I keep saying it’s nothing—
just a phase,
just stress,
just something I’ll get a handle on
when things slow down.
But things don’t slow down.
They pile up.
And I keep reaching
for the same relief—
the same distraction,
the same escape
that works just enough
to keep me from dealing with it.
Until it doesn’t.
Until I’m sitting there
staring at the mess
I swore I wasn’t making,
wondering how it got this far
without me noticing.
Or maybe I did notice.
Maybe I just didn’t want
to call it what it is.
Because calling it something real
means I have to face it.
Means I can’t pretend
it’s under control,
can’t keep telling myself
I’ll fix it tomorrow.
But tomorrow
keeps moving.
And I keep staying
right here—
in the middle of something
that’s starting to look a lot like
it’s not going to fix itself.
So yeah—
it’s a fucking problem.
Not because someone else said so.
Not because it looks bad
from the outside.
But because I feel it—
in the way it pulls at me,
in the way it keeps showing up,
in the way I keep choosing it
even when I know better.
And maybe that’s where it starts—
not fixing it,
not solving it all at once—
just finally
telling the truth
about what it is.
Through the Fog 