Through the Fog

Tag: mental exhaustion

  • Losing My Mind

    I think I’m losing my mind—

    not all at once,

    not in some dramatic collapse.

    Just slowly.

    In little ways

    that nobody notices

    unless they’re looking close.

    Forgetting things

    I shouldn’t forget.

    Overthinking things

    that shouldn’t matter.

    Turning the same thought over

    until it cuts deep enough

    to feel real.

    My mind doesn’t rest anymore.

    It loops.

    Repeats.

    Builds storms

    out of silence.

    And I keep trying

    to act normal—

    keep conversations steady,

    keep my face calm,

    keep pretending

    I’m not exhausted

    from fighting myself

    all day long.

    But it’s getting harder.

    The noise follows me.

    Into quiet rooms.

    Into sleep.

    Into moments

    that should feel safe

    but don’t.

    And the worst part is—

    I can still tell

    something’s wrong.

    I still recognize

    the distance

    between who I used to be

    and whoever this version is

    staring back at me now.

    Maybe I’m not losing my mind.

    Maybe I’m just carrying

    too much pain

    for too long

    without putting it down.

    But either way—

    I’m tired.

    Tired of feeling

    like my own head

    is a place

    I can’t escape from.

  • 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.