Through the Fog

Tag: rock bottom

  • Somewhere After Rock Bottom

    I used to think

    rock bottom

    was a place.

    A single moment.

    A line in the sand

    where everything finally stopped getting worse.

    But I was wrong.

    Rock bottom moves.

    Every time I swore

    I couldn’t fall any farther,

    life found another floor.

    Another lesson.

    Another consequence.

    Another version of myself

    I didn’t recognize.

    And the strange thing is—

    I survived all of them.

    Every bottom

    I thought would bury me.

    Every night

    I thought would be the one

    that finally broke me.

    Every morning

    I didn’t want to face.

    I’m still here.

    Not unchanged.

    Not untouched.

    Not stronger

    in the inspirational way

    people like to talk about.

    Just… still here.

    A little more scarred.

    A little more honest.

    A little less convinced

    that pain is forever.

    Because I’ve learned something

    about darkness.

    It always feels endless

    when you’re standing in it.

    It always convinces you

    there’s nothing beyond it.

    And every single time—

    it’s lying.

    The sun comes up.

    The wound closes.

    The thing that felt impossible

    becomes a memory.

    Not a pleasant one.

    But a memory.

    So if I’m standing

    somewhere after rock bottom now,

    I think that’s enough.

    I don’t need to know

    where the road ends.

    I just need to know

    I’m no longer falling.

    And for today,

    that’s a good place to begin.

  • I Dug My Own Grave

    I dug my own grave

    one bad decision at a time—

    not all at once,

    not dramatically,

    just slowly enough

    to call it living.

    A drink here.

    A lie there.

    Another thing

    I told myself

    I’d fix tomorrow.

    I kept throwing dirt

    over warning signs,

    burying the parts of me

    that knew better,

    that tried to speak up

    before everything got this deep.

    But I didn’t listen.

    I called it coping.

    Called it survival.

    Called it anything

    except what it was—

    self-destruction

    with softer language.

    And now I stand here

    looking down

    at the hole I made,

    realizing

    no one pushed me into it.

    That’s the hardest part.

    Not the damage.

    Not the regret.

    The knowing.

    Knowing my own hands

    built this.

    Knowing I became

    the thing

    I kept trying to outrun.

    But maybe

    that’s where change starts—

    not in pretending

    I’m innocent,

    not in blaming the world

    for every scar I carry—

    but in finally

    putting the shovel down.

    Because if I dug this grave,

    maybe I can still

    climb out of it too.