Through the Fog

Tag: mental illness

  • These Words Are All I Have

    Photo Credit-Bas Glaap

    These words are all I have—

    the only way I know

    to bleed without breaking,

    to speak without shattering

    the pieces I’m still holding together.

    I can’t hand you my heart

    without it trembling,

    can’t show you my scars

    without feeling them reopen,

    so I write instead—

    hoping you hear the truth

    hiding between the lines.

    These words are all I have

    when my voice won’t steady,

    when the ache in my chest

    is louder than anything I could say.

    So I offer them softly,

    quiet as a confession,

    fragile as a prayer—

    hoping you’ll read them

    and understand

    that everything I feel

    is here on the page,

    because it’s the only place

    I’m not afraid

    to let it live.

  • 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.

  • I Never Want to Leave This World Without Saying I Love You

    I think about how fragile life really is—

    how it slips between moments,

    how days turn into memories

    before we even realize we’re living them.

    And it hits me:

    I never want to move through this world

    quietly holding back the one thing

    that has always mattered most.

    I never want to leave this place

    without saying I love you.

    Not because I’m planning on going anywhere,

    not because I’m standing at any edge—

    but because this life is unpredictable,

    and the people who matter

    deserve to hear the truth

    while they’re still here to hold it.

    I love you

    in the simple ways,

    the human ways—

    in the way your voice steadies me,

    in the way your presence softens the noise,

    in the way something inside me

    finally feels understood.

    I love you

    in the ways I’ll never say out loud enough—

    in the small gratitude between heartbeats,

    in the quiet comfort of knowing

    you exist in the same world as me.

    If today were ordinary

    or extraordinary,

    if it were the first day

    or the last—

    I’d still want you to know.

    So hear it now,

    in case time gets away from me again:

    I love you.

    Not as a goodbye,

    but as a promise

    to speak the truth

    while it still has the chance

    to reach you.

  • Words, They Always Win

    Photo Credit:Maxime Gilbert

    I’ll be so fucking rude,

    because softness never saved me.

    You’ll twist my quiet into guilt,

    call it proof that I don’t care.

    Words, they always win,

    but I know I’ll lose—

    every argument ends

    with me swallowing apologies

    for things I didn’t do.

    You speak like thunder,

    and I break like glass.

    My voice shakes,

    so I let silence speak for me,

    but even silence gets misheard.

    I’m tired of explaining pain

    to people who caused it.

    Tired of pretending I’m fine

    just so no one feels uncomfortable.

    Maybe I’m the villain

    in stories you tell to sleep at night,

    but I know what it costs

    to stay kind in a world

    that only listens when you scream.

    So tonight I’ll be loud,

    I’ll be wrong,

    I’ll be everything you said I shouldn’t—

    and maybe then,

    finally,

    I’ll win something back.

  • Rage

    Photo Credit:Kiara Kulikova

    I want to scream until the stars fall,

    until the sky cracks under the weight of my name.

    I’m tired of being calm,

    tired of pretending I don’t feel the storm.

    Let me burn—

    let me rip the silence wide open.

    Every bottled-up thought,

    every swallowed scream,

    every “it’s fine” I choked on—

    I want it out.

    Let me rage,

    wild and unpretty,

    until my chest stops shaking

    and I can breathe again.

  • I Just Want Someone to Save Me

    Photo Credit: lilartsy

    I just want someone to save me. Not fix me. Not offer pep talks or promises. Just drag me out of this black water before I go under for good.

    Most days I feel like I’m already halfway gone. Everyone thinks I’m functioning, but it’s all masks. I smile, I nod, I pretend I’m okay while something inside me keeps whispering, let go. I keep waiting for somebody to see through it, to reach in before it’s too late, but no one ever does.

    I don’t want a hero. I don’t want someone to tell me I’m strong. I want somebody who won’t run when I’m ugly, when I’m drunk, when I’m shaking, when I’m no longer easy to love. Someone who doesn’t leave when I mess up. Someone who proves I’m still worth fighting for even when I’m not sure I am.

    I’ve been surviving for so long it feels like a reflex. Walls instead of warmth. Silence instead of asking. And the more I do it, the more I start to believe the lie that maybe I’m not supposed to be saved. Maybe this is it — me, drowning quietly while the world keeps moving.

    Some nights I imagine just stopping. No more fighting, no more treading, just sinking until the noise fades. It scares me how much relief that thought brings. It scares me that I don’t even fight it anymore.

    I just want someone to save me, even if only for a moment, even if only to show me I’m not completely lost yet. Because I don’t know how many more nights like this I can stand.

  • Depression Is Like Drowning

    Depression is like drowning, except you can still breathe. My chest rises and falls, my lungs fill with air, but inside everything feels heavy, waterlogged, sinking. People see me standing, walking, talking. They see me smile. They think I’m fine because I’m not flailing, not gasping for air. They don’t realize drowning doesn’t always look like chaos—it can be quiet. It can be invisible.

    It’s not the violent splashing kind, the kind that makes people rush to the rescue. It’s the silent slipping under, inch by inch. Every day, my head sinks a little lower beneath the surface, and the world grows muffled. Sounds dull. Colors fade. Even my own thoughts feel blurred, like they’re trapped underwater with me.

    I want to scream, but the sound dies before it leaves my throat. I want to reach out, but my arms are too heavy. And so I smile, nod, laugh when I’m supposed to. I carry on. Because if I let the mask slip, if I let people see the water rising around me, I’m not sure they’d understand. I’m not sure they’d believe me.

    What no one tells you about drowning is how exhausting it is. Every second is survival—treading water, pretending it’s effortless, hiding the fatigue. My arms ache. My chest burns. My mind whispers that it would be easier to stop fighting, to just let myself sink. And the truth is, sometimes that thought feels like relief.

    That’s the cruelty of it. Depression doesn’t take away my breath—it lets me breathe, but makes the air feel useless. It doesn’t stop my heart—it just strips the meaning out of every beat. I’m alive, but it doesn’t feel like living. It feels like waiting. Waiting for someone to notice. Waiting for the current to change. Waiting for the day when I either finally reach the shore or stop fighting altogether.

    And some nights, I can feel it—my body getting heavier, the pull of the water stronger, my will to fight fading. I don’t just think about sinking anymore. I start to wonder what it would feel like to stop treading, to let the silence take me under completely.

    That’s the darkest truth of drowning in depression: you don’t always go under screaming. Sometimes you just… go under.

  • Just Give Me Peace

    I don’t ask for happiness anymore. Happiness feels like a myth, a story people tell themselves so they can keep moving. I don’t ask for love, either — love is fragile, it breaks too easily, and I am too sharp, too heavy, too much for it to survive in my hands.

    All I want is peace.

    Not the kind people romanticize, with sunsets and calm oceans. I mean silence. Stillness. An end to the noise inside my head that never shuts off. The relentless thoughts that claw and whisper, the memories that bleed through the cracks, the storms that rise without warning and tear me apart from the inside out.

    I don’t need light. I don’t need joy. I don’t even need tomorrow.

    Just give me peace.

    Because I am tired. Tired of carrying the weight of a body that refuses to rest. Tired of dragging myself through days that feel more like punishment than life. Tired of holding on when I don’t even know what I’m holding on for.

    I imagine peace as a release. A surrender. Not victory, not defeat — just quiet. No more questions. No more wounds reopening. No more storms.

    And maybe that’s the cruelest part: the world tells me peace is found by fighting harder, healing more, pushing through. But what if peace doesn’t come from effort at all? What if peace is only possible when there is nothing left to fight?

    All I know is this: I don’t crave anything except the absence of this endless war inside me.

    Just give me peace.

  • What is Wrong With Me?

    What is wrong with me? Why am I addicted to this miserable feeling?

    I don’t even know when the line blurred, when pain stopped being something to run from and started becoming something I crave. It’s like I’ve carved out a home inside of misery, built walls around it, and now I don’t know how to live without it. And in the back of my mind, the question gnaws at me: is it just the mental illness?

    People think addiction is about chasing pleasure, chasing a high, chasing escape. But for me, it’s about clinging to what’s familiar. Misery is predictable. Pain is reliable. Happiness feels like a stranger I can’t trust—it slips away as quickly as it comes. Misery stays. And maybe that’s the illness too—this twisted need to settle for what hurts, to feel safest inside the suffering.

    Sometimes I wonder if my brain was wired wrong from the start. If the illness isn’t just something I have, but something I am. Is that why I drink? Is that why I hold tight to the wreckage instead of crawling out? Maybe it isn’t weakness. Maybe it’s just the illness feeding itself, keeping me trapped.

    Because the truth is, it’s not just the bottle I’m addicted to—it’s the aftermath. The heaviness, the regret, the cycle of self-destruction. I hate it, yet I chase it. Again and again, like it’s the only thing that belongs to me. And every time, I hear the echo: this is the illness, this is the illness.

    So what is wrong with me? Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s all just the way the illness wraps itself around my soul, convincing me that misery is home. Or maybe everything. Maybe I’ve become so tangled in the darkness that even when the door is open, I can’t step out.

    And the cruelest truth? A part of me doesn’t even want to.