Through the Fog

Tag: sobriety

  • Trying to Outrun Myself

    Every time I try to outrun myself,

    my feet lock to the floor.

    The harder I push forward,

    the heavier my body feels,

    like something inside me

    is begging to be faced

    instead of escaped.

    I picture the other side

    peace, clarity, a version of me

    that doesn’t flinch at her own thoughts.

    But the distance feels endless,

    like I was dropped in the middle of nowhere

    with no map

    and a heart already tired.

    I tell myself to move.

    Just one step.

    Just breathe.

    But my mind is louder than my legs,

    and every fear I’ve ever buried

    comes sprinting past me,

    reminding me I can’t outrun

    what knows my name.

    I’ve tried speed.

    I’ve tried numbness.

    I’ve tried pretending I’m fine

    because it looks easier

    than explaining the war inside my chest.

    Still, I stay stuck

    watching life rush by

    like I missed my cue to jump in.

    Some days it feels like

    I’ll never make it to the other side,

    like forward is a language

    I never learned how to speak.

    Like everyone else is crossing bridges

    I can’t even see.

    But maybe this stillness

    isn’t failure.

    Maybe it’s my body refusing

    to abandon itself again.

    Maybe the other side

    isn’t somewhere I run to

    maybe it’s something I build

    right here,

    piece by fragile piece.

    I don’t know how to get there yet.

    I only know I’m still here,

    still breathing,

    still wanting more than survival.

    And maybe that means

    I haven’t stopped moving at all—

    I’ve just been learning

    how to turn around

    and finally walk with myself

    instead of away.

  • I Was High Then

    I was high then—

    I couldn’t face things

    the way they stood in front of me,

    bare and demanding.

    I needed the blur,

    the soft edges,

    the lie that told me

    tomorrow could wait.

    Reality was too sharp,

    asking questions I didn’t have answers for,

    holding mirrors I didn’t want to look into.

    So I floated above it,

    called it coping,

    called it freedom,

    anything but fear.

    I wasn’t chasing joy—

    I was running from myself,

    from the weight of being present

    in a life that hurt to touch.

    Now I see it clearer:

    I wasn’t weak,

    just overwhelmed.

    I didn’t want to disappear—

    I just didn’t know

    how to stay.

  • 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.

  • Life Is Beautiful

    Life is beautiful,

    even when I don’t always see it—

    even when the days blur together,

    when the light feels distant,

    when the weight in my chest

    makes everything look dimmer

    than it really is.

    But beauty has a way

    of slipping through the cracks—

    in the sound of someone’s laughter,

    in the warmth of a morning sunbeam,

    in the quiet moments

    I forget to appreciate

    until they’re already gone.

    I don’t always notice it,

    don’t always feel it,

    don’t always believe

    the world still has softness

    left for me.

    But then something small happens—

    a gentle word,

    a familiar song,

    a breath that comes easier

    than the one before—

    and it reminds me

    that beauty doesn’t vanish,

    it waits.

    Life is beautiful,

    even when I don’t always see it—

    and maybe the seeing

    will come easier

    if I keep looking.

  • Sober Didn’t Fix My Broken

    Sober didn’t fix my broken—

    it just turned the lights back on.

    And suddenly I had to face

    every crack I’d tried to drown,

    every scar I’d blurred into silence,

    every memory I’d washed in poison

    just to make it bearable.

    Sober didn’t make me whole;

    it made me aware—

    of the pieces that don’t fit anymore,

    of the heaviness I still carry,

    of the storms that still rise

    even when my hands are clean.

    But maybe healing isn’t the miracle

    people make it out to be.

    Maybe it’s the slow work

    of learning to live

    with the parts of yourself

    you used to run from.

    Maybe sober isn’t the cure—

    maybe it’s the chance.

    The chance to rebuild,

    to feel without collapsing,

    to hurt without disappearing,

    to stay alive long enough

    to find the pieces

    that still want to shine.

    Sober didn’t fix my broken.

    But it gave me the hands

    to start picking myself up.

    And maybe—

    for now—

    that’s enough.

  • Voice of Addiction

    You whisper like you know me,

    like you built me,

    like I wouldn’t be standing here

    without you holding my hand.

    But listen closely—

    I’m not yours anymore.

    I hear you in the quiet moments,

    trying to slip back into my breath,

    telling me you can make it easier,

    that you can take the weight off my shoulders.

    But you never carried anything

    except pieces of me

    you stole.

    You say you miss me.

    I don’t doubt it.

    Parasites always miss the body

    they drain.

    You say I was better with you—

    no, I was quieter,

    numb,

    half-alive,

    a shadow of the person

    you were killing slowly.

    You were never comfort.

    You were a cage.

    So let me be clear:

    I don’t need you

    to feel less.

    I’m learning how to feel

    and still survive.

    You can whisper all you want—

    but I’m done mistaking your voice

    for my own.

    This time,

    I walk away.

    This time,

    I choose breath over burning,

    light over lies,

    life over you.

  • Tolls on Burnt Bridges

    The hardest part of getting clean

    are all the damn apologies—

    the ones I owe,

    the ones I can’t say,

    the ones that taste like regret

    and old habits.

    It’s paying tolls on bridges

    I’ve already burnt,

    walking back through smoke

    I started myself,

    trying to make peace with ghosts

    who remember me at my worst.

    Recovery isn’t just staying sober.

    It’s swallowing pride,

    owning the wreckage,

    and learning how to rebuild

    with hands that once only knew

    how to destroy.

    And God,

    some days it feels impossible—

    but I’m still here,

    paying the tolls,

    crossing the ashes,

    trying anyway.

  • Happiness in Sobriety (I Still Miss the High)

    Photo Credit: Frankie Cordoba

    They don’t tell you this part—

    sobriety doesn’t erase the memories.

    I still miss the high.

    I miss the numb,

    the blur,

    the way the world melted just long enough

    for me to forget I was hurting.

    There are days I crave the nothingness,

    days when pain feels louder than progress,

    when the urge whispers,

    “One more time won’t kill you.”

    But I know better—

    it almost did.

    More than once.

    Sobriety isn’t a clean break.

    It’s a war with the version of myself

    who still thinks relief comes in liquid,

    in powder,

    in pills,

    in poison that used to feel like peace.

    I don’t stay sober because I stopped wanting the high.

    I stay sober because I finally realized

    the high never loved me back.

    It just made the fall quieter.

    It made the pain delayed—

    not gone.

    Now happiness is different.

    It’s small.

    Subtle.

    Hard-earned.

    It comes in mornings I don’t regret,

    in nights I remember,

    in breathing that doesn’t taste like escape.

    I don’t always feel strong.

    But I feel present.

    And maybe that’s what living really is—

    missing the high

    and still choosing the heartbeat.

  • Drugs or Me

    Photo Credit: Mishal Ibrahim

    It was always drugs or me.

    And most days, even I would’ve chosen the drugs.

    They were easier to love. They didn’t need anything from me — just my time, my body, my sanity. They didn’t ask for truth, didn’t care about promises. They just made everything quiet for a while.

    I used to think they made me feel alive. But really, they just made me forget that I didn’t want to be. The high wasn’t joy — it was escape. A few seconds of peace borrowed from tomorrow.

    And every time I swore I’d stop, I meant it. Until I didn’t. Because the pain always came back louder, meaner, hungrier than before.

    You can’t love someone who’s already halfway gone.

    And I was disappearing one hit at a time — not dying fast, just fading slow.

    They say recovery is choosing yourself. But no one talks about how hard it is to love the person you became in the process. The shame, the memories, the wreckage you can’t sweep clean.

    It was drugs or me.

    And for the longest time, I didn’t think I was worth choosing.

    But maybe now — shaky, sober, surviving — maybe I’m learning that I am.

  • Fragile

    Recovery isn’t the clean, steady climb people imagine it to be.

    It’s not a straight line, and it’s not always inspiring.

    Sometimes it’s messy and painful — full of steps backward, relapses of thought, and nights spent questioning whether I’m really getting better or just getting used to the ache.

    I’m fragile in recovery.

    I wake up some days full of hope, and by nightfall, I’m drowning in doubt again. The smallest thing — a memory, a song, a smell — can pull me back into the dark, and I hate how easily I break. But breaking is part of it. Healing doesn’t mean the cracks disappear; it means learning how to live with them.

    People think recovery is about strength, but I’ve learned it’s mostly about endurance — about showing up when your hands are still shaking. About forgiving yourself when you fall apart again, even after promising you wouldn’t.

    There’s no finish line here.

    No moment where I suddenly become whole again.

    There’s just me — fragile, trembling, trying.

    And maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe being fragile in recovery means I’m still fighting,

    still choosing life,

    even when the weight of it threatens to break me.