Through the Fog

Tag: emotional exhaustion

  • Where Is My Mind?

    Where is my mind?

    I swear

    it was here yesterday—

    before the overthinking,

    before the memories

    started rearranging the room,

    before every quiet moment

    became another place

    for my thoughts to wander.

    I search for it

    in unfinished conversations,

    in songs

    I should’ve stopped listening to,

    in old photographs

    that remember

    more than I want them to.

    Maybe I left it

    in a version of my life

    I never got to keep.

    Maybe it’s still sitting

    at a table

    where I thought forever

    meant forever.

    Or maybe

    it’s buried beneath

    every expectation

    I couldn’t live up to,

    every mistake

    I replay

    like changing the ending

    is still an option.

    Some days

    my head feels

    like a house

    with every light on

    and nobody home.

    Every room

    filled with noise,

    every hallway

    echoing

    with questions

    that don’t have answers.

    But every now and then—

    there’s a moment.

    A deep breath.

    A quiet sunrise.

    A laugh

    I didn’t have to force.

    And for a second,

    everything settles.

    The noise steps back.

    The weight

    loosens its grip.

    Maybe my mind

    was never lost.

    Maybe it was just

    buried beneath

    everything

    I never gave myself

    permission

    to put down.

    So I’ll keep looking.

    Not for the person

    I used to be—

    but for the peace

    I’ve been carrying

    inside me all along,

    waiting

    for the noise

    to finally make room.

  • How Much Longer?

    How much longer

    do I have to keep telling myself

    it gets better?

    How many more nights

    do I have to survive

    before survival

    starts feeling like living?

    I’m tired.

    Not the kind of tired

    sleep fixes.

    The kind that settles

    in your bones.

    The kind that comes from carrying

    the same hurt

    for so long

    it starts feeling

    like part of your identity.

    People tell you

    to keep going.

    And I do.

    God, I do.

    But some days

    it feels less like courage

    and more like habit.

    Like I’m just showing up

    because I showed up yesterday.

    And the day before that.

    And the day before that.

    Waiting for something

    to finally make sense.

    Waiting for the weight

    to loosen its grip.

    Waiting for life

    to feel like something

    I’m participating in

    instead of enduring.

    But maybe

    that’s the lie.

    Maybe life

    was never waiting

    on the other side

    of my pain.

    Maybe it’s been here

    the whole time—

    buried in small moments

    I was too exhausted

    to notice.

    A deep breath.

    A quiet morning.

    A conversation that lingered.

    A reason to stay

    that didn’t feel like enough

    until later.

    I don’t know.

    I don’t have some beautiful answer.

    Just this:

    I’m still here.

    Still asking the question.

    And maybe

    there’s something hopeful

    about that.

    Because if I were truly done,

    I wouldn’t still be wondering.

    I wouldn’t still be looking

    for a reason.

    So maybe

    for tonight,

    that’s enough.

    Not certainty.

    Not happiness.

    Just the stubborn possibility

    that the story

    isn’t over yet.

  • The Last Thing I Wanted

    The last thing I wanted

    was another lesson.

    Another reason

    to rebuild myself

    from whatever was left

    after the dust settled.

    I was tired.

    Tired of losing people.

    Tired of losing sleep.

    Tired of waking up

    to the same ache

    wearing a different name.

    I wanted certainty.

    Something I could hold

    without wondering

    when it would leave.

    Something that stayed.

    But life

    has never been generous

    with guarantees.

    It gives you moments.

    People.

    Chances.

    Then asks

    what you learned

    when they were gone.

    And maybe

    that’s why I’m still here—

    not because I mastered

    any of it,

    but because every time

    life knocked me down,

    something stubborn in me

    refused to stay there.

    Even when I wanted to.

    Even when the ground

    felt more familiar

    than standing.

    So here I am.

    Not healed.

    Not finished.

    Not transformed

    into some wiser version

    of myself.

    Just still trying.

    Still carrying hope

    with dirty hands.

    Still believing

    there’s something ahead

    worth walking toward.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe courage

    isn’t feeling strong.

    Maybe it’s taking

    the next step

    when you’re not sure

    you have one left.

  • Somewhere Between Healing and Ruin

    I exist

    somewhere between healing

    and ruin—

    not fully broken,

    not fully okay,

    just carrying both versions

    of myself

    at the same time.

    One side of me

    wants peace.

    Wants quiet mornings,

    steady hands,

    a mind that doesn’t turn

    every small hurt

    into something catastrophic.

    The other side—

    the one built from survival—

    still waits for things to fall apart.

    Still flinches

    at softness.

    Still searches for exits

    in places

    that haven’t given me

    a reason to run.

    And it’s exhausting

    living like that.

    Wanting to trust life again

    while secretly expecting

    it to disappoint me.

    Wanting love

    without believing

    it stays.

    Wanting to heal

    while holding onto pain

    like it’s proof

    I survived something.

    But maybe healing

    was never meant

    to look graceful.

    Maybe it’s messy.

    Slow.

    Two steps forward

    and one memory

    pulling you backward again.

    Maybe it’s waking up

    and choosing

    to keep trying anyway.

    Even when the past

    still echoes.

    Even when the weight

    hasn’t fully lifted.

    Because ruin

    would’ve been giving up.

    And I didn’t.

    Not completely.

  • Story of My Life

    Story of my life—

    always halfway somewhere.

    Half over it.

    Half still hoping.

    Half healed.

    Half wrecked.

    Too aware

    of what’s wrong

    and somehow

    still repeating it.

    I leave doors cracked

    for people

    who already walked out.

    Replay conversations

    like maybe this time

    the ending changes.

    Say I’m done

    while still checking

    for signs

    I shouldn’t care about.

    I call it moving on

    when really

    I’m just dragging

    old versions of pain

    into new rooms.

    I get good

    at surviving things

    I should’ve never

    had to survive.

    Good at smiling

    through exhaustion.

    Good at saying

    “I’m fine”

    with a straight face.

    Good at making chaos

    look manageable.

    Story of my life—

    wanting softness

    but wearing armor.

    Wanting peace

    while feeding the thoughts

    that steal it.

    Wanting to be loved

    without knowing

    what to do

    when someone gets close enough

    to actually try.

    But somehow—

    despite all of it—

    I’m still here.

    Still trying.

    Still becoming

    something other than

    the worst chapters.

    Maybe that’s the story too.

  • Happy

    I forgot

    what happy feels like.

    Not joy—

    I remember flashes of that.

    Moments.

    Temporary things.

    I mean happy

    in the quiet sense.

    The kind that settles in your chest

    without needing a reason.

    The kind that doesn’t feel borrowed

    or fragile.

    Lately, everything feels measured.

    Every smile examined

    like I’m trying to decide

    if I actually mean it

    or if I just got good

    at performing okay.

    People ask

    when I’ll finally be happy

    like it’s a destination,

    like one right choice

    or one right person

    is supposed to unlock it.

    But maybe happy

    is smaller than that.

    Maybe it’s not fireworks.

    Maybe it’s peace.

    A morning

    where your thoughts

    don’t immediately turn against you.

    A laugh

    that doesn’t feel forced.

    A moment

    where being alive

    doesn’t feel so heavy.

    And maybe

    I’ve been chasing

    the loud version of happiness

    for so long

    I forgot to notice

    the quiet kind

    still trying

    to reach me.

  • Bottom of the Sea

    I feel like I’ve been sinking

    for so long

    the bottom of the sea

    started feeling familiar.

    No sunlight here.

    No noise.

    Just pressure—

    constant, crushing,

    quiet enough

    to make you forget

    what breathing freely

    used to feel like.

    At first

    I fought it.

    Kicked toward the surface,

    reached for light,

    told myself

    I wasn’t meant

    to stay this deep.

    But exhaustion

    changes things.

    Eventually

    you stop fighting

    what keeps pulling you under.

    You let the dark

    wrap around you

    like something almost comforting.

    And that’s the dangerous part—

    how pain

    can become home

    if you live in it long enough.

    How loneliness

    starts sounding like peace.

    How silence

    starts feeling safer

    than hope.

    But somewhere

    beneath all this weight,

    beneath the wreckage

    and the parts of me

    that settled here years ago—

    there’s still movement.

    Still a pulse.

    Still something inside me

    remembering

    there’s a surface

    above all this.

    And maybe

    I haven’t drowned yet.

    Maybe

    I’m just lost

    deep enough

    to forget

    I was built

    to rise.

  • Losing Sleep

    I’ve been losing sleep again—

    not because I can’t close my eyes,

    but because my mind

    won’t close with them.

    Every thought

    shows up louder at night.

    Every memory

    suddenly needs to be replayed

    like it’s trying

    to prove something.

    The room stays still,

    but my head doesn’t.

    It circles the same questions,

    the same regrets,

    the same unfinished conversations

    that should’ve died

    hours ago.

    I tell myself

    to let it go.

    As if the mind

    listens

    just because you’re tired.

    But exhaustion

    doesn’t stop thinking.

    Sometimes

    it makes it worse.

    So I lie there

    watching shadows shift,

    counting hours

    instead of sheep,

    feeling the weight

    of everything I avoided

    during the day.

    And somewhere

    between midnight

    and morning,

    I realize—

    I’m not really

    losing sleep.

    I’m losing peace

    one restless night

    at a time.

  • Still Here

    Some days

    I move like a question

    no one bothered to answer—

    half-formed,

    half-finished,

    carrying pieces of myself

    that don’t quite fit anymore.

    I’ve tried to outrun it—

    the weight,

    the noise,

    the quiet kind of ache

    that doesn’t scream

    but never really leaves.

    But it follows.

    In the pauses.

    In the way I hesitate

    before saying I’m okay.

    In the way I’ve learned

    to sit with silence

    like it’s something

    I deserve.

    And still—

    I wake up.

    Still—

    I breathe

    even when it feels

    like effort.

    Still—

    some small part of me

    keeps reaching

    for something softer

    than what I’ve known.

    I don’t always believe

    in better.

    But I believe

    in this—

    that I’m still here,

    still standing

    in the middle of it all,

    and maybe

    that means

    something hasn’t given up on me yet.

  • Fighting Demons

    There are days I wake up already tired.

    Before my feet even touch the floor, it feels like I’ve been in battle all night — fighting thoughts that refuse to rest, memories that won’t fade, and voices that whisper I’m not enough.

    People talk about “fighting demons” like it’s some poetic metaphor. But there’s nothing poetic about watching yourself slip away while pretending you’re fine. There’s nothing beautiful about surviving on empty, about forcing smiles when your chest feels hollow.

    The demons aren’t made of fire and horns. They’re quiet. They’re patient. They look like guilt, grief, self-doubt — they wear the faces of people you loved and the words you wish you could take back.

    And some nights, I don’t win.

    Some nights, I just lie there, letting the darkness wash over me, telling myself it’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to not be strong all the time. Fighting doesn’t always mean striking back; sometimes it just means staying here. Breathing through it.

    Because the truth is, I’m still here.

    Even with the scars. Even when my mind turns against me.

    Even when the demons come knocking again — I open the door, look them in the eye, and whisper, “Not tonight.”