Through the Fog

Tag: emotional exhaustion

  • 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.”

  • A Fucking Liability

    There’s a certain kind of shame

    that comes with getting older

    and realizing

    you still don’t have it figured out.

    Like—

    wasn’t I supposed to be stable by now?

    Grounded?

    Proud of the person staring back at me

    in the mirror?

    Instead—

    some mornings I wake up

    and it feels like I’m just

    a grown child

    wearing adult skin.

    Still making the same mistakes.

    Still learning lessons

    I should’ve mastered

    years ago.

    I’m 35 years old—

    and still a fucking liability.

    Not just to other people—

    to myself.

    And it’s not loud anymore.

    That’s the thing.

    It used to be chaos.

    Reckless.

    Obvious.

    Now?

    It’s quiet.

    It’s forgetting to eat.

    It’s isolating.

    It’s replaying conversations

    like they’re crimes

    I need to confess to.

    It’s sitting in a room

    with my own thoughts

    and realizing

    I don’t know how to turn them off.

    I tell myself—

    “you should be better by now.”

    But “better” feels like a word

    that belongs

    to other people.

    People who figured it out.

    People who don’t wake up

    feeling like they’re already behind

    in a race

    they never signed up for.

    And I’m tired.

    God, I’m tired.

    Tired of surviving.

    Tired of explaining

    why I’m still not okay.

    Why things that look simple

    feel impossible.

    Tired of pretending

    I’m not drowning

    just because

    I learned how to stay quiet

    while it’s happening.

    Because everyone else

    looks like they’re swimming just fine.

    And me?

    I’m just…

    trying not to sink

    in front of them.

    But here’s the part

    I don’t say out loud—

    Somewhere,

    deep under all of this—

    I still want to believe

    I can be more than this.

    That maybe

    “liability”

    doesn’t mean

    worthless.

    Maybe it just means

    unfinished.

    Still in progress.

    Still carrying things

    I never asked to hold.

    Still trying—

    even when I don’t know

    what I’m trying for anymore.

    So yeah—

    I’m 35

    and still a fucking liability.

    But I’m also

    still here.

    And maybe—

    just maybe—

    that counts

    for something.

  • Drawing Straws

    I keep drawing straws—

    each one shorter than the last,

    like fate is shaving inches

    off my hope

    with careful hands.

    I tell myself it’s random.

    Chance.

    Bad timing.

    A season that just won’t turn.

    But the pile at my feet

    says otherwise.

    Every time I reach in,

    I already know

    what my fingers will find—

    the splintered end,

    the one that means

    not this time,

    not for you,

    try again with less to stand on.

    I’ve learned to smile

    before anyone can pity me.

    Learned to nod

    like I expected it.

    Like disappointment

    and I have a private agreement

    to meet here.

    It’s strange

    how a person can grow smaller

    without anyone noticing—

    how hope can shrink

    quietly,

    like a wick burning low

    in a room no one enters anymore.

    Still, I keep reaching.

    Because somewhere inside me

    there’s a stubborn pulse

    that refuses to believe

    this is the only ending available.

    Maybe one day

    I’ll draw a long one—

    smooth, untouched,

    ridiculous in its generosity.

    Or maybe

    the miracle won’t be the straw at all.

    Maybe it will be the moment

    I stop measuring my worth

    by what I pull from a handful

    of borrowed luck.

    Maybe it will be

    when I finally let go of the cup,

    open my palm,

    and decide

    I was never meant

    to gamble

    for a life

    that was already mine.

  • Rock Bottom

    I hate rock bottom,

    but I’m good at digging holes—

    hands blistered from familiar work,

    knowing exactly where the ground gives way.

    I tell myself I’m searching for answers,

    for something buried worth finding,

    but most days I’m just rehearsing the fall,

    proving I still know how to disappear.

    Rock bottom scares me

    because it asks me to stop digging,

    to stand still with the damage,

    to look at what’s left

    instead of what I can destroy next.

    Digging feels like control.

    Like movement.

    Like I’m doing something

    instead of admitting I’m tired.

    But every hole looks the same

    after a while—

    dark, quiet, convincing.

    I don’t fall because I don’t know better.

    I fall because climbing feels

    like hope,

    and hope feels dangerous

    when you’ve been let down before.

    Still—

    even with dirt under my nails,

    even with gravity winning again—

    some part of me keeps looking up,

    measuring the distance,

    wondering what it would take

    to stop digging

    and start building

    instead.