Through the Fog

Tag: sobriety

  • Borrowed Happiness

    I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour,

    where the edges blurred

    and the ache softened just enough

    to feel like relief.

    For a moment, I didn’t have to carry

    the full weight of myself.

    Laughter came easier,

    memories felt kinder,

    and the world loosened its grip.

    In that fog, pain was distant—

    muted, negotiable,

    something I could outrun

    with another swallow,

    another borrowed sense of peace.

    I mistook numbness for healing

    and silence for rest.

    But heaven knows I’m miserable now.

    Clear-headed and heavy,

    left alone with everything

    I tried not to feel.

    The truth waits patiently

    for sobriety,

    for morning light,

    for the moment pretending runs out.

    There’s no romance in the aftermath—

    only the echo of what I avoided

    and the knowing that happiness

    built on escape

    never survives the night.

    I was happy for an hour, yes.

    But misery has a longer memory.

    And now I’m standing in it,

    fully awake,

    trying to learn how to live

    without needing to disappear

    to feel okay.

  • After the Fact

    Nothing teaches you faster

    than the sentence

    I wouldn’t do that again.

    It doesn’t mean you’re wiser now—

    just more aware

    of the cost.

    Awareness isn’t loud.

    It doesn’t brag.

    It just changes how you choose

    when no one is watching.

  • Getting Clean

    The hardest part of getting clean

    isn’t the cravings.

    It’s the apologies.

    The ones you owe

    to people who loved you

    while you were slowly vanishing.

    The ones you owe

    to past versions of yourself

    you barely recognize anymore.

    It’s learning how to say

    “I’m sorry”

    and not expect relief in return.

    Learning how to say

    “I’m trying”

    when trust still feels fragile

    and unfinished.

    Some apologies are met with grace.

    Some are met with silence.

    Some come back years later

    in quiet moments

    when you finally understand

    the weight of what was broken.

    Getting clean means standing there—

    in the middle of what you ruined—

    with nothing to hide behind.

    Knowing regret can’t undo damage,

    it can only mean you see it now.

    And maybe the bravest apology

    isn’t words at all,

    but staying.

    Doing better.

    Letting time believe you

    before anyone else does.

  • When the Glass is Empty

    You only smile like that

    when you’re drinkin—

    that loose, half-forgotten grin

    that shows up

    after the edges blur.

    It’s not happiness.

    It’s relief pretending to be joy.

    A borrowed light

    that flickers just long enough

    to make everyone believe you’re okay.

    Your eyes give it away.

    They don’t soften—

    they drift.

    Like you’ve stepped a few inches outside yourself

    and left the rest behind to cope.

    I’ve seen that smile disappear

    as fast as it arrives,

    leave you emptier than before,

    like laughter echoing in a room

    no one stays in.

    You wear it well, though.

    Convincing.

    Almost beautiful.

    The kind of smile that makes people think

    the problem is solved.

    But I know better.

    That smile only shows up

    when the ache is muted,

    when the truth is diluted,

    when feeling less

    feels safer

    than feeling everything.

    And when the glass is empty,

    so is the room.

  • 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.