Through the Fog

Tag: Mental Health

  • Not Forever

    I don’t want

    forever

    to come in an orange bottle.

    Don’t want my mornings

    measured in milligrams,

    my stability

    scheduled between refills,

    my future

    printed in tiny pharmacy text

    I can barely read.

    I know what they say—

    that this is help,

    that this is balance,

    that this is how I stay

    safe

    and here.

    And part of me

    is grateful.

    Because I remember

    what life felt like

    before the quiet

    was possible.

    But another part of me

    keeps whispering:

    Is this the only way?

    Will I ever stand

    without the scaffolding?

    Will healing ever mean

    freedom instead of maintenance?

    I don’t want to fight

    the people trying to help me.

    I don’t want to romanticize

    the chaos I survived.

    I just want to believe

    there is a version of living

    where my body

    knows how to be steady

    on its own.

    Where peace

    isn’t borrowed.

    Where calm

    isn’t counted.

    Where staying alive

    doesn’t feel like

    a prescription.

    Maybe forever

    isn’t the point.

    Maybe the point

    is staying

    long enough

    to grow into someone

    who has choices

    I can’t see yet.

    So for now

    I hold two truths

    at the same time—

    I don’t want this

    to be forever.

    And I still want

    to be here

    long enough

    to find out

    what isn’t.

  • Sometimes We’re Broken and We Don’t Know Why

    Sometimes we’re broken

    and we don’t know why—

    there’s no moment to point to,

    no sharp edge we tripped over,

    no memory that explains

    the heaviness we wake up with.

    Some wounds aren’t from events,

    but from seasons.

    From slow storms

    that soaked us through

    before we even realized

    we were standing in the rain.

    Sometimes the sadness

    isn’t loud or dramatic—

    it’s quiet,

    a small tear in the soul

    that widens over time

    until the light slips through

    and we mistake it for emptiness.

    We say we’re fine

    because nothing “bad” happened,

    but our hearts ache anyway,

    caught between the person we were

    and the one we’re trying to become.

    And maybe that’s the truth—

    maybe being broken

    doesn’t always have a reason.

    Maybe sometimes

    the heart just gets tired

    from carrying everything alone.

    But even then,

    even in that quiet unraveling,

    you’re not beyond repair.

    You’re just learning yourself

    in the hardest way—

    piece by fragile piece,

    pain by honest pain.

    And one day,

    the why won’t matter

    as much as the fact

    that you made it through

    without needing an answer.

  • Hey, Depression, My Old Friend

    You always try to get the best of me—

    to take the last laugh,

    to rewrite my thoughts

    until they sound like yours.

    You whisper that I’m weak,

    that I’m late to my own life,

    that I should know by now

    you never really leave.

    Battling you isn’t easy.

    You know that.

    You know every fault line,

    every night I doubted myself,

    every fear I never said out loud.

    You wait until I’m tired

    and call it truth.

    You wait until I’m quiet

    and call it surrender.

    You think persistence makes you powerful.

    You think showing up uninvited

    means you own the place.

    You mistake familiarity for victory.

    But listen to me—

    I am still standing.

    Even when my legs shake.

    Even when I’m angry, exhausted,

    done pretending this is fair.

    I push back in ways you don’t see—

    by getting out of bed,

    by choosing to stay,

    by refusing to disappear

    just because you asked me to.

    You knock me down,

    and I get back up pissed off,

    breathing hard,

    learning my strength the long way.

    You don’t get the last laugh.

    You don’t get to finish my sentences.

    You don’t get to decide

    how this story ends.

    I will overcome you—

    not cleanly,

    not quietly,

    not without scars.

    But I will.

  • Autopilot

    Photo Credit: Olesya Yemets

    My days keep blurring together,

    nothing is happening,

    but everything is happening.

    I wake up, I move, I breathe—

    do what I’m supposed to do.

    Smile when it’s expected.

    Hold it together long enough

    to get through the day.

    Time feels soft now,

    like it doesn’t want to remember itself.

    Mornings turn into evenings

    before I notice I was even here.

    I’m tired in places sleep can’t reach.

    Carrying things I don’t know

    how to set down yet.

    Waiting for something to make sense,

    or maybe just waiting

    to feel like me again.

    So the days blur.

    They pass quietly,

    hand in hand,

    like they’re trying to be gentle

    with what I’m surviving.

  • Living in Agony

    I am living in my agony,

    not visiting it,

    not passing through on the way to something better—

    I’ve unpacked here.

    Learned the hours.

    Memorized the sound of my own breathing

    when the night stretches too wide.

    Pain isn’t dramatic anymore.

    It doesn’t shout.

    It hums.

    Low and constant,

    like a refrigerator in the dark—

    easy to ignore until the power goes out

    and you realize how loud it always was.

    I wake up already tired,

    already negotiating with myself

    about how much truth I can afford today.

    Some days I give nothing.

    Some days I bleed quietly into routine

    and call it productivity.

    I carry my agony politely.

    I hold doors.

    I smile.

    I ask other people how they’re doing

    and mean it—

    because focusing on their lives

    keeps me from inventorying my own wreckage.

    But it’s there.

    In the pauses.

    In the way I flinch at kindness

    like it might ask something of me later.

    In how I brace myself

    even when nothing is coming.

    Living in my agony means

    learning the weight of unshed tears,

    how they press behind the eyes,

    how they settle in the chest

    like a language I never learned to speak aloud.

    It means knowing that healing isn’t linear—

    it’s circular.

    You come back to the same wounds

    wearing different names,

    hoping this time they recognize you

    as someone who survived.

    I don’t romanticize this.

    There is nothing beautiful about endurance

    when it costs you pieces you can’t replace.

    There is nothing noble

    about being strong so long

    you forget what rest feels like.

    And still—

    I keep going.

    Not because I’m brave.

    Not because I believe everything will work out.

    But because something stubborn in me

    refuses to let the pain have the last word.

    Living in my agony

    doesn’t mean I’ve given up.

    It means I’m honest about where I am.

    It means I’m still here,

    even when here hurts,

    even when the only victory

    is making it to the end of the day

    without disappearing.

    This is not a cry for saving.

    It’s a statement of fact.

    A line drawn in the dirt

    that says:

    this is where I stand,

    this is what I carry,

    and despite it all—

    I am still breathing.

  • “You’re Really Gonna Cry, Brittney?”

    Photo Credit: Louis Galvez

    You didn’t raise your voice.

    You didn’t have to.

    You just smiled

    and rearranged the truth

    until I started apologizing

    for things you did.

    You said I was sensitive.

    Dramatic.

    Confused.

    You said my memory had holes,

    that my feelings were exaggerations,

    that my pain was inconvenient.

    And slowly—

    I believed you.

    I started second-guessing

    my own reactions,

    replaying conversations

    like crime scenes,

    looking for proof

    that I was the problem.

    You taught me how to mistrust myself.

    How to ask permission

    for my own emotions.

    How to swallow hurt

    and call it maturity.

    When I cried,

    you called it manipulation.

    When I asked questions,

    you called it paranoia.

    When I needed reassurance,

    you called it neediness.

    You were always so calm.

    So reasonable.

    So sure.

    And I was always unraveling,

    wondering how I could feel so wrong

    while you felt so right.

    You erased things gently—

    a sentence here,

    a moment there—

    until my reality felt slippery,

    like trying to hold water

    with shaking hands.

    I started keeping quiet.

    Not because I had nothing to say,

    but because I didn’t trust

    what I knew anymore.

    And that’s the cruelest part:

    you didn’t just hurt me—

    you made me doubt

    my ability to know

    when I was being hurt.

    But here’s what you didn’t count on.

    Memory comes back

    when distance does.

    Clarity returns

    when the noise leaves.

    And truth—

    truth is patient.

    I remember now.

    I remember how my body reacted

    before my mind caught up.

    I remember the way my chest tightened

    every time you said,

    “That never happened.”

    I wasn’t crazy.

    I was responding to lies

    wrapped in softness.

    I wasn’t broken.

    I was being bent.

    And now,

    I choose myself again.

    I trust the voice

    you tried to quiet.

    I believe the version of me

    who knew something was wrong

    even when she couldn’t explain it yet.

    You don’t get to rewrite me anymore.

    I know what I lived.

    I know what I felt.

    And I no longer need your permission

    to call it what it was.

  • Getting Clean

    The hardest part of getting clean

    isn’t the cravings.

    It’s the apologies.

    The ones you owe

    to people who loved you

    while you were slowly vanishing.

    The ones you owe

    to past versions of yourself

    you barely recognize anymore.

    It’s learning how to say

    “I’m sorry”

    and not expect relief in return.

    Learning how to say

    “I’m trying”

    when trust still feels fragile

    and unfinished.

    Some apologies are met with grace.

    Some are met with silence.

    Some come back years later

    in quiet moments

    when you finally understand

    the weight of what was broken.

    Getting clean means standing there—

    in the middle of what you ruined—

    with nothing to hide behind.

    Knowing regret can’t undo damage,

    it can only mean you see it now.

    And maybe the bravest apology

    isn’t words at all,

    but staying.

    Doing better.

    Letting time believe you

    before anyone else does.

  • When the Glass is Empty

    You only smile like that

    when you’re drinkin—

    that loose, half-forgotten grin

    that shows up

    after the edges blur.

    It’s not happiness.

    It’s relief pretending to be joy.

    A borrowed light

    that flickers just long enough

    to make everyone believe you’re okay.

    Your eyes give it away.

    They don’t soften—

    they drift.

    Like you’ve stepped a few inches outside yourself

    and left the rest behind to cope.

    I’ve seen that smile disappear

    as fast as it arrives,

    leave you emptier than before,

    like laughter echoing in a room

    no one stays in.

    You wear it well, though.

    Convincing.

    Almost beautiful.

    The kind of smile that makes people think

    the problem is solved.

    But I know better.

    That smile only shows up

    when the ache is muted,

    when the truth is diluted,

    when feeling less

    feels safer

    than feeling everything.

    And when the glass is empty,

    so is the room.

  • 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.

  • Left at the Door

    Photo Credit: Max LaRochelle

    You should have left me at the door,

    warned me I was trouble dressed as hope.

    But you let me in—

    soft smile, open hands,

    no armor in sight.

    Now your heart is on the floor,

    shattered where my shadows fell.

    I never meant to ruin the quiet,

    I just never learned how to love

    without bleeding through everything.

    If I could gather the pieces,

    I would.

    But some of us arrive like storms—

    not to destroy,

    just never taught how to stay gentle.