Through the Fog

Tag: overthinking

  • Losing Sleep

    I’ve been losing sleep again—

    not because I can’t close my eyes,

    but because my mind

    won’t close with them.

    Every thought

    shows up louder at night.

    Every memory

    suddenly needs to be replayed

    like it’s trying

    to prove something.

    The room stays still,

    but my head doesn’t.

    It circles the same questions,

    the same regrets,

    the same unfinished conversations

    that should’ve died

    hours ago.

    I tell myself

    to let it go.

    As if the mind

    listens

    just because you’re tired.

    But exhaustion

    doesn’t stop thinking.

    Sometimes

    it makes it worse.

    So I lie there

    watching shadows shift,

    counting hours

    instead of sheep,

    feeling the weight

    of everything I avoided

    during the day.

    And somewhere

    between midnight

    and morning,

    I realize—

    I’m not really

    losing sleep.

    I’m losing peace

    one restless night

    at a time.

  • 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.

  • I Must Be Crazy

    I must be crazy—

    that’s what I tell myself

    when my thoughts won’t sit still,

    when my mind starts building storms

    out of whispers.

    When I read too much

    into silence,

    when I feel everything

    ten times deeper

    than it probably is.

    I must be crazy

    for holding onto things

    other people let go of easily,

    for replaying moments

    like they might change

    if I just think about them differently.

    For caring

    when it would be easier

    not to.

    For loving

    like there’s no halfway

    in me.

    But maybe it isn’t madness.

    Maybe it’s just

    what happens

    when a heart stays open

    in a world

    that keeps asking it

    to close.

    Maybe it’s the weight

    of feeling too much

    in places

    that reward feeling nothing.

    Maybe it’s being aware

    of everything—

    every shift,

    every tone,

    every almost.

    And yeah,

    it’s exhausting.

    But I’m starting to wonder

    if “crazy”

    is just the name

    people give

    to anything

    they don’t understand

    about someone

    who feels deeply

    and refuses

    to go numb.

  • Running in Place

    I can’t help feeling like everything is at stake,

    like one wrong move will collapse

    every fragile thing I’ve been balancing.

    So I lock myself inside my head—

    bolt the doors,

    pace the floors,

    run in place until my lungs burn

    and call it preparation.

    I don’t freeze because I don’t care.

    I freeze because I care too much.

    Because every decision feels loaded,

    every choice feels permanent,

    every step forward feels like a gamble

    I can’t afford to lose.

    My mind turns into a track meet—

    thoughts sprinting,

    worst-case scenarios stretching,

    my heart pounding like it’s doing something heroic

    while my life stays exactly where it is.

    I analyze.

    I overthink.

    I tear every option apart

    until nothing feels safe enough to touch.

    I tell myself I’m being careful,

    that caution is wisdom,

    that staying still is strategy.

    But really—

    I’m terrified.

    Terrified of messing it up.

    Terrified of proving every fear right.

    Terrified that trying and failing

    will hurt worse than never trying at all.

    So I run in place.

    Sweat, strain, panic—

    no distance covered.

    Just exhaustion layered on top of regret,

    momentum without movement,

    noise without progress.

    I scream inside my head

    while the world keeps going,

    unaware that I’m fighting a war

    no one can see

    and losing ground by standing still.

    I’m angry at the pressure.

    Angry at myself.

    Angry that wanting something badly

    can paralyze you just as easily

    as not wanting anything at all.

    And maybe the cruelest part

    is knowing this isn’t living—

    it’s containment.

    It’s fear disguised as discipline.

    It’s survival mode

    with nowhere to go.

    I don’t need another plan.

    I don’t need another rehearsal.

    I need the courage to stop running in place

    and accept that movement—

    real movement—

    will always feel dangerous

    to someone who’s been hurt before.

    But I’m so damn tired

    of sprinting nowhere,

    of locking myself away

    from the very life

    I’m trying so hard

    not to lose.