Through the Fog

Tag: feeling overwhelmed

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • For the Very First Time

    I feel so alone

    for the very first time—

    not the quiet kind of lonely,

    but the hollow kind,

    the kind that echoes

    when I breathe.

    I feel like I’m letting go,

    like something inside me

    has slipped through my fingers

    while I wasn’t looking.

    Every little thing

    feels heavier than it should—

    like I’m carrying a sky

    that forgot how to hold itself.

    And fear…

    fear has come to stay.

    Not as a visitor,

    but as a shadow

    curling around my feet,

    following me from room to room

    as if it knows

    I’m too tired to fight it tonight.

    But even in this quiet collapse,

    even in this trembling place,

    some small part of me

    is still reaching—

    for light,

    for warmth,

    for anything that reminds me

    I don’t have to face this alone.