Through the Fog

Tag: mental health struggle

  • How Much Longer?

    How much longer

    do I have to keep telling myself

    it gets better?

    How many more nights

    do I have to survive

    before survival

    starts feeling like living?

    I’m tired.

    Not the kind of tired

    sleep fixes.

    The kind that settles

    in your bones.

    The kind that comes from carrying

    the same hurt

    for so long

    it starts feeling

    like part of your identity.

    People tell you

    to keep going.

    And I do.

    God, I do.

    But some days

    it feels less like courage

    and more like habit.

    Like I’m just showing up

    because I showed up yesterday.

    And the day before that.

    And the day before that.

    Waiting for something

    to finally make sense.

    Waiting for the weight

    to loosen its grip.

    Waiting for life

    to feel like something

    I’m participating in

    instead of enduring.

    But maybe

    that’s the lie.

    Maybe life

    was never waiting

    on the other side

    of my pain.

    Maybe it’s been here

    the whole time—

    buried in small moments

    I was too exhausted

    to notice.

    A deep breath.

    A quiet morning.

    A conversation that lingered.

    A reason to stay

    that didn’t feel like enough

    until later.

    I don’t know.

    I don’t have some beautiful answer.

    Just this:

    I’m still here.

    Still asking the question.

    And maybe

    there’s something hopeful

    about that.

    Because if I were truly done,

    I wouldn’t still be wondering.

    I wouldn’t still be looking

    for a reason.

    So maybe

    for tonight,

    that’s enough.

    Not certainty.

    Not happiness.

    Just the stubborn possibility

    that the story

    isn’t over yet.

  • The Ghost I Became

    Somewhere along the way

    I became a ghost

    in my own life.

    Not gone—

    just distant.

    Watching days pass

    through windows I never opened,

    standing in rooms

    without really being there.

    People still say my name.

    Still ask how I’m doing.

    Still tell me stories

    like I’m part of them.

    And I answer.

    I smile.

    I nod.

    I play my role.

    But there are moments

    when I feel transparent—

    like everyone is talking

    to the version of me

    I used to be.

    The one who laughed easier.

    The one who believed

    tomorrow would fix things.

    I miss that person.

    Not because they were happier.

    Because they were present.

    Because they knew

    how to exist

    without carrying the weight

    of every mistake,

    every loss,

    every unfinished goodbye.

    But ghosts

    aren’t dead things.

    They’re lingering things.

    Things that haven’t found

    their way home yet.

    And maybe that’s me.

    Not lost forever.

    Not broken beyond repair.

    Just wandering through

    old memories

    a little too long.

    Trying to remember

    how to become flesh and blood again.

    Trying to remember

    what it feels like

    to truly be here.

  • It Scares Me

    It scares me

    how fast my mind can go there—

    how something small

    can open a door

    I didn’t mean to touch.

    Like there’s a version of me

    that knows the way out too well,

    that whispers in quiet moments

    when everything feels too heavy

    to carry again.

    I don’t always believe it—

    but I hear it.

    And that’s enough

    to make my hands still,

    to make me sit with myself

    a little longer

    than I want to.

    Because there’s another part—

    quieter,

    harder to hear—

    the one that stays.

    The one that waits

    for the storm to pass

    even when it doesn’t feel like it will.

    The one that knows

    these thoughts

    aren’t the same

    as truth.

    So I stay.

    Not because it’s easy.

    Not because I have answers.

    But because something in me

    is still choosing

    to be here—

    even when it scares me

    how close the edge

    can feel.

  • I Survived Myself

    Nobody talks about

    the version of you

    that almost didn’t make it.

    Not the dramatic kind—

    not the one that leaves

    a clean story behind.

    I’m talking about

    the quiet destruction.

    The nights

    you sat in your own head

    too long.

    The mornings

    you woke up tired

    of being you.

    The way you kept going

    not because you were strong—

    but because stopping

    would’ve meant facing it

    all at once.

    I have been

    my own worst place.

    My own war zone.

    My own reason

    for almost giving up.

    And still—

    I stayed.

    Not gracefully.

    Not beautifully.

    Not in a way

    anyone would applaud.

    I stayed

    out of stubbornness.

    Out of spite.

    Out of something in me

    that refused

    to disappear

    just because it hurt.

    People think survival

    looks like progress.

    Like healing.

    Like light.

    Sometimes it looks like

    getting out of bed

    when nothing in you

    wants to exist in the day.

    Sometimes it looks like

    breathing

    through something

    you don’t even have words for.

    Sometimes it looks like

    not ending it

    when you could have.

    So no—

    I’m not proud

    in the way they expect.

    I’m not fixed.

    I’m not finished.

    But I am still here.

    And if that’s all

    I’ve done—

    then that’s everything.

    Because I didn’t just survive

    what happened to me.

    I survived

    what it did

    to me.

  • 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.”