One Eye Open

I learned to sleep with one eye open, not because I wanted to, but because the wolves kept finding me in the dark.

At first they came only sometimes. A distant howl in the hills. A shape between the trees. A sound outside the window that could almost be mistaken for the wind.

Back then, I could still convince myself they were not real. That everyone felt this way. That everyone laid awake at night waiting for something terrible they could not name.

But the wolves grew bolder.

They learned the sound of my footsteps, the shape of my fears, the exact moments when I was already weak.

They came on quiet nights, when the world was asleep and there was no one left to keep watch with me.

They came after long days when my body already ached from pretending to be fine. After too many smiles. After too many “I’m okay”s. After too many hours spent trying to convince the world I was not falling apart.

The wolves always knew.

Anxiety was the first one. Thin. Fast. Restless. It paced circles around my bed, growling at every sound, every shadow, every memory, every tomorrow.

It told me the door was unlocked. That my heart was beating wrong. That everyone hated me. That something terrible was coming and I had somehow missed the signs.

Depression was different.

It did not chase. It waited.

A larger wolf. Slower. Heavier. It sat in the corner of the room with its yellow eyes fixed on me, watching me grow tired from fighting the other one.

It knew exhaustion would do what teeth could not.

It knew eventually I would stop running. Stop speaking. Stop caring. Stop opening the curtains. Stop answering messages. Stop being the person I used to be.

So I learned to sleep with one eye open.

I learned which floorboards creaked. Which nights were worse. Which lies to tell people so they would not ask questions. I learned how to smile with shaking hands. How to laugh while there were teeth at my throat.

And the cruelest part is this:

The wolves never fully leave.

Even on the good days, I still search the tree line. I still listen for growling inside every silence. I still wake up tired from battles that happened only in my own mind.

People tell me, “You survived.” As if survival is the same thing as peace.

But surviving just means the wolves did not get me yesterday.

It does not mean they are gone.

It does not mean they are not out there now, just beyond the firelight, waiting for me to finally close both eyes.