

    I shouldn’t forget.

    Overthinking things

    that shouldn’t matter.

    Turning the same thought over

    until it cuts deep enough

    to feel real.

    My mind doesn’t rest anymore.

    It loops.

    Repeats.

    Builds storms

    out of silence.

    And I keep trying

    to act normal—

    keep conversations steady,

    keep my face calm,

    keep pretending

    I’m not exhausted

    from fighting myself

    all day long.

    But it’s getting harder.

    The noise follows me.

    Into quiet rooms.

    Into sleep.

    Into moments

    that should feel safe

    but don’t.

    And the worst part is—

    I can still tell

    something’s wrong.

    I still recognize

    the distance

    between who I used to be

    and whoever this version is

    staring back at me now.

    Maybe I’m not losing my mind.

    Maybe I’m just carrying

    too much pain

    for too long

    without putting it down.

    But either way—

    I’m tired.

    Tired of feeling

    like my own head

    is a place

    I can’t escape from.

  • Irrational Emotion

    They call it irrational

    like naming it that

    should make it smaller.

    Like feelings

    need permission

    from logic

    to be real.

    I know it doesn’t make sense.

    I know the reaction

    doesn’t match the moment,

    that my chest

    shouldn’t tighten this fast,

    that silence

    shouldn’t feel like abandonment,

    that one small shift

    shouldn’t unravel

    an entire day.

    And still—

    it does.

    Because emotion

    doesn’t always ask

    what’s reasonable.

    It remembers.

    Old wounds

    wear new faces.

    Past pain

    learns new names.

    And suddenly

    I’m not just reacting

    to right now—

    I’m reacting

    to every version

    of this feeling

    I’ve ever survived.

    That’s what people miss.

    It’s not irrational

    when your body

    thinks it’s protecting you.

    Even if it’s wrong.

    Even if the danger

    isn’t real anymore.

    So no—

    maybe it doesn’t make sense

    from the outside.

    But inside this skin,

    inside a heart

    that learned fear

    before safety—

    it feels

    completely real.

  • Asphyxiated

    I think I’m drowning—

    not in water,

    but in something heavier.

    Air that won’t reach me.

    Rooms that feel too small

    no matter how wide they are.

    A pressure in my chest

    like something’s sitting there

    and refusing to move.

    I keep breathing—

    or at least

    I go through the motion of it.

    In,

    out,

    in—

    but it doesn’t land.

    Doesn’t fill me

    the way it’s supposed to.

    Like oxygen

    forgot my name.

    Everything feels distant,

    muffled,

    like I’m hearing life

    from underwater

    while pretending

    I’m still on the surface.

    I smile when I have to.

    Answer when I’m asked.

    Move through moments

    like I’m not quietly

    losing the ability

    to feel them.

    And no one notices.

    Because drowning

    doesn’t always look like panic.

    Sometimes

    it looks like stillness.

    Like silence.

    Like someone

    standing right in front of you

    who forgot

    how to breathe.

    I don’t need saving—

    not loudly,

    not dramatically.

    I just need

    one full breath

    that doesn’t feel borrowed.

    One moment

    where my chest

    remembers

    what it means

    to open

    without fear

    of closing again.

  • Emotional Dysregulation

    It feels like I am cursed to live inside a body that betrays me at every turn. Emotional dysregulation isn’t just “mood swings” or being “too sensitive.” It’s violence from within. A storm I never chose that tears through me without warning, leaving destruction in its wake.

    One moment I am fine. Breathing. Surviving. The next, I am consumed. Rage, grief, despair — emotions that don’t trickle in, but flood me, drown me, drag me under. There is no pause button. No control. Only the crash.

    People see the outburst, the breakdown, the silence that follows. They don’t see the terror. They don’t see the way I can feel myself unraveling in real time, like skin splitting open at the seams, powerless to stop it.

    And when it passes — because it always passes — I am left with the ruins. The guilt. The shame. The voices that gnaw at me: You ruined it again. You destroyed everything again. You’ll always be too much, too broken.

    It’s a cycle I can’t escape. A pendulum swinging between fire and emptiness. Between being consumed by emotions that feel too big for my body and being left hollow when they finally burn themselves out.

    They call it dysregulation.

    I call it being at war with myself.

    And some days, I wonder which part of me will win — the storm or the silence.

  • Trying to Outrun Myself

    Every time I try to outrun myself,

    my feet lock to the floor.

    The harder I push forward,

    the heavier my body feels,

    like something inside me

    is begging to be faced

    instead of escaped.

    I picture the other side

    peace, clarity, a version of me

    that doesn’t flinch at her own thoughts.

    But the distance feels endless,

    like I was dropped in the middle of nowhere

    with no map

    and a heart already tired.

    I tell myself to move.

    Just one step.

    Just breathe.

    But my mind is louder than my legs,

    and every fear I’ve ever buried

    comes sprinting past me,

    reminding me I can’t outrun

    what knows my name.

    I’ve tried speed.

    I’ve tried numbness.

    I’ve tried pretending I’m fine

    because it looks easier

    than explaining the war inside my chest.

    Still, I stay stuck

    watching life rush by

    like I missed my cue to jump in.

    Some days it feels like

    I’ll never make it to the other side,

    like forward is a language

    I never learned how to speak.

    Like everyone else is crossing bridges

    I can’t even see.

    But maybe this stillness

    isn’t failure.

    Maybe it’s my body refusing

    to abandon itself again.

    Maybe the other side

    isn’t somewhere I run to

    maybe it’s something I build

    right here,

    piece by fragile piece.

    I don’t know how to get there yet.

    I only know I’m still here,

    still breathing,

    still wanting more than survival.

    And maybe that means

    I haven’t stopped moving at all—

    I’ve just been learning

    how to turn around

    and finally walk with myself

    instead of away.