Very clear to me now that I don’t have a choice in the matter. I have to figure out a way to make it. My sanity depends on it. Every day, it withers away more. I’m getting anxious. I’m just not here at all. I’m trying to be but I’m not. I’m in my head again. I can’t seem to get out of here. The only thing that saves me, even if only temporarily, is action. Some sort of action gets me life back in my breath. I need as much life as I can get right about now. Before I go missing in my mind. I can’t let myself slip away. Not now, there’s too much to do.
I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread some days—barely here, watching the world pass by while I spiral inside my own head. It’s strange, how still everything can seem on the outside while internally, it’s chaos. And yet, I’ve learned that even the smallest act—a push-up, a dish cleaned, a word written—can bring me back into my body. Action grounds me. Not because it solves everything, but because it reminds me that I still have some control. That I’m not fully lost, not yet.
It’s always at the edge of that internal void where urgency sharpens. I don’t get to check out right now. There’s too much at stake. The work I’m doing isn’t optional anymore. It’s oxygen. Every day I delay or drift, I chip away at myself. But every time I act, even with shaky hands and a fractured mind, I reclaim something. I rebuild. And I keep doing it, over and over, because I don’t trust what happens if I stop.
That’s the part that hits hardest—I’ve come too far to fade now. The cracks might be visible, sure, but there’s strength in me still. I don’t need to be perfect to move forward. I just need to move. I need to stop letting the fog convince me it’s the truth. The truth is what I do next. And what I do next has to be something—anything—that brings me back.
