Through the Fog

Tag: BPD

  • Disassociate

    I leave my body without moving.

    Eyes open, but I am elsewhere.

    The room blurs, voices stretch thin,

    and I hover just above myself

    like smoke that forgot its fire.

    Disassociation feels like safety,

    but it is also loss.

    A way of surviving the unbearable

    by not being there at all.

    Time folds in strange ways.

    Minutes dissolve,

    hours vanish,

    days pass like a dream

    I can’t quite remember

    but can’t wake from either.

    I watch my hands move,

    hear my mouth speak,

    but none of it belongs to me.

    I am vaguely familiar to myself,

    a stranger inhabiting my skin.

    And yet,

    this distance once saved me.

    It kept me alive when being present

    was too dangerous, too sharp, too much.

    But now, healing asks me to stay.

    To return,

    to feel,

    to sit inside my own body

    without slipping through its seams.

    Disassociation taught me survival.

    Presence will have to teach me living.

  • What I’d Leave Behind

    I would paint the walls

    with every beautiful thing I am

    and every terrible thing I’ve ever been —

    layered thick,

    no clean lines,

    no apology for the mess.

    Joy smeared beside regret,

    love dripping into shame,

    gold pressed hard

    against the bruised colors

    no one likes to look at too long.

    I wouldn’t fix the edges.

    I wouldn’t soften the truth.

    There would be laughter

    caught mid-breath,

    and grief so old

    it’s learned how to sit quietly.

    There would be nights

    I survived out of spite,

    and mornings

    I stayed for no good reason at all.

    It wouldn’t be pretty.

    It would be mine.

    A room that says:

    this person felt deeply,

    broke often,

    kept going anyway.

    A testament to contradictions —

    light bleeding into dark,

    dark refusing to erase the light.

    If anyone stood there long enough,

    they’d see it wasn’t destruction

    I was trying to leave behind —

    it was proof.

    Proof that I was here.

    That I contained multitudes.

    That even the terrible things

    never managed

    to erase the beautiful ones.

  • The Point of Faking Happy

    What’s the point of faking happy  

    when every laugh feels like a lie,  

    when every joke is just a decoy  

    to hide the part of me that wants to die.

    The mirror knows my real face,  

    the one that sags when no one sees,  

    the eyes that stare at ceilings,  

    begging night to cut me free.

    I say “I’m fine” like a password,  

    a code that keeps them from the truth,  

    because if they knew how loud it gets,  

    they’d hear the screaming of my youth.

    The point of faking happy  

    isn’t hope or some bright end.  

    It’s just a way to stall the fall,  

    to last one more day,  

    and call it “pretend.”

  • Can’t Save Myself From 5AM

    Can’t save myself from 5am—

    that thin, trembling hour

    when the night is almost gone

    but refuses to let go,

    and I’m caught between yesterday’s ghosts

    and tomorrow’s promises

    I don’t know how to keep.

    There’s something cruel

    about the quiet at that hour,

    how it magnifies every bruise

    I thought I’d healed,

    how it pulls old memories

    back into my hands

    like I’m meant to cradle them

    instead of bury them.

    I lie there, staring at the ceiling,

    watching the darkness pulse

    in slow, aching waves,

    feeling the weight of every thought

    I pretended didn’t hurt.

    It’s the kind of loneliness

    that doesn’t shout—

    it whispers,

    it lingers,

    it crawls under my skin

    and makes a home there.

    5am is where the truth comes out—

    the truth I hide in daylight,

    the truth I swallow before speaking.

    It’s where the what-ifs return,

    where the could’ve-beens settle

    in the corners of my chest,

    where the world feels too wide

    for someone who feels

    so unbearably small.

    I try to breathe through it,

    try to remind myself

    that morning always comes,

    that light always finds a way in—

    but some nights,

    the dark wraps around me

    like it knows my name,

    like it’s claiming something

    I’m too tired to fight for.

    Everyone else is dreaming,

    and I’m wide awake,

    trying to stitch myself together

    before the sun finds me

    broken again.

  • Flint

    Photo Credit: Pete F

    Flint strikes out

    and pierce the dark—

    a single spark

    against a sky

    that’s forgotten how to shine.

    For a moment,

    light is a knife

    cutting through the quiet,

    a reminder

    that even the smallest fire

    can challenge the night.

    The dark leans in,

    hungry,

    certain it will swallow everything—

    but flint is stubborn,

    and sparks are born

    with rebellion in their bones.

    One strike,

    one flash,

    one heartbeat of brightness—

    enough to tell the shadows

    they don’t own this place,

    not tonight.

    Sometimes

    all it takes

    to change the whole sky

    is a spark brave enough

    to burn.

  • Don’t Let Me Down

    You say you won’t let me down.

    And I almost believe you.

    Because your voice sounds steady, your words sound like safety, and for a moment I forget what disappointment feels like.

    But I’ve heard those promises before — soft and certain, dripping from lips that never meant to stay. People promise things they can’t keep, not because they want to hurt you, but because they don’t know how deep the hurt already runs.

    You say you won’t let me down, but life has a way of proving otherwise.

    It’s not always betrayal that breaks me — sometimes it’s the quiet absence, the unanswered message, the way someone’s warmth fades without warning.

    I’ve learned that love doesn’t always mean safety, and trust doesn’t always mean forever. Sometimes “I won’t let you down” just means “I’ll try, until I can’t anymore.”

    And maybe that’s okay.

    Maybe the point isn’t to find someone who never lets me down — maybe it’s to learn how to stand up on my own when they do.

    Still, there’s a part of me that wants to believe you.

    That fragile, foolish part that hopes this time is different.

    That maybe when you say you won’t let me down… you mean it.

  • Fear of Abandonment

    Some days I feel like my entire life has been one long rehearsal for people leaving me. It’s a script I know by heart—the waiting, the silence, the glance that lingers too long, the tone that shifts, the distance that grows. I see it before it even happens, and my chest tightens as though I’m already alone.

    The fear of abandonment is not just fear—it’s a shadow that sits inside me, whispering reminders of every goodbye I never asked for, every rejection that cut too deep. It tells me I am replaceable. Forgettable. That if I don’t hold on tight enough, people will vanish like smoke, and I’ll be left clutching the air where they used to be.

    I crave closeness but it terrifies me at the same time. I want to be seen, but I’m afraid of what happens once I am. I want to trust, but trust feels like handing someone the keys to burn me down. So I hover in this space between reaching out and pulling away, torn between the desperate need to be chosen and the unbearable fear that I never will be.

    When someone leaves—even if it’s not forever—it feels like proof that the voice inside was right. Proof that I am not worth staying for. It doesn’t matter if it’s just a missed call, or someone needing space—it all feels like abandonment to me. And in those moments, I can’t separate the present from the past. I’m back in every empty room, every unanswered plea, every door that closed too soon.

    Maybe this fear will always follow me. Maybe it’s stitched into who I am. But part of me wonders if it’s possible to learn how to carry it differently—to not let it consume me every time the threat of distance appears. For now, I just write. Because writing doesn’t leave me.