Through the Fog

Blog

  • I Dug My Own Grave

    I dug my own grave

    one bad decision at a time—

    not all at once,

    not dramatically,

    just slowly enough

    to call it living.

    A drink here.

    A lie there.

    Another thing

    I told myself

    I’d fix tomorrow.

    I kept throwing dirt

    over warning signs,

    burying the parts of me

    that knew better,

    that tried to speak up

    before everything got this deep.

    But I didn’t listen.

    I called it coping.

    Called it survival.

    Called it anything

    except what it was—

    self-destruction

    with softer language.

    And now I stand here

    looking down

    at the hole I made,

    realizing

    no one pushed me into it.

    That’s the hardest part.

    Not the damage.

    Not the regret.

    The knowing.

    Knowing my own hands

    built this.

    Knowing I became

    the thing

    I kept trying to outrun.

    But maybe

    that’s where change starts—

    not in pretending

    I’m innocent,

    not in blaming the world

    for every scar I carry—

    but in finally

    putting the shovel down.

    Because if I dug this grave,

    maybe I can still

    climb out of it too.

  • 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.

  • Sentimental Bullshit

    Call it sentimental bullshit—

    that soft, overused language

    people reach for

    when something real

    makes them uncomfortable.

    Love.

    Hope.

    Healing.

    Words that get dismissed

    the second they stop being easy.

    Like feeling deeply

    is something to outgrow.

    Like caring too much

    is a flaw

    instead of a risk.

    I’ve tried

    to strip it all down—

    make myself quieter,

    less affected,

    less invested

    in things that don’t stay.

    Told myself

    it’s better this way.

    Cleaner.

    Safer.

    No expectations.

    No disappointment.

    No reason to feel

    anything at all.

    But numb

    isn’t the same

    as strong.

    And pretending

    none of it mattered

    doesn’t make it true.

    Because even now—

    under all the doubt,

    all the cynicism,

    all the ways I’ve tried

    to harden—

    there’s still something there.

    Something stubborn.

    Something that refuses

    to turn into nothing

    just because it got hurt.

    So call it

    sentimental bullshit

    if you need to.

    I know what it is.

    It’s the part of me

    that still believes

    something real

    is worth feeling—

    even if it doesn’t last.

  • Still Coal

    They say pressure makes diamonds—

    like it’s a promise,

    like if you endure enough

    something beautiful

    is guaranteed.

    Like all this weight

    means something.

    But I’ve been under it—

    the expectations,

    the breaking points,

    the nights that felt like

    they’d cave in on me

    if I breathed too wrong.

    And I’m still here

    feeling like coal.

    Still rough.

    Still dark in places

    I can’t quite polish away.

    Still carrying the marks

    of everything that pressed down

    and didn’t turn me

    into something people admire.

    So what’s the difference?

    Is it time?

    Is it pressure?

    Or is it the way

    some things break

    before they ever get the chance

    to become anything else?

    Because no one talks about that—

    how pressure

    doesn’t always transform.

    Sometimes

    it just weighs.

    Sometimes

    it just leaves you

    exactly where you started—

    only more aware

    of how much you can carry

    without changing at all.

    But maybe—

    maybe being coal

    isn’t failure.

    Maybe it means

    I haven’t hardened

    into something unbreakable,

    haven’t lost the parts of me

    that still feel,

    that still bend

    instead of shatter.

    Maybe I’m not finished.

    Not polished.

    Not perfect.

    Not what they promised

    I’d become.

    But still here.

    Still holding

    the same fire

    that made them believe

    in diamonds

    in the first place.

  • I’ll Be Okay

    I keep telling myself

    I’ll be okay—

    like it’s something

    I can decide

    and not something

    I have to live through first.

    Like saying it enough times

    will turn it into truth

    before I’m ready to believe it.

    Some days

    it almost works.

    I move through the hours

    without falling apart,

    without letting the weight

    pull me under.

    I answer questions,

    smile when I’m supposed to,

    pretend this version of me

    is steady.

    But “almost”

    isn’t the same

    as okay.

    It’s quieter than that—

    a careful balance

    between holding it together

    and feeling it slip.

    And still—

    I don’t give up on it.

    On the idea

    that one day

    those words

    won’t feel borrowed.

    That I won’t have to convince myself

    of something

    I already am.

    Maybe okay

    isn’t a destination.

    Maybe it’s this—

    showing up

    even when I don’t feel right,

    staying

    even when leaving

    would be easier.

    Maybe it’s not about

    feeling whole.

    Maybe it’s about

    not disappearing

    in the process

    of trying to be.

  • To the One Still Fighting

    I won’t call you broken—

    not in the way people mean it,

    like you’re something

    to be written off.

    I see you.

    Not just the hands that shake,

    not just the nights that blur,

    not just the stories

    people whisper

    when you leave the room.

    I see the part of you

    that keeps waking up

    even when it hurts.

    The part

    that knows this isn’t who you are

    but doesn’t know

    how to get back

    to where you were.

    Because it’s not just the substance—

    it’s what it quiets,

    what it softens,

    what it keeps from spilling over

    when everything inside you

    feels too loud.

    You didn’t choose this

    the way they think you did.

    You chose relief.

    You chose a moment

    where the noise stopped.

    And it stayed longer

    than you meant it to.

    But listen—

    the fact that you’re still here

    means something.

    The fact that you’re still feeling

    anything at all

    means it hasn’t taken

    everything from you.

    I’m not going to tell you

    it’s easy.

    I’m not going to promise

    you’ll wake up one day

    and it’s gone.

    But I will say this—

    you are not beyond

    finding your way back.

    Not because you haven’t fallen,

    not because you’ve been perfect—

    but because something in you

    hasn’t given up yet.

    And sometimes

    that small, stubborn part

    is enough

    to carry you

    one step closer

    to breathing

    without needing

    to disappear first.

  • You Think You Won

    You think you won—

    like love was something

    you could catch in the act

    and call yours again.

    Like finding out

    made you powerful,

    like ending it

    made you right.

    But this was never

    about you.

    Not really.

    It was about two people

    trying to breathe

    in places

    that felt like suffocation.

    You didn’t save anything.

    You just exposed it.

    Pulled the curtain back

    on something

    that was already broken

    long before I ever showed up.

    And now you get to keep it—

    the version of him

    that stays,

    the life that looks intact

    from the outside.

    But I knew

    what it felt like underneath.

    The distance.

    The silence.

    The parts of him

    that didn’t belong there anymore.

    So no—

    you didn’t take something from me.

    You just held onto something

    I already knew

    I couldn’t keep.

  • 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.

  • Just Another Day

    They say it’s your day—

    like that means something

    you’re supposed to feel.

    Like candles and wishes

    are enough

    to make it matter.

    But it comes

    like any other morning—

    quiet,

    unremarkable,

    the same weight

    waiting for you

    before your feet

    hit the floor.

    Messages trickle in—

    “happy birthday,”

    short, bright,

    easy to send.

    You read them,

    type back something grateful,

    something light,

    something that doesn’t say

    how it actually feels.

    Because how do you explain

    that another year

    doesn’t feel like a celebration?

    That it feels like time passing

    without asking

    if you’re ready for it.

    Like you’re still

    the same person

    trying to figure things out—

    just older,

    just more aware

    of what didn’t turn out

    the way you thought it would.

    There’s no party

    for that.

    No candles

    for the things you lost,

    the versions of yourself

    that didn’t make it here.

    So the day moves on—

    like it always does.

    And you move with it,

    smiling when you need to,

    thanking people

    for remembering.

    But deep down,

    it doesn’t feel like yours.

    It just feels

    like another day

    you survived.

  • You’re Married to a Nightmare

    You don’t call it that.

    Not out loud.

    You call it stress,

    a rough patch,

    something every couple goes through

    if they just try hard enough.

    Because nightmares

    aren’t supposed to wear a ring,

    aren’t supposed to sit across from you

    at the same table

    and ask how your day was

    like everything is fine.

    But this one does.

    It smiles

    when people are watching.

    Speaks gently

    in rooms that echo.

    Knows exactly

    how to look like love

    from a distance.

    And you—

    you’ve learned the choreography.

    When to stay quiet.

    When to soften.

    When to shrink yourself

    just enough

    to keep the peace

    from breaking open.

    You measure your words

    like they could detonate.

    You swallow reactions

    before they reach your mouth.

    You become careful

    in ways that don’t feel like you anymore.

    And still—

    it’s never quite enough.

    There’s always a shift.

    A tone.

    A silence

    that stretches too long.

    Something small

    that turns into something bigger

    before you can stop it.

    So you adjust again.

    Call it compromise.

    Call it patience.

    Call it love.

    Anything

    but what it feels like

    when the lights go out

    and you’re left alone

    with the version of this

    no one else sees.

    Because how do you explain

    that the person

    you promised forever to

    is the same one

    you brace yourself for?

    How do you leave

    something that still

    looks like a life

    from the outside?

    So you stay.

    Not because it’s easy—

    but because it’s complicated,

    and untangling it

    feels heavier

    than carrying it.

    But deep down,

    beneath all the reasons

    you’ve built to justify it—

    you know.

    Love isn’t supposed

    to feel like survival.