Through the Fog

Tag: Mental Health

  • Ghost

    Photo Credit: S L

    There’s a ghost in the mirror still haunting me.

    A version of myself I thought I buried

    beneath all the nights I swore I’d start over,

    all the mornings I promised I’d be different.

    She watches me from behind the glass,

    eyes hollow with the things I never said,

    jaw tight with all the things I swallowed

    just to make it through another day.

    She knows every secret.

    Every relapse, every regret,

    every time I tried to outrun the truth

    and tripped over the pieces I left behind.

    I wipe the mirror,

    but she doesn’t fade.

    Some ghosts don’t rattle chains—

    they whisper your name

    in the quiet moments when no one’s looking,

    reminding you of who you were

    and who you’re still afraid of becoming.

    And maybe she isn’t here to scare me.

    Maybe she’s waiting

    for me to finally look her in the eyes

    and say,

    I’m still here too.

  • The Road of Quiet Fires

    The day begins where shadows sleep,  In valleys carved by ancient rain,  

    Soft whispers on the mountain keep  

    The memory of a world in pain.

    The wind remembers names once known,  

    Etched deep in stone, forgotten graves,  

    It sings to roots and seeds unsown,  

    Of all the dreams the silence saves.

    A bridge of gold across the mist,  

    Leads wanderers through twilight’s hall,  

    Where every loss and promise kissed,  

    Lie folded in the nightbird’s call.

    The stars ignite their patient eyes,  

    And gaze upon the turning sphere;  

    The heart becomes the sky’s reprise,  

    A mirror to what we revere.

    Through candle smoke and drifting years,  

    We walk, we pause, we break, we mend;  

    Our laughter laced with sudden tears,  

    Our longing with no certain end.

    Yet somewhere past the forest gate,  

    Beyond the reach of time’s design,  

    Two rivers meet, dissolve their state,  

    And all that’s lost becomes divine.

    So let the dawn resume its grace,  

    Unfolding slow, serene, and wide—  

    Within each heart, a hidden place  

    Where sorrow learns to sing beside.

  • I Feel Like Something’s Wrong When I’m Not Depressed

    I don’t know when it happened—

    when the heaviness became

    its own kind of home.

    When the silence tasted strange

    unless it carried a little ache.

    Some days I wake up light,

    breathing easier,

    and instead of feeling grateful,

    I flinch.

    Like joy is a trick

    and peace is just the calm

    before the next collapse.

    I look around for the darkness

    the way other people look for keys—

    worried I misplaced it,

    worried its absence means

    something worse is coming.

    It’s messed up, I know.

    But when you live in the storm long enough,

    sunlight feels like danger.

    Happiness feels like a costume

    you’re afraid to wear too long,

    in case someone rips it off

    and calls you out for pretending.

    I’m trying to relearn myself,

    trying to believe that ease

    doesn’t mean I’m slipping,

    that softness isn’t a symptom,

    that feeling okay

    doesn’t mean something’s wrong.

    But truth is—

    sometimes I only feel real

    when I’m hurting.

    And I’m still figuring out

    how to change that

    without losing who I am.

  • Life Is Beautiful

    Life is beautiful,

    even when I don’t always see it—

    even when the days blur together,

    when the light feels distant,

    when the weight in my chest

    makes everything look dimmer

    than it really is.

    But beauty has a way

    of slipping through the cracks—

    in the sound of someone’s laughter,

    in the warmth of a morning sunbeam,

    in the quiet moments

    I forget to appreciate

    until they’re already gone.

    I don’t always notice it,

    don’t always feel it,

    don’t always believe

    the world still has softness

    left for me.

    But then something small happens—

    a gentle word,

    a familiar song,

    a breath that comes easier

    than the one before—

    and it reminds me

    that beauty doesn’t vanish,

    it waits.

    Life is beautiful,

    even when I don’t always see it—

    and maybe the seeing

    will come easier

    if I keep looking.

  • Flint

    Photo Credit: Pete F

    Flint strikes out

    and pierce the dark—

    a single spark

    against a sky

    that’s forgotten how to shine.

    For a moment,

    light is a knife

    cutting through the quiet,

    a reminder

    that even the smallest fire

    can challenge the night.

    The dark leans in,

    hungry,

    certain it will swallow everything—

    but flint is stubborn,

    and sparks are born

    with rebellion in their bones.

    One strike,

    one flash,

    one heartbeat of brightness—

    enough to tell the shadows

    they don’t own this place,

    not tonight.

    Sometimes

    all it takes

    to change the whole sky

    is a spark brave enough

    to burn.

  • Rage, Tiredness, and Everything Between

    I don’t even know where to start tonight.

    Everything feels too loud and too heavy, like the whole fucking world is pressing down on my chest and I’m supposed to just breathe through it.

    I’m tired of pretending I’m fine.

    I’m tired of acting like I fit anywhere, like I’m some puzzle piece with a place waiting for me. Most days it feels like I’m forcing myself into corners that were never meant for me.

    There’s this anger inside me I can’t explain—

    anger at the world, at myself, at everything I can’t control.

    It sits under my skin, buzzing, burning, making me want to scream just to hear something break besides me.

    And underneath the anger?

    I think there’s just exhaustion.

    A deep, bone-level tiredness from trying so hard for so long.

    Trying to be okay.

    Trying to care.

    Trying to convince myself I belong somewhere, anywhere.

    Tonight I don’t have answers.

    I don’t have hope or clarity or some neat lesson to wrap around this pain.

    I just have honesty—

    and the honesty is that it hurts.

    And I’m still here, somehow, sitting in it, writing it out because something in me refuses to let this be the final word.

    Maybe tomorrow will feel different.

    Maybe it won’t.

    But right now, this is where I am—

    not pretending, not polished, just me trying to breathe through the weight.

  • Maybe I Will, Maybe I Won’t

    And maybe one day

    I’ll finally grow up—

    stop running from shadows

    I created myself,

    stop pretending the chaos

    doesn’t belong to me.

    And maybe one day

    I’ll quit messing up,

    quit ruining the good things

    before they ever get a chance

    to feel real.

    But maybe I won’t.

    Maybe this is who I am—

    a storm tied together

    with shaky hands,

    a pattern I keep repeating

    even when I swear

    I’m done with it.

    Maybe I’ll just let you down,

    the way I’ve let down

    everyone who ever tried

    to get close enough

    to hold something

    I could never name.

    It’s not intention—

    it’s gravity.

    I fall the same way

    every time:

    hard,

    crooked,

    backwards into the dark

    I thought I’d outrun.

    And maybe one day

    I’ll rise out of it—

    but tonight,

    I’m just trying not to drown

    in the truth

    that some parts of me

    still cling to the wreckage

    I should’ve left behind

    long ago.

  • Imposter Syndrome

    I walk into rooms

    and wonder how long it’ll take

    before someone realizes

    I don’t belong here.

    My smile feels staged,

    my confidence borrowed,

    my voice a shaky echo

    of someone I wish I were.

    They say I’m strong,

    capable,

    brave—

    but all I hear is the doubt

    scratching at the back of my mind,

    whispering that I’m faking it,

    fooling them,

    lucky more than worthy.

    I carry praise like it’s fragile,

    like it might shatter

    the moment I look at it too closely.

    Every compliment feels like a mistake

    with my name on it.

    And yet—

    I keep showing up,

    heart pounding,

    hands trembling,

    hoping no one sees

    the cracks beneath my skin.

    Maybe I’m not an imposter at all…

    maybe I’m just someone

    who’s been fighting so long

    I forgot what it feels like

    to trust myself.

    Maybe the real fraud

    is the voice that tells me

    I’m not enough.

  • Sober Didn’t Fix My Broken

    Sober didn’t fix my broken—

    it just turned the lights back on.

    And suddenly I had to face

    every crack I’d tried to drown,

    every scar I’d blurred into silence,

    every memory I’d washed in poison

    just to make it bearable.

    Sober didn’t make me whole;

    it made me aware—

    of the pieces that don’t fit anymore,

    of the heaviness I still carry,

    of the storms that still rise

    even when my hands are clean.

    But maybe healing isn’t the miracle

    people make it out to be.

    Maybe it’s the slow work

    of learning to live

    with the parts of yourself

    you used to run from.

    Maybe sober isn’t the cure—

    maybe it’s the chance.

    The chance to rebuild,

    to feel without collapsing,

    to hurt without disappearing,

    to stay alive long enough

    to find the pieces

    that still want to shine.

    Sober didn’t fix my broken.

    But it gave me the hands

    to start picking myself up.

    And maybe—

    for now—

    that’s enough.

  • Tolls on Burnt Bridges

    The hardest part of getting clean

    are all the damn apologies—

    the ones I owe,

    the ones I can’t say,

    the ones that taste like regret

    and old habits.

    It’s paying tolls on bridges

    I’ve already burnt,

    walking back through smoke

    I started myself,

    trying to make peace with ghosts

    who remember me at my worst.

    Recovery isn’t just staying sober.

    It’s swallowing pride,

    owning the wreckage,

    and learning how to rebuild

    with hands that once only knew

    how to destroy.

    And God,

    some days it feels impossible—

    but I’m still here,

    paying the tolls,

    crossing the ashes,

    trying anyway.