Through the Fog

Tag: Depression

  • I’m Thinking Again

    Photo Credit: Aron Visuals

    I think and I think and I think.

    Until the thoughts start thinking me.

    It’s like being trapped in a room with my own mind — the walls covered in questions, the air thick with everything I’ve ever done wrong. I keep trying to find the one thought that will unlock the door, the one truth that will make it all make sense. But every time I get close, the door moves.

    Thinking feels productive until it starts to hurt. Until it becomes a loop — an endless replay of memories, mistakes, what-ifs, and could-have-beens. I convince myself that if I analyze it just a little longer, I’ll figure out who I am, or why I keep ending up here. But the more I think, the less I feel. The more I search, the more lost I become.

    People say “get out of your head” like it’s easy. Like it isn’t a maze with no map.

    They don’t see the noise behind my silence — the war waged between logic and emotion, guilt and grace.

    I think and I think and I think, until my thoughts start to drown me. Until I can’t tell the difference between reflection and self-destruction.

    And maybe that’s the cruelest part — knowing that my mind is both the weapon and the wound.

  • Nothing Left to Fix

    I don’t want to be saved.

    Not tonight.

    Not by hope,

    not by promises that sound like recycled air.

    I’m not broken in a way

    that healing can touch.

    I’m worn down,

    thinned out,

    tired in a way sleep can’t reach.

    People say “keep fighting”

    like the bleeding hasn’t already happened.

    Like there’s some victory in dragging myself

    through another day

    that feels exactly like the last one.

    I don’t want answers.

    I don’t want light.

    I just want the noise in my head

    to stop scraping against my thoughts.

    If numbness is all I get,

    I’ll take it.

    At least it doesn’t hurt

    to feel nothing.

    And maybe someday,

    when the world isn’t this heavy,

    I’ll want more than breathing.

    But tonight—

    I’m just here.

    Not living.

    Not dying.

    Just here.

  • Kerosene

    I’m throwing kerosene

    on everything I love

    because it hurts less to watch it burn

    than to wait for it to leave.

    I don’t destroy things out of anger—

    I do it because I already know the ending,

    and I’d rather be the one holding the match

    than the one left in the smoke.

    There’s a sick kind of peace

    in turning love into ash.

    No more hoping,

    no more reaching,

    no more waiting for the floor to fall out.

    I don’t trust softness.

    I don’t trust survival.

    I only trust the fire—

    it never pretends to stay.

    It just devours everything.

    So I burn it all down

    before it can ruin me,

    and the worst part is:

    the only thing that ever really turns to ash

    is me. The fire wins.

  • High Alert

    My body doesn’t trust the quiet.

    Even silence hums like danger.

    Every creak, every breath,

    feels like the start of something breaking.

    My heart sprints with no finish line,

    my hands forget how to rest.

    It’s not that I’m afraid of dying—

    I’m afraid of feeling this forever.

    The world moves in slow motion,

    but my thoughts race ahead,

    building fires where there’s only smoke,

    seeing ghosts in harmless shadows.

    I tell myself I’m safe,

    but my pulse calls me a liar.

    There’s no off switch,

    only exhaustion wearing my name.

    Still, I breathe—

    even if it’s shallow, even if it shakes.

    I remind myself:

    this is just my body trying to protect me,

    even when there’s nothing left to run from.

  • Rage

    Photo Credit:Kiara Kulikova

    I want to scream until the stars fall,

    until the sky cracks under the weight of my name.

    I’m tired of being calm,

    tired of pretending I don’t feel the storm.

    Let me burn—

    let me rip the silence wide open.

    Every bottled-up thought,

    every swallowed scream,

    every “it’s fine” I choked on—

    I want it out.

    Let me rage,

    wild and unpretty,

    until my chest stops shaking

    and I can breathe again.

  • Drain Me

    Photo Credit: Europeana

    I thought about drinking the end,

    letting it burn its way through the ache,

    turning pain into silence.

    But somewhere between thought and act,

    a voice whispered—not yet.

    A trembling sound, small but alive,

    saying maybe there’s still a sunrise

    I haven’t seen.

    I get so tired of that voice—

    the voice of reason,

    always telling me there’s more to live for,

    a glimmer of hope I don’t want to think about.

    The world feels heavy,

    pressing against my ribs,

    reminding me I’m still here.

    And I am—

    shaking, breaking,

    breathing anyway.

    I don’t want to die.

    I just want the pain to stop

    before it swallows me whole.

  • 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.

  • Boundaries

    They told me boundaries were healthy,

    but no one warned me they’d feel like loneliness.

    That saying no could echo so loudly

    inside a heart that only ever wanted to be seen.

    I built fences out of survival,

    not pride.

    Each post hammered in with memories

    of what it cost to trust the wrong hands.

    Now, when someone knocks,

    I hesitate.

    Not because I don’t want to open the gate—

    but because I still remember

    how it felt to be left bleeding in the garden.

    They say healing means protecting your peace,

    but sometimes peace looks like distance.

    Sometimes it means loving yourself enough

    to walk away before the breaking starts.

    So if you think I’m cold,

    understand this—

    I am only guarding what’s left.

    And if I keep the door locked,

    it’s not because I don’t care.

    It’s because I finally do.

  • While I’m Working on Me

    Photo Credit: Aaron Burden

    You stay by my side while I’m working on me.

    And that means more than you’ll ever know.

    Because this version of me isn’t easy to love.

    I’m messy. Guarded. Sometimes distant for no reason.

    I disappear into my thoughts, into the weight of everything I’m trying to fix.

    And still — you stay.

    You don’t rush my healing or ask me to hurry back.

    You don’t fill the silence; you sit in it with me.

    You remind me that love doesn’t always need words — sometimes it’s just presence, patience, quiet belief.

    I know I’m not who I want to be yet.

    But I’m trying.

    And your staying gives me the strength to keep trying.

    Because maybe that’s what real love looks like —

    not rescuing someone, not fixing them,

    but holding their hand while they rebuild themselves, piece by piece.

    So thank you —

    for seeing the good that still flickers underneath the chaos,

    for standing next to someone who’s still learning how to stand on their own.

    You stay by my side while I’m working on me.

    And that… that’s love.

  • I Made Peace With Being Forgotten

    I spent years believing I was unlovable.

    Not because anyone told me outright, but because life showed me in small, cruel ways — the way people left without warning, the way silence always followed honesty, the way I kept giving pieces of myself and watching them be forgotten.

    I thought I was somebody nobody could love.

    So I learned to disappear before anyone could confirm it.

    I became the friend who laughed too loud, the lover who didn’t ask for much, the person who said “I’m fine” even when I was anything but. I built walls and called them boundaries. I called loneliness “strength.”

    The truth is, I didn’t want to be loved — not really. I wanted to be seen and still chosen. I wanted someone to stay after finding out who I really was beneath the pretending. But when you spend enough time convincing yourself you’re unworthy, love starts to feel like a threat.

    I thought I was somebody nobody could love.

    But maybe it wasn’t love that was missing — maybe it was me.

    Maybe I left myself long before anyone else did.

    And now, slowly, painfully, I’m learning to return.