Category: Uncategorized

Gratitude does not always come easy.

Sometimes it arrives with trembling hands,

laden with the weight of what was lost

and what was barely salvaged.

It is heavy—

because to be grateful

is to remember the ache that came before,

to acknowledge the storm

that left you standing in its wake.

And yet,

this heaviness is holy.

It anchors you to the present,

reminds you that survival itself

is a gift.

Heavy gratefulness—

a burden you choose to carry,

because even in the sorrow,

you found something worth holding onto.

I move through my days

like hallways I once knew,

everything vaguely familiar,

yet tilted,

off-center—

the walls leaning,

the mirrors untrustworthy.

Faces smile as if they’ve known me,

and I smile back,

pretending I remember

what it feels like to belong.

But inside,

I am a stranger in my own life—

watching myself from the edges,

carrying fragments of memory

that slip through my fingers

like water.

Still, in the blur,

a truth lingers:

what feels unfamiliar now

is only waiting

to be met again,

patient as a shadow,

faithful as a heartbeat.

The world is heavy,

and she has carried it longer than most—

its storms etched into her skin,

its silence pressed into the folds of her brow.

With eyes closed,

she leans into memory,

where shadows blur into light

and the names of the gone

rise like whispers on the wind.

It is not sleep,

but surrender—

a moment to unclench her fists

from the decades they have held,

a moment to breathe

without the weight of being seen.

In the hush behind her lids,

there is grief, yes,

but also gratitude—

the quiet relief

of someone who has endured,

who has outlasted the fire,

and now simply stands,

weathered but unbroken,

letting time pass gently

through her bones.

Invisible in the Crowd

I stand where voices gather,

laughter spilling like wine,

but none of it reaches me.

Their eyes pass over mine

as if I were glass,

a shape without weight,

a name without sound.

Loneliness is not the absence of bodies—

it is the absence of being seen.

The hollow ache of invisibility

even as shoulders brush mine.

I could scream,

and still their conversations

would weave around me

like smoke ignoring stone.

So I sit quietly,

a ghost in the present tense,

learning how it feels

to be surrounded,

yet utterly alone.

Happiness is elusive.

It shows itself in fragments—

a laugh that lingers too briefly,

a sunset you almost forget to notice,

the warmth of a hand

that slips away too soon.

We spend our lives chasing it,

like children running after fireflies,

cupping our hands around the glow

only to find

the light escapes through the cracks.

They say happiness is a choice,

but choices do not stop

the hollow ache of night,

nor the silence that settles

when the world grows quiet.

Happiness is not absent,

but fleeting—

a ghost brushing past your shoulder,

reminding you it was real

even as it vanishes.

And maybe the point

is not to catch it at all,

but to learn how to live

in the in-between—

where sorrow builds its house,

and joy comes knocking,

if only for a moment.

Solitude is not mere silence—

it embodies the rhythm of your heartbeat

resonating too loudly in an unoccupied chamber.

It is standing on the brink of existence,

where the sea extends endlessly,

yet feeling as though there is no destination.

Figures pass like fleeting shadows,

their merriment seeping through insurmountable barriers.

You gesture, but go unnoticed—

an apparition melded into the daylight.

Solitude does not seek approval;

it arrives unexpectedly,

settling down beside you,

drawing closer than recollection,

breathing steadily in your ear.

Nevertheless—

within the void of its company,

you discover how to embrace yourself.

To serve as your own observer,

your own silent supplication,

your own motivation to persevere,

even when nobody knocks,

even when nobody lingers.

Solitude is burdensome—

yet it has enlightened me

that even a solitary heart

can generate sufficient resonance

to prevent fading away.

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.

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.

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.