Through the Fog

Tag: trauma

  • Don’t Tell Me to Relax

    Trauma doesn’t leave

    just because you say relax.

    Don’t talk to me like this is a choice,

    like I’m holding tension for fun,

    like my body didn’t learn this

    the hard way.

    You think calm is a switch.

    You think if you say the right words

    my pulse will forget

    every moment it had to protect me

    when no one else did.

    My body didn’t overreact—

    it adapted.

    It learned danger before language,

    learned survival before comfort,

    learned that staying alert

    was the only way to make it out alive.

    So don’t tell me to relax

    when my nervous system

    was trained in chaos.

    Don’t call it anxiety

    when it’s memory

    with nowhere else to go.

    Trauma lives in muscle.

    In breath that cuts short.

    In sleep that never stays deep.

    In the way I scan rooms

    even when nothing is happening.

    You want calm?

    Then bring safety.

    Real safety.

    Consistent safety.

    The kind that shows up

    even when I’m difficult,

    even when I’m shaking,

    even when I don’t know

    how to explain what’s wrong.

    Until then,

    don’t ask me to relax.

    Ask what happened.

    Ask what it took to survive.

    Ask why my body learned

    this language

    before it ever learned peace.

  • What Have I Become

    What have I become, my sweetest friend,

    when even your silence sounds like judgment?

    When you look at me

    like I’m something you remember

    but don’t recognize anymore.

    I’m made of aftermath now

    of things that didn’t kill me

    but stayed anyway.

    I learned how to survive by shrinking,

    by numbing the sharp edges

    until nothing cut

    and nothing healed.

    I speak in half-truths.

    I smile like it’s a habit I can’t break.

    I carry my worst thoughts

    like contraband

    hidden, heavy, always with me.

    I wasn’t born this hollow.

    I was worn down.

    Sandpapered by time,

    by love that took more than it gave,

    by nights that taught me

    how easy it is to disappear

    without going anywhere.

    If you’re still calling me friend,

    don’t ask me to be better.

    Don’t ask me to go back.

    That person didn’t survive this.

    This is what’s left

    quieter, darker,

    harder to love,

    still breathing

    like that’s supposed to mean something.