Through the Fog

Tag: dissociation

  • 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.

  • Numb Enough to Feel Nothing

    I’m fine, trust me —

    or whatever that word means

    when nothing touches me anymore.

    I move through the room

    like a ghost that forgot who it’s haunting,

    hands steady, heartbeat slow,

    mind blank in a way that feels

    almost peaceful

    and almost terrifying.

    The shadows stretch across the wall

    and I don’t flinch.

    I don’t feel anything,

    not fear, not relief —

    just the dull static of existing

    because my body hasn’t learned

    how to stop.

    I tell myself I’m fine

    because it’s easier than explaining

    how quiet it is inside my chest,

    how every emotion slips through my fingers

    before I can decide what to do with it.

    Nothing hurts.

    But nothing heals either.

    I’m just here —

    breathing out of habit,

    living out of muscle memory,

    waiting for something

    to break the silence in my bones.

  • Autopilot

    Photo Credit: Olesya Yemets

    My days keep blurring together,

    nothing is happening,

    but everything is happening.

    I wake up, I move, I breathe—

    do what I’m supposed to do.

    Smile when it’s expected.

    Hold it together long enough

    to get through the day.

    Time feels soft now,

    like it doesn’t want to remember itself.

    Mornings turn into evenings

    before I notice I was even here.

    I’m tired in places sleep can’t reach.

    Carrying things I don’t know

    how to set down yet.

    Waiting for something to make sense,

    or maybe just waiting

    to feel like me again.

    So the days blur.

    They pass quietly,

    hand in hand,

    like they’re trying to be gentle

    with what I’m surviving.