Downward Spiral
Caught in the cycle.
It doesn’t feel like a spiral at first.
It feels like forgetting what you were saying halfway through saying it.
Like your thoughts trip over something invisible
and you don’t know whether to pick them back up
or pretend you meant to pause there.
So you keep going.
You keep your voice steady,
your face neutral,
your timing intact
because nothing has technically gone wrong yet.
There’s no proof of it.
Just a feeling you can’t quite point to,
like a draft in a closed room.
But something has shifted.
And the worst part is
you can feel it shift.
Not enough to stop it.
Just enough to know.
That’s always how it starts for me.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just a misalignment
between where I am
and where I was five seconds ago.
Like I’ve stepped slightly out of myself
and didn’t notice when it happened.
And for a second
I think I could still get back.
If I don’t touch it.
If I don’t look too closely.
If I just keep moving forward
like nothing is wrong.
But I always look.
It’s not just that the thoughts come.
It’s that I lean into them.
Like if I can just understand what shifted,
I can fix it before it gets worse.
Like curiosity is going to save me.
So I rewind.
Not in a big way.
Not all at once.
Just small things.
The tone of my voice.
The way they looked at me.
The way I said that one sentence.
And suddenly
it’s not just a sentence anymore.
It’s a clue.
And then another.
And another.
And before I realize what I’m doing,
I’m not remembering anymore.
I’m building something.
Something that feels like truth,
even though it didn’t exist five minutes ago.
That’s when it speeds up.
That’s when everything
starts meaning more than it should.
Every word I said becomes heavier.
Every silence becomes intentional.
Every interaction gets rewritten with a sharper edge,
like I’m peeling back a version of reality
I wasn’t supposed to see yet.
And it feels honest.
That’s the dangerous part.
It doesn’t feel like I’m spiraling.
It feels like I’m finally seeing clearly.
Like I’m catching what I missed.
Like I’m correcting my own blindness.
And I trust that feeling.
Even when a part of me knows
I shouldn’t.
There’s always a moment
somewhere in the middle of it
where I almost stop.
I can feel it.
Like standing at the edge of something
and realizing
I don’t actually have to jump.
Like I could just not follow the next thought.
Not pick up the thread.
Not keep pulling.
I can feel the option
to leave it alone.
But it moves faster than I do.
And by the time I reach for that pause,
I’ve already stepped past it.
So I keep going.
Even while I’m aware of it.
Even while I’m thinking
this is the part where it gets worse.
I still follow it.
And I hate that.
I hate that I can name it
while it’s happening.
I hate that I can say
this is a spiral
this is what it does
this is where it goes
and it doesn’t matter.
Because naming it doesn’t loosen its grip.
It just makes me watch it
happen in real time.
There’s something cruel about that.
Not being blindsided.
Not being unaware.
But being present
for your own unraveling.
Feeling each shift as it happens.
Watching the version of you from ten minutes ago
slip further and further out of reach
while you’re still sitting in the same chair,
saying the same things,
answering the same questions.
Looking fine.
Sounding fine.
Already gone.
And at some point,
it stops feeling like something I’m experiencing.
It starts feeling like something I am.
Like this is the real version of me.
The one who overthinks,
overreads,
overbuilds meaning
until it collapses under its own weight.
Like the version of me from before
was the illusion.
And this
is the correction.
That’s when it locks in.
Not when it starts.
Not when it speeds up.
When I believe it.
When I stop questioning whether it’s true
and start accepting it as fact.
Because once I do that,
there’s nowhere else to go.
The spiral doesn’t need to pull me anymore.
I’m already moving with it.
And if you asked me in that moment
what’s wrong,
I could tell you.
I could explain every thought,
every shift,
every reason it makes sense.
I could walk you through it step by step
like it’s logical,
like it’s grounded,
like it’s real.
Like this.
This piece reimagined as a song using Suno (lyrics are mine).
Lyrics:
verse 1
it starts and I lose my place
mid sentence mid day
like something small shifts
I can’t put my finger on it
I keep talking like I’m fine
keep the tone keep the time
but I’m already headed down
can’t come up can’t turn around
pre chorus
I know this part
I’ve been here before
where everything’s fine
until it’s not anymore
chorus
I’m in a downward spiral
I can feel it I’m not okay
It’s a thought I shouldn’t follow
but I follow anyway
I try to stay in the moment
but it’s already gone
It’s not what I wanted
but it goes on and on
I’m in a downward spiral
I see it I can’t stop it
just stuck in this cycle
verse 2
it’s subtle then it’s all at once
like I’m losing what I just was
every word starts meaning more
like it’s evidence not just noise
I replay things I already said
hear a different version instead
like I’m building a case against me
and calling it honesty
pre chorus
I know this part
I’ve been here before
where everything’s fine
until it’s not anymore
chorus
I’m in a downward spiral
I can feel it I’m not okay
It’s a thought I shouldn’t follow
but I follow anyway
I try to stay in the moment
but it’s already gone
It’s not what I wanted
but it goes on and on
I’m in a downward spiral
I see it I can’t stop it
just stuck in this cycle
bridge
there’s a second I almost catch it
like I could leave it alone
like I don’t have to believe it
even when I know
but it moves before I move
and I lose it every time
I can see where it’s going
and still let it decide
and I hate that I can name what I see
and it still gets to claim me
final chorus
I’m in a downward spiral
I can feel it I’m not okay
It’s a thought I shouldn’t follow
but I follow anyway
I try to stay in the moment
but it’s already gone
It’s not what I wanted
but it goes on and on
I’m in a downward spiral
I see it I can’t stop it
just stuck in this cycle
Author’s Note
There was a time I spiraled without knowing I was spiraling, and in some ways, I think I preferred that. It was louder and less controlled, but it was also simpler. I wasn’t watching it happen, wasn’t analyzing every shift in real time. I just went under and felt it for what it was.
Now I catch it as it starts. I can feel the exact moment something slips, recognize the pattern, follow where it’s going before it fully takes hold. But that awareness hasn’t given me control. It’s given me composure. I’ve learned how to keep my voice steady, how to stay engaged, how to appear present while everything inside me is pulling in a different direction.
I used to believe that if I could understand it well enough, I could stop it. Instead, I’ve just learned how to name it.
This piece exists in that space. The moment where things begin to fall apart, and you are fully aware of it happening. Not confused or caught off guard, but conscious of every step as it unfolds, able to see it clearly and still unable to stop it.
*Don’t worry, everything’s still free.
I’ve just decided to treat my writing a little more like busking.
There’s a tip jar out now,
you can donate if something I’ve written ever stuck with you,
but there’s zero pressure.
Honestly, even better than donations?
Restacks. Shares. Comments.
That’s the currency that keeps the cage alive.
From the cage,
Canary Vale 🪶
Wow! Restacking