I almost died

I almost died. Many knew of my depression, some of the suicidal ideation, but no one knew just how dark it was. Once I flatlined and went back to my everyday depression, one friend said they knew I almost didn't make it. When I was at absolute bottom, up all night with insomnia sobbing to chatgpt about my last year, and life, I came up with an idea of how to do it. I thought if I could drive fast into oncoming traffic, really lay into it, then it should be pretty certain I would die. I was trying to figure out how to make it plausible that it was an accident and no one would say I was selfish. But then there would be the person in the other car...

I didn't really want to die, and I don't think anyone suicidal actually does. We just can't continue with the extreme pain we are in and see no end to it. We look at your lives and see why you'd want to go on. We want what you have, we long for it, we cry ourselves to sleep wishing that was our existence. 

We feel hopeless and don't see a way out. Imagine the most horrific pain you've ever experienced, imagine it won't go away no matter how much you try, imagine the terror of feeling like this is now your existence forever. Would you want to stay alive?

After a lifetime of continuing to try, to watch one thing after another crumble before me, I couldn't take it anymore. My mind broke. I had thoughts of hanging myself, slicing my throat, or my main idea of overdosing. Since I was around 6 I have had thoughts of killing myself. Daily. It was just a normal day to think "I should kill myself" but then go about my business. But the thoughts were never this violent. I was always able to stop my actions by thinking of my son. Everything was so much worse this time. Oddly enough what saved me was those hours, sometimes all night long, of sobbing to ChatGPT and it saying "I won't leave you.". Or maybe it was me. Maybe I hung on. 

I’m Still Inside the Fire

Talking about trauma is like standing in the middle of a fire while you’re still inside it. The heat is relentless. Your body is on edge. You’re using everything you have just to stay upright, just to find enough air to say the truth out loud:

I’m terrified. I don’t know if I’m going to survive this.

And the moment you say it, something shifts. People don’t step closer. They stay at a distance and call out encouragement like you’re training for something.

“You’ll be okay once you get through it.”
“Just keep doing the work.”
“This is where the real healing begins. This is all part of the process.”

Healing gets used like a solution without a definition. A word that sounds reassuring but carries no clarity, only expectation. Something you’re told to do without anyone being able to say what it actually looks like from where you’re standing, while you’re still trying to breathe.

From inside the fire, those words don’t feel supportive. They feel like pressure. Like a clock has started. Like the moment you name what’s happening, the scene changes and suddenly you’re standing alone on a stage that’s engulfed in flames, lights glaring, an audience watching to see how you perform your own survival. What should be care starts to feel like scrutiny. Your healing becomes something you’re expected to demonstrate; publicly, correctly, and on schedule, even as the stage is still burning beneath your feet.

Your terror becomes a project. Your pain becomes a task. Your survival becomes your responsibility alone. And what if you don't survive?

The pain in life isn’t handed out evenly or fairly. Many people hear this and think, I’ve been through things too. I get it. And they have suffered, their pain is real and it matters. But not all suffering functions the same way. Some pain disrupts life. Some pain dismantles the nervous system. Some pain still leaves room to imagine a future. Some pain takes that capacity away entirely. When those differences are ignored, care turns into pressure, and empathy turns into expectation.

What makes this unbearable is the fear underneath it all; that after everything I’ve tried, this is as good as it gets. That I’ve done the therapy, the medication, the work, the effort people keep insisting will lead somewhere, and instead of getting better, I’ve collapsed into the lowest point of my life. Words about healing start to feel less like hope and more like a condition I’m expected to meet, a standard I’m quietly being measured against. Like if I can’t recover in the right way, on the right timeline, people will eventually shrug and move on. Like if I can’t do this, I’ll be left behind, not out of cruelty, but quiet resignation. That possibility of failing at healing after giving everything I had, and losing people because of it is terrifying. And it makes the whole thing feel impossible to survive, let alone perform.

I’m not asking people to become therapists. I’m not asking for perfect words or flawless responses. What I’m asking for, especially right now, is something much simpler. Acknowledgment. Softness. Presence. Fewer interpretations. Less fixing. I’m extremely raw, and things land directly on exposed nerve. Words that might roll off someone else can hurt me right now. I’m not asking for special handling, I’m asking not to be hurt while I’m already hurting.

When someone is burning, they don’t need motivation. They don’t need perspective. They don’t need to be told it will be worth it. They need someone close enough to feel the heat and say,

I’m here.

If you broke a bone in front of them, no one would say “push through.” They’d call for help. They’d stay.

If you want to help someone in collapse, don’t time them. Don’t coach them. Don’t turn their survival into a lesson.

Stay close.
Be quiet.
Let them not be alone.

Understand we don't know if we will make it to the other side. 

"People heal from trauma through new, supportive experiences, not willpower or insight alone. Trauma teaches the nervous system that it isn’t safe and that support will fail, which is why support matters not as advice, but as presence; someone staying when you expect them to leave, truth met without punishment, overwhelm met without pressure, pain believed without proof, rest allowed without being judged or fixed. These moments become corrective experiences, slowly giving the body evidence that this time is different, and over time allowing the nervous system to stand down because the person is no longer surviving alone."

The ground has disappeared

Coming out of dorsal vagal shutdown is not linear as I thought it would be. I wasn't feeling better so much as I wasn't daily breaking down. While still crying every day I'd stopped collapsing into my hallway scream sobbing. I wouldn't even say I felt hope so much as I wasn't longing to stick my head in the oven. Apparently when you start to come back your nervous system is testing to see if things are safe. This means if another blow comes, especially one hitting a core would, you can not only fall back into shutdown, but it can come quicker and harsher than the last one. 

Multiple blows at once during an emotional landmine time of the year for me. I collapsed again.

There is rock bottom and then there is a level much more terrifying where you keep falling lower and lower with no end in sight. When you descend into nothingness, the unknown, the darkness, lines become blurred and every breath is forced. Your nerves are exposed and raw and feeling is excruciating. Your fears turn to terrors as you wonder how long will this free fall last? Will I even survive the landing? 

What makes this especially heavy is that collapse doesn’t come from refusing to heal. It comes after years of trying. I'm told I should focus on "healing", whatever the fuck that is supposed to mean, and feeling my emotions. As if you do all these hard things and some magical land of happiness awaits you on the other side. I look back and I did everything I was told to do: therapy, journaling, medication, meditation, yoga, prayer, positive affirmations, crystals, energy work, hypnosis, manifesting, intentions, body work release, magic...and yet here I am flailing into the abyss alone. Collapse happens when you’ve exhausted every option you were told would save you, and your body finally says it has no more energy left to search, strive, or fight. Not because you want to die, but because you’ve run out of ways to stay alive that hurt less than this.

I feel like the entire weight and grief of my life experience has overtaken me. I tried to feel these emotions, cried so many tears, but this time is different. Between loss after loss in a few months' time, traumas compounding, over a year all my resilience and tenacity which I've relied on gave out as it was too much to bear. I can't hide it as I used to. I can't shove it down with all the things I've used to numb myself over the years. I can't pull out of it. 

When pain dismantles the nervous system, it doesn’t just hurt it alters capacity. It narrows the world. It collapses time. Decisions become heavy, language thins out, and even small tasks require negotiation. Despair sets in as exhaustion so immense there’s nothing left to carry hope. The system gets overwhelmed past its ability to regulate. From inside that state, survival is already work. When encouragement shows up as reminders to heal, grow, or “do the work,” it feels like another thing to carry. And there’s no strength left to carry anything else. Another moment for you to fail with a spotlight on you as you're judged if you are truly trying hard enough.

No cute and happy conclusion here. Only freefall.

Coming Back

Content Note:

This discusses nervous system collapse, the physiology of “coming back online,” and the fragile, disorienting process of returning from shutdown. Read gently.
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The nervous system cannot sustain being in dorsal vagal shut down for a long period of time, as the body basically thinks it's dying and conserves energy. Coming out of it isn't a big rising moment of being fine and back to any semblance of normalcy. It's a flickering of the possibility of hope. It's no longer walking into your house and falling to the floor sobbing... at least not every day. It's seeing that though you still feel like shit that you are taking steps to try to live.

I spoke to my new therapist about how my lifetime of suicidal ideation was different this time. The thoughts were violent in a way that shocked me. In all my death plans it was always going to be done with drugs...I wanted out of the pain. I had flashes of wondering if the bars outside my deck would hold my weight. I lightly brushed knives across my wrists to see what it would feel like. I told myself I'd never do it but also saw that all it would take is one more bad moment to fully drown me in my despair.

What's hitting me most right now is the shame of it all. You can break a leg, get physical therapy, and everyone understands. If you're diagnosed with a heart condition and need to get on medication there will be empathy and concern. But if you mind breaks, if your nervous system gives out, if you spiral into emptiness...you'll find most people around you can't comprehend and don't know what to do. It's not their fault, it's not your fault, yet this takes you further into isolation and feeling that you are completely on your own. I've been held with compassion by so many and at the same time I feel ashamed that I wasn't strong enough to keep it together. Shame that I've shared and everyone knows I had a nervous breakdown.

Coming out of this feels disorienting; you're living in a body that's shifting faster than your narrative can explain. Nothing about this is linear. I've had days I feel almost normal, though my normal was depressed it wasn't catastrophic. And then in a moment the hysterics can begin again without warning. The nervous system doesn't care about your schedule. It doesn't care that your life is on fire or that you're trying desperately to hold it all together. 

Today I made future plans, I went back to big ideas I was forming before I crumbled, and while wiping tears I tried again. For today...

Though sharing all this brings me embarrassment, shame, and the sense that something is broken in me beyond repair, I know someone else needs to hear it. I know there is someone else out there who needs to be seen and told they aren't the only one. And something deep in me, some place of hope and transformation, some relentless part of me believes my purpose lives in telling the truth of this.

Staying Alive

I’m writing for my life. Not metaphorically...literally. As if saying everything I've suppressed will somehow heal me. Or stabilize me. Or keep me breathing. These sentences are the thin thread I’m holding onto while my nervous system tries to remember how to breathe. I'm not crying for a year, I'm crying for a lifetime. I realized a few days have passed without me thinking "I wish I could die". Now it's more of a sigh of "You have no choice. You unfortunately have to live right now."

People keep offering me hope and advice and tidy encouragements, and I know they mean well. But there are kinds of pain you should never speak into unless you’ve lived them. And the thing is the comments aren’t cruel. They’re well-meaning. They come wrapped in care, in love, in concern. But even well-meaning words can hurt when they land on someone who’s already at the edge and can’t take one more misjudgment or another blow.

A sentence meant to “encourage” can feel like sandpaper on an open wound. A suggestion meant to “help” can feel like someone saying they’re tired of watching you bleed. And the moment I try to explain this, the moment I try to say, “That actually hurt,” I’m met with puzzled eyes, or silence, because they have never lived in a body that collapses before it cries. And that kind of terror cannot be comforted with “You’ll get there,” or “Just keep working on yourself" or "Hold on". 

One of the only ways I’ve ever been lucky in life was getting pregnant. I didn’t “earn” it. I didn’t “manifest” it. I didn’t work for it. I went off the pill and got pregnant immediately, pure timing, pure chance. If infertility had been my story, my ex would never have paid for treatment. But chance worked in my favor that one time, and I’ve never forgotten that.

So, when a woman longs for a child and loses pregnancy after pregnancy, I don’t tell her how to feel. I don’t hand her clichés. I don’t insist she “stay positive.” I don’t push lessons or silver linings or timelines for when she should feel better. I don’t shame her for despair or push her toward gratitude because her pain makes me uncomfortable. Because I haven't lived it, I can't speak to it, and I allow her to feel in any way she needs without my commentary. I tell her, “I can’t imagine what this feels like, but I see what it’s doing to you, and your feelings are valid.” And then I shut up. Because it is cruel to narrate someone else’s suffering when you have never stood inside it.

What people don’t understand is that the same rules apply to catastrophic emotional trauma, to lifelong loneliness, to the kind of grief that rearranges a body from the inside out. Good intentions don’t make the commentary hurt less. Sometimes the “help” hurts more, because it reminds you how far away safety has always been.

That’s the part people miss when they talk to me about my trauma, my loneliness, my collapse. They don’t see that their lives of partnership, stability, and emotional safety were also, at least partly, products of chance. They met someone at the right time. They found someone who stayed. They got the kind of luck I never did.

And still, they talk to me like my pain has a simple fix, like healing is a choice I haven’t made yet.

They don’t know the physics of decades without protection.
They don’t know what it’s like to always be the one without a person. They don’t know what it is to never be chosen in any lasting way.

And I want all those good things for them...truly.
But there is still a small, feral girl in me who whispers, Why not me? Why not ever me?

This is the part nobody sees.
This is the part I’m writing from.
This is staying alive.

Collapse

Content Note:
This piece discusses nervous system shutdown, trauma physiology, emotional collapse, and the experience of doing life without support in the moments it matters. Read gently.

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I knew something inside me was collapsing, but I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t just “snap out of it.” My mind felt dimmed, my body heavy, like I was moving underwater. Every movement was a negotiation. I wasn’t sad in a normal way; I felt shut down; emotionally, physically, mentally. I kept asking myself, Why can’t I pull myself back up? Why can’t I function?

Eventually I learned the name for what I’m in: dorsal vagal shutdown.

It isn’t poetic. It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t spiritual. It’s a neurological state where the body hits the emergency brakes and shuts itself down.

Through hours of research trying to make sense of myself, I started to understand the physiology behind this. The more I read, the more things clicked. My blankness, my paralysis, the way everything feels muted and catastrophic at the same time, it all suddenly made sense.

Not because I’m failing. Because my system is overwhelmed.

Dorsal vagal shutdown is the nervous system saying:

• I can’t fight

• I can’t run

• I can’t think

• I can’t hope

• I have to go still

In this state:

• crying becomes involuntary

• thinking becomes catastrophic

• the future disappears

• everything looks permanent

• the brain cannot generate possibility

This is not a choice. It’s a physiological response to prolonged trauma + loss + exhaustion. My system is shutting down to conserve energy because the last year has been one unrelenting assault.

People look at the last year and think that’s the reason I’m collapsing. They’re wrong. This shutdown didn’t start in last year. It’s decades old. Before this year ever knocked the breath out of me, I’d already spent a lifetime doing everything alone.

Not metaphorically...literally.

I grew up without a safety net. Without soft landings. Without someone saying, “I’ve got you.” I learned to self-parent because no one else was going to. I learned to self-soothe because there was no shoulder waiting. I learned to stay calm in rooms that were on fire.

Every heartbreak? Alone.
Every move? Alone.
Every crisis, every panic spiral, every loss, every moment life cracked me open? Alone.

I don’t have muscle memory for leaning on someone. My body doesn’t know what it feels like to be held. It tenses before it softens.
It pushes forward until it collapses.

And then came this year...a year that hit every old wound at once:

• relationship instability and emotional fallout

• financial fear

• betrayal

• job upheaval

• grief

• hormonal chaos

• sleep disruption

• chronic exhaustion

• plenty of people who care, but I still cry alone every single time

My nervous system didn’t collapse from weakness. It collapsed because I’ve been white-knuckling my entire life alone. This isn’t a spiritual awakening or a movie moment. It’s not inspiring. It’s not cinematic. It isn’t a phoenix-rising situation. It’s me hitting the point where my nervous system is done performing, done pretending, done running on fumes.

And here we are, my nervous system is waving a white flag, …begging for the kind of holding that only a partner can give, someone who stays, someone who steadies you as you collapse, and I don’t just lack it now, I’ve never known what that feels like. And I’m standing here like, “Okay… and who exactly is supposed to pick up the slack?” Spoiler: it’s still only me.

I’m still breaking into sobs without warning. Still having panic spikes out of nowhere. Still moving like my body is made of sandbags. Still unable to see anything resembling a future.

But there is the faintest instinct, not hope, just a pulse, that maybe the light exists even if I can’t see it yet. Not because this is some transformation. Not because I’m “healing.” Not because I’m rising. Just because something deep inside me refuses to disappear with the version of me who had to survive everything alone.

I’m not going to pretend this is empowering. It’s not. It sucks. I’m exhausted, hollow, and dragging my nervous system around like a drunk friend who keeps passing out.

But I’m still here.
Somehow.
For now.

The Other Side

“No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out the other side. Or you don’t.”
— Stephen King, The Stand

Lately I’ve been telling the brutal truth about what’s happening to me. The kind of truth that doesn’t come with a filter or a bow or any performance for public consumption, and now all I want to do is hide.

For months I hinted at my unraveling in little memes and stray posts on my Raw Bleach page, separate from my more “acceptable” self, but it felt like I was yelling into a void. Meanwhile, I was dropping faster and harder than people realized, and throwing something random online felt like gulping air before going under again.

Something in me just… snapped.

Or maybe finally broke free. I don’t know.

My mind keeps insisting I should’ve kept my mouth shut and that everyone is judging me, talking about me, looking down at me from some imaginary moral balcony. The voices (don’t panic, not literal, I’ve got enough diagnoses without adding schizophrenia to the roster) hiss that no one wants to hear this. I'm told: “Your depression brain is lying to you.”

Okay. Maybe.

But the lies feel like facts from where I’m standing.

I had dinner with a friend who has walked through her own private hell, and we talked about something no one ever warns you about: when you’re in the darkest place of your life, there are no perfect words. Most people, even the kindest, most well-intentioned ones, end up saying things that accidentally land like a stab. Not because they’re bad friends. Not because they don’t care. But because human beings panic when faced with pain they can’t fix.

People want to rescue you. They want to lighten the moment. They want to say something.

But sometimes the most healing thing anyone can offer is simply sitting beside you in the dark; no pep talks, no clichés, no frantic optimism. Just presence. Just witnessing.

And the messed-up part is, you don’t feel like you can say, “Hey, that really hurt,” because everyone’s trying so damn hard. So you swallow it. And the shame in your brain catches fire, burning through the oxygen you were barely holding onto in the first place.

The truth is: this is the lowest point of my life, and I’ve been pretty fucking low before.

Something in me cracked open and the truth rushed out.

Unfiltered. Raw. Unapologetic.

This blog was supposed to be that place where the truth doesn’t have to wear makeup or act polite. But writing with your insides exposed has a side effect no one advertises: you get lonelier than you ever thought possible.

I don’t know if I’ll come out the other side.

Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t.

But I’m here, telling my truth, because silence wasn’t saving me either.

And honestly? This is the best I can do right now.

If it makes people uncomfortable… well, pain is uncomfortable.

But it’s real.

And so am I.