Through the Fog

Tag: self sabotage

  • I Hate Me

    I hate me.

    There.

    No metaphor.

    No pretty way

    to make it easier to read.

    Some days

    I genuinely cannot stand

    the person inside my skin.

    I hate the decisions

    I knew were wrong

    while I was making them.

    The people I hurt.

    The people I let hurt me.

    The way I can see

    every red flag from a mile away

    and still walk toward it

    like maybe this time

    red means welcome.

    I hate how much

    I fucking feel.

    How one word

    can ruin my day.

    How silence

    can turn into rejection

    before I even know the truth.

    How my mind

    can take something small

    and drag it through

    every wound I’ve ever had

    until suddenly

    I’m bleeding from all of them.

    I hate that I know better

    and don’t always do better.

    That I apologize

    then repeat myself.

    That I want peace

    but sometimes

    I’m the one

    setting everything on fire.

    And God—

    I hate looking backward.

    Because hindsight

    makes everything obvious.

    Every exit I ignored.

    Every boundary I crossed.

    Every moment

    I abandoned myself

    just to keep someone else

    from leaving.

    People tell you

    to love yourself.

    Like it’s easy.

    Like you can stand

    in front of a mirror,

    say something kind,

    and undo years

    of believing

    you’re the problem.

    I’m not there yet.

    Some days

    forgiveness feels impossible.

    But maybe

    I don’t have to love myself

    today.

    Maybe I just have to stop

    being cruel to the person

    who already hurts.

    Maybe I can look at her

    without calling her worthless.

    Maybe I can admit

    she fucked up

    without deciding

    she is a fuckup.

    Because underneath

    everything I hate—

    she’s still trying.

    Still waking up.

    Still carrying consequences

    and somehow believing

    she might become better

    than the choices behind her.

    So yeah—

    sometimes

    I hate me.

    But I’m starting to wonder

    if hatred is just another wound

    I’ve mistaken

    for the truth.

    And maybe someday

    I won’t look at myself

    and see everything

    I wish I could erase.

    Maybe I’ll see someone

    who survived being

    her own worst enemy

    and finally learned

    how to stop fighting herself.

  • Fucked Up

    I know I’m fucked up.

    You don’t have to tell me.

    I’ve spent enough nights

    inside my own head

    collecting evidence.

    Every bad decision.

    Every person I hurt.

    Every bridge I burned

    then stood beside

    wondering why

    I had nowhere left to cross.

    I know.

    I know I’ve mistaken chaos

    for something familiar enough

    to call home.

    I’ve pushed away

    what felt too good

    and chased things

    that made me miserable.

    I’ve begged people to stay

    then made myself impossible

    to stand beside.

    I’ve wanted peace

    and somehow

    kept choosing war.

    That’s fucked up.

    But what nobody asks

    is how you get that way.

    How many times

    something has to hurt

    before pain becomes

    your first language.

    How long you have to survive

    before survival habits

    start looking like

    personality flaws.

    None of that excuses me.

    There are apologies

    I still owe.

    Things I’d undo

    if regret had hands.

    Versions of myself

    I wish I could sit down with

    and ask,

    What the fuck were you thinking?

    But I already know.

    I was hurting.

    And hurt

    doesn’t always make you gentle.

    Sometimes it makes you angry.

    Reckless.

    Distant.

    Sometimes it makes you destroy

    the very things

    you were terrified

    of losing.

    So yeah—

    I’m fucked up.

    But I’m also aware of it now.

    And maybe that matters.

    Because I don’t want

    to spend the rest of my life

    using my wounds

    as permission

    to keep creating new ones.

    I can’t rewrite

    who I’ve been.

    But I can decide

    who gets my name

    from here.

    And maybe someday

    I’ll look back

    at this version of me—

    messy,

    ashamed,

    trying like hell—

    and realize

    I wasn’t fucked up.

    I was unfinished.

  • Story of My Life

    Story of my life—

    always halfway somewhere.

    Half over it.

    Half still hoping.

    Half healed.

    Half wrecked.

    Too aware

    of what’s wrong

    and somehow

    still repeating it.

    I leave doors cracked

    for people

    who already walked out.

    Replay conversations

    like maybe this time

    the ending changes.

    Say I’m done

    while still checking

    for signs

    I shouldn’t care about.

    I call it moving on

    when really

    I’m just dragging

    old versions of pain

    into new rooms.

    I get good

    at surviving things

    I should’ve never

    had to survive.

    Good at smiling

    through exhaustion.

    Good at saying

    “I’m fine”

    with a straight face.

    Good at making chaos

    look manageable.

    Story of my life—

    wanting softness

    but wearing armor.

    Wanting peace

    while feeding the thoughts

    that steal it.

    Wanting to be loved

    without knowing

    what to do

    when someone gets close enough

    to actually try.

    But somehow—

    despite all of it—

    I’m still here.

    Still trying.

    Still becoming

    something other than

    the worst chapters.

    Maybe that’s the story too.

  • Like I Always Do

    I let you down

    like I always do—

    at least that’s the story

    I keep telling myself

    every time someone looks at me

    with disappointment

    I saw coming long before they did.

    Maybe I’m too much.

    Too distant

    when things get real.

    Too damaged

    to hold anything good

    without shaking.

    I try—

    God, I try.

    But somewhere between

    wanting to be better

    and actually becoming it,

    I keep falling back

    into the same patterns.

    The same silence.

    The same mistakes.

    The same version of me

    I swore I’d outgrow by now.

    And the worst part is—

    I see it happening

    while it’s happening.

    Like watching a car crash

    from inside the driver’s seat

    with no idea

    how to stop it in time.

    So when you pull away,

    when your voice changes,

    when I feel the distance growing—

    part of me thinks

    of course.

    Of course I ruined it.

    Of course I became

    exactly what I was afraid of being.

    But maybe

    I’m not impossible to love.

    Maybe I’m just someone

    still learning

    how to stop expecting abandonment

    before it even arrives.

    Maybe I’m not letting everyone down—

    maybe I’m just exhausted

    from believing

    I always will.

  • Rock Bottom

    I hate rock bottom,

    but I’m good at digging holes—

    hands blistered from familiar work,

    knowing exactly where the ground gives way.

    I tell myself I’m searching for answers,

    for something buried worth finding,

    but most days I’m just rehearsing the fall,

    proving I still know how to disappear.

    Rock bottom scares me

    because it asks me to stop digging,

    to stand still with the damage,

    to look at what’s left

    instead of what I can destroy next.

    Digging feels like control.

    Like movement.

    Like I’m doing something

    instead of admitting I’m tired.

    But every hole looks the same

    after a while—

    dark, quiet, convincing.

    I don’t fall because I don’t know better.

    I fall because climbing feels

    like hope,

    and hope feels dangerous

    when you’ve been let down before.

    Still—

    even with dirt under my nails,

    even with gravity winning again—

    some part of me keeps looking up,

    measuring the distance,

    wondering what it would take

    to stop digging

    and start building

    instead.