Through the Fog

Tag: Depression

  • My Thoughts

    People ask me all the time where my thoughts come from,

    like there’s some peaceful corner of my mind

    where everything sits neatly in place.

    I usually just laugh a little,

    because if they really knew,

    they’d probably never ask again.

    My thoughts don’t come from pretty places.

    They show up from the things I tried to bury,

    the memories I hoped would stay quiet.

    Half the time it feels like I’m digging up old ghosts

    that refuse to stay dead.

    People think inspiration is soft and beautiful.

    Mine isn’t.

    Mine comes from nights I couldn’t hold myself together,

    from moments that broke me in ways I still don’t talk about,

    from the weight I carry even when I swear I’m fine.

    So when someone says,

    “Where does your writing come from?”

    I smile, because the real answer would make them uncomfortable.

    It comes from the parts of me I don’t show.

    The fears I wake up with.

    The wounds that still ache.

    The stories I survived but never really got over.

    And honestly, I don’t write because it’s poetic

    or because it makes me look deep.

    I write because if I don’t get this stuff out of my head,

    it just sits there and eats at me.

    So yeah, people ask.

    But the truth is simple:

    My thoughts come from the places I wish they didn’t.

    And most people really, truly don’t want to know.

  • Blue Skies

    You can always find me where the skies are blue.

    Where the world feels a little lighter,

    where the weight on my chest loosens its grip

    just long enough for me to breathe like I used to.

    I go where the quiet lives.

    Where the sun breaks through the clouds

    and warms the parts of me I keep hidden.

    Where the wind carries my worries

    a little farther than I can reach.

    If I disappear,

    I’m not running—

    I’m just searching

    for the version of myself

    that doesn’t hurt so much.

    So if you’re looking for me,

    look where the skies open wide,

    where the world feels kind,

    where the color returns to my soul.

    That’s where I go

    when I need to remember

    that I’m still capable

    of something brighter

    than the storms I’ve survived.

  • Ghost

    Photo Credit: S L

    There’s a ghost in the mirror still haunting me.

    A version of myself I thought I buried

    beneath all the nights I swore I’d start over,

    all the mornings I promised I’d be different.

    She watches me from behind the glass,

    eyes hollow with the things I never said,

    jaw tight with all the things I swallowed

    just to make it through another day.

    She knows every secret.

    Every relapse, every regret,

    every time I tried to outrun the truth

    and tripped over the pieces I left behind.

    I wipe the mirror,

    but she doesn’t fade.

    Some ghosts don’t rattle chains—

    they whisper your name

    in the quiet moments when no one’s looking,

    reminding you of who you were

    and who you’re still afraid of becoming.

    And maybe she isn’t here to scare me.

    Maybe she’s waiting

    for me to finally look her in the eyes

    and say,

    I’m still here too.

  • I Feel Like Something’s Wrong When I’m Not Depressed

    I don’t know when it happened—

    when the heaviness became

    its own kind of home.

    When the silence tasted strange

    unless it carried a little ache.

    Some days I wake up light,

    breathing easier,

    and instead of feeling grateful,

    I flinch.

    Like joy is a trick

    and peace is just the calm

    before the next collapse.

    I look around for the darkness

    the way other people look for keys—

    worried I misplaced it,

    worried its absence means

    something worse is coming.

    It’s messed up, I know.

    But when you live in the storm long enough,

    sunlight feels like danger.

    Happiness feels like a costume

    you’re afraid to wear too long,

    in case someone rips it off

    and calls you out for pretending.

    I’m trying to relearn myself,

    trying to believe that ease

    doesn’t mean I’m slipping,

    that softness isn’t a symptom,

    that feeling okay

    doesn’t mean something’s wrong.

    But truth is—

    sometimes I only feel real

    when I’m hurting.

    And I’m still figuring out

    how to change that

    without losing who I am.

  • 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.

  • Maybe I Will, Maybe I Won’t

    And maybe one day

    I’ll finally grow up—

    stop running from shadows

    I created myself,

    stop pretending the chaos

    doesn’t belong to me.

    And maybe one day

    I’ll quit messing up,

    quit ruining the good things

    before they ever get a chance

    to feel real.

    But maybe I won’t.

    Maybe this is who I am—

    a storm tied together

    with shaky hands,

    a pattern I keep repeating

    even when I swear

    I’m done with it.

    Maybe I’ll just let you down,

    the way I’ve let down

    everyone who ever tried

    to get close enough

    to hold something

    I could never name.

    It’s not intention—

    it’s gravity.

    I fall the same way

    every time:

    hard,

    crooked,

    backwards into the dark

    I thought I’d outrun.

    And maybe one day

    I’ll rise out of it—

    but tonight,

    I’m just trying not to drown

    in the truth

    that some parts of me

    still cling to the wreckage

    I should’ve left behind

    long ago.

  • Sober Didn’t Fix My Broken

    Sober didn’t fix my broken—

    it just turned the lights back on.

    And suddenly I had to face

    every crack I’d tried to drown,

    every scar I’d blurred into silence,

    every memory I’d washed in poison

    just to make it bearable.

    Sober didn’t make me whole;

    it made me aware—

    of the pieces that don’t fit anymore,

    of the heaviness I still carry,

    of the storms that still rise

    even when my hands are clean.

    But maybe healing isn’t the miracle

    people make it out to be.

    Maybe it’s the slow work

    of learning to live

    with the parts of yourself

    you used to run from.

    Maybe sober isn’t the cure—

    maybe it’s the chance.

    The chance to rebuild,

    to feel without collapsing,

    to hurt without disappearing,

    to stay alive long enough

    to find the pieces

    that still want to shine.

    Sober didn’t fix my broken.

    But it gave me the hands

    to start picking myself up.

    And maybe—

    for now—

    that’s enough.

  • Spring Cleaning

    I spent the whole day in my head,

    doing a little spring cleaning—

    sweeping out old thoughts,

    rearranging the ruins,

    throwing away the versions of me

    that never learned how to stay.

    I dusted off memories

    I swore I’d forgotten,

    found feelings in corners

    I thought I’d buried on purpose.

    Funny how the mind keeps things—

    the good, the poison, the almost-healed.

    Funny how even the broken parts

    fight to be remembered.

    And yeah,

    I’m always dreaming—

    of better days,

    of quieter nights,

    of a life that doesn’t feel borrowed

    or blurred around the edges.

    Some days I clean.

    Some days I collapse.

    Some days I live entirely in thoughts

    because reality feels too sharp to touch.

    But I’m trying—

    even if the progress is silent,

    even if the work is invisible,

    even if the only one who sees the difference

    is me.

  • The Cost of Living

    The cost of my living

    was more than I planned.

    So I held the needle

    like a gun in my hand.

    Not outta courage —

    outta exhaustion.

    Outta that please-make-it-stop kind of silence

    that burns louder than any scream.

    Even now — clean —

    my hands still remember the weight.

    They twitch when the world gets heavy,

    like muscle memory don’t know I’m trying to live.

    They call this recovery.

    But it feels like standing

    in the ashes of a house I built myself

    and telling my lungs,

    “Go on. Breathe.

    It’s safe now.”

    But it never feels safe, does it?

    I miss the numb.

    I miss the nothing.

    But I want the morning more.

    I want the shaking and the sunlight

    and the proof —

    the proof that I can outlive

    my own escape route.

    Yeah, the cost of living is still high,

    but I’m paying it differently now.

    One breath.

    One truth.

    One trembling day at a time.

    And I’m still here —

    still here —

    still paying.

    Still worth the price.

  • Happiness in Sobriety (I Still Miss the High)

    Photo Credit: Frankie Cordoba

    They don’t tell you this part—

    sobriety doesn’t erase the memories.

    I still miss the high.

    I miss the numb,

    the blur,

    the way the world melted just long enough

    for me to forget I was hurting.

    There are days I crave the nothingness,

    days when pain feels louder than progress,

    when the urge whispers,

    “One more time won’t kill you.”

    But I know better—

    it almost did.

    More than once.

    Sobriety isn’t a clean break.

    It’s a war with the version of myself

    who still thinks relief comes in liquid,

    in powder,

    in pills,

    in poison that used to feel like peace.

    I don’t stay sober because I stopped wanting the high.

    I stay sober because I finally realized

    the high never loved me back.

    It just made the fall quieter.

    It made the pain delayed—

    not gone.

    Now happiness is different.

    It’s small.

    Subtle.

    Hard-earned.

    It comes in mornings I don’t regret,

    in nights I remember,

    in breathing that doesn’t taste like escape.

    I don’t always feel strong.

    But I feel present.

    And maybe that’s what living really is—

    missing the high

    and still choosing the heartbeat.