Through the Fog

Tag: emotional-health

  • Self Destruction

    I don’t destroy myself loudly.

    There are no explosions,

    no dramatic exits.

    Just a slow erosion—

    choice by choice,

    silence by silence.

    I wear it like a habit.

    Like something familiar

    I reach for when I don’t know

    what else to do with my hands.

    Old patterns feel safer

    than unfamiliar hope.

    I sabotage gently.

    Miss the calls that might save me.

    Stay where I know I’ll be hurt

    because at least it’s predictable.

    Pain I recognize

    feels easier than healing

    I don’t trust.

    I tell myself I’m in control.

    That I could stop anytime.

    That this isn’t destruction,

    it’s coping.

    But the mirror keeps count

    of what I’m losing

    even when I refuse to.

    Some days it looks like recklessness.

    Other days it looks like discipline—

    like denying myself rest,

    joy, softness,

    as if I haven’t earned them yet.

    That’s the trick of it.

    Self-destruction doesn’t always beg.

    Sometimes it convinces you

    you deserve the damage.

    I don’t hate myself—

    that’s the lie people expect.

    I just don’t know

    how to be gentle

    without feeling exposed.

    So I choose what hurts

    before something else can.

    And still, somewhere under the ruin,

    there’s a part of me

    that notices the harm,

    that flinches,

    that wants out.

    That part is quiet.

    But it’s not gone.

  • The World Wouldn’t Stop Turning

    I didn’t move,

    but the world wouldn’t stop turning.

    Time kept its pace

    while I stood still inside myself,

    watching everything pass

    like I wasn’t part of it anymore.

    The sky seemed blue

    or maybe that was just my emotion

    projecting something softer

    onto a day that didn’t earn it.

    Funny how feelings can repaint reality

    and call it truth.

    I tried so hard to be cool about it,

    to play it off like nothing touched me,

    nursing a half-empty bottle

    or is it half full?

    I could never decide

    if I was losing something

    or still clinging to it.

    I drank for the pause,

    for the quiet between thoughts,

    for the moment where I didn’t have to name

    what was breaking underneath my calm.

    The world kept spinning.

    The sky kept pretending.

    And I sat there measuring my life

    in sips and seconds,

    wondering when stillness

    started feeling heavier

    than motion ever did.

  • Between What’s Said and Buried

    Photo credit-Thiébaud Faix

    Communication breaks me open

    in ways I don’t always survive.

    It drags the truth out of the corners

    I’ve kept in shadow,

    forces me to name the things

    I swore I’d never admit aloud.

    I’ve spent years learning

    how to make my silence look graceful—

    how to swallow storms,

    how to smile with a mouth full of grief,

    how to carry secrets

    without letting the weight show.

    But silence is a grave,

    and I’ve buried too many versions of myself

    trying to keep the peace.

    Trying to keep people.

    Trying to keep from falling apart

    in front of the wrong eyes.

    So when you ask me what’s wrong,

    I hesitate.

    Not because I don’t want to tell you,

    but because I don’t know

    how to hand you the truth

    without bleeding in the process.

    Communication isn’t easy for people like me—

    people who learned to fear their own voice,

    who were taught that honesty

    was the fastest way to lose someone.

    People who mistake vulnerability

    for danger.

    But still—

    I try.

    I open my mouth even when it trembles.

    I let the words come out

    messy, fractured, imperfect,

    hoping you’ll stay long enough

    to understand the quiet parts too.

    Because even though communication

    breaks me open,

    I’m tired of sealing myself shut.

    I’m tired of burying what I feel

    and calling it strength.

    Maybe this is what growth looks like—

    letting my truth exist

    outside of my own head,

    even if my voice cracks on the way out.

    Maybe this is how I rise

    from all the graves I dug for myself.