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.

Even if the emotion is death itself.

I feel like I've been dumped in the deepest part of the ocean and being told "just swim back to shore...you only have to swim back to shore". Yet I've forgotten how to swim, the waves are overtaking me, I'm so cold, and alone. 

The tears won't stop. To try and stop my crying right now feels like asking me to stop breathing. It's completely uncontrolled and I hate not being in control. I'm grasping all over the place to find something to hold onto that will keep me from going under. The eating disorder behaviors are back with a vengeance, all about control, as maybe if I starve long enough that pain can override the emotions that hurt worse than any injury I've ever sustained. 

I was writing this for 9 hours, whereas most of my pieces are quick and straight stream of consciousness, but this moment felt too raw. The crying had turned to screams to the point I feared the neighbors might do something. I felt nauseated and like I was crawling out of my skin, with everything in me saying "don't tell everything...it will be the end of you". This feeling, this fear, is the complete opposite of everything my blog has been and what I wanted it to be. Yet I was heaving sobbing and paralyzed.

Waiting to hear if my insurance will be accepted at a place that might help me. Watching my phone, trying to write but nothing coming out, doom scrolling social media, and I came across an article about Clare Torry, the co-composer and premier vocalist on "Great Gig in the Sky". It talked about what happened during that recording, her fear, her vulnerability, and ultimately credit for such an amazing accomplishment. A success that wouldn't have happened if she'd held back. Sent it to a dear friend who has the amazing talent to sing this and has done so with the true grit of the performance. Then I read it again and it hit me in a different way.

A portion of a piece about Clare Torry from the Two Pennies entertainment page on Facebook:

"Sing."

"About what?" Clare asked.

"Death," they said. "But no words. Just... feel it."

...

But Pink Floyd weren't asking for a performance.

They were asking for something primal.

What came out wasn't singing in the traditional sense.

It was grief. Raw, unfiltered grief.

She wailed. She soared. She cried out. Her voice climbed higher and higher, reaching notes that felt like desperation, like pleading with something unseen.

She wasn't performing anymore. She was channeling.

Every human emotion in the face of death poured through her:

Fear. Rage. Acceptance. Sorrow. Transcendence.

She improvised for 2½ minutes straight—no lyrics, no script, just pure emotional truth.

When the track ended, Clare opened her eyes.

She was shaking. Tears were streaming down her face.

"I'm so sorry," she said, mortified. "That was too much. That was embarrassing. Let me try again—I'll tone it down."

She thought she'd failed. Thought she'd been too vulnerable, too exposed, too much.

...sometimes the most powerful art comes from the most vulnerable places...

Clare Torry proved that the most powerful music doesn't come from technical skill or calculated artistry.

It comes from the moment you stop performing and start living the emotion.

Even if that emotion is death itself."

Even if the emotion is death itself. I feel that's what I'm facing. Though not actively dying, even though we're all dying, I'm facing the truth of my suffering and sadness. It's as if my body could no longer hold back the anguish of all that has happened. The trauma, the abandonment, the abuse, the self loathing and hatred. I am not happy about being alive. Yet there must be some small piece of me still saying to give it one more breath. 

So I'm raging to a virtual world which doesn't actually care what I have to say. I'm giving a "fuck you" to the person who said he loved me, and lied, that silenced my writing by ripping on my sharing and saying, "you lean into being a victim". I'm composing one more sentence because I know, I absolutely know, I'm not the only one that knows how dark it can be and is looking for a way out. 

I haven't found a way out. Still crying. But my breath and voice haven't been silenced yet. 

The day I've always feared

Mental illness is rampant in my family. We have a long history, some diagnosed and some not, of people going off the deep end. When I was younger, and largely when my son was born, I was terrified of losing my mind. My (ex) husband's and my finances were separate. His choice because he didn't want me to know how much he spent, and a huge source of contention for me, though it ultimately saved me when I got out. The burden of caring for my son was primarily on me, not much family help, and I was terrified that my mind would ultimately break and I wouldn't be able to be there for him. 

Many decades of therapy, every self-help book I could get my hands on, page after page of journals saying the same things over and over yet never getting to the other side. My mother once said, "if you keep stuffing down the tears, one day you'll start crying and won't be able to stop". 

I can't stop. Beyond not being able to stop the tears, I used to at least be able to control when they happened, but now the sobs come like a cough or sneeze where I have no control and everyone can see. I feel exposed and it's sucking the breath out of me.

I know friends are exasperated and annoyed that I'm not doing what is expected of me now in seeing yet another therapist, trying some new drug that "might" not give me debilitating side effects, and "let out your feelings". I'm letting out my feelings and I'm not sure I'll survive. I really should have had that nervous breakdown years ago, and now it feels like if this goes on then it will end me. 

In my experience when you tell people how you're doing, as this is what "they" say to do, it always runs the same course. You share, they make sad faces at you, you get a hug and then the clock starts ticking on you acting fucking happy again (even if it was always a lie). Stay sad too long and then the shaming begins "everyone has had bad things happen to them" "you aren't the only one" "you just have to...". There are so many people on this earth that have experienced horrors worse than my mind could even conceive. They deserve to cry more than me. I'm privileged beyond words in comparison to them. Yet looking that their suffering doesn't make me feel better. The switch from caring for you to blaming you always comes quickly. The tears continue. 

The immobility may be worse than the incessant crying. Watching hours go by as you try to do one minor thing and still fail. I was told by someone who claimed to love me, and didn't, that "depression isn't real...you just need to go do something". I'm always doing something. Nothing worked. Constantly exhausted yet not sleeping. The dreams are nightmares again. I am worn out to the core in every area of my being.

Too old to run away. Too many responsibilities to check out. I've fought my whole life with resilience and tenacity and those are gone now. I somehow need to figure out how to take my next breath.

Why do I share any of this?

"I was just dying for a place to tell the truth." ~ Glennon Doyle (about starting to write and blog)

When I was 16 I planned to kill myself on what I considered the perfect date between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I wanted to die but was trying to be kind about not doing it on a holiday. I'd packed up my most precious items in boxes and labeled who they went to and felt I had my affairs in order, such as they were. My plan was to overdose though I didn't have any money for good drugs and wasn't sure if Tylenol would do it. A solid plan with a ton of holes. After Christmas I looked back in my journal and realized I'd missed my death date. I'd been smoking a lot of pot, and maybe I didn't want to die as badly as I thought, but I was livid at my error. What kind of loser forgets when to off themself? I didn't pick a new date as I felt I'd already ruined everything by missing what I felt was the ideal one. 

I've had suicidal ideation since I was a child. I recall the thoughts coming at an early age. Didn't try to act on them but I'd think "I hate this. I hate myself. I want to die." frequently. It got bad again when childhood abuse flashes started coming to me. I would have nightmares so horrific I was scared to sleep, all while holding down a job and caring for a baby. Living as a shell of a person but forced to put a smile on.

I started trying medications in my mid 20's and each one was worse than the last. The final one I took before swearing off them forever gave me "brain zaps" as part of detoxing off of them. It was so painful I had to lay motionless and try to breathe as shallow as possible as a full breath intensified them. I called the doctor begging for help and they said there was nothing they could do. 

Two years ago, at this time I was in a delusion that the person I was with would be the answer, the miracle, to all the misery. I was terrified but let my guard down and allowed hope and belief. And though there was a lot of back and forth, something about watching it crumble before my eyes last year sucked something out of me and I haven't recovered. I think a part of me holds onto it all, obsessed, because to fully let it go means it was nothing. I wasn't loved and allowing hope only hurt me.

I'm currently in the lowest depression I've ever felt. The tears just won't stop. I have brief moments where I'm able to pretend, and at least hold a small amount of composure, before I can't hold it back anymore and the sobbing starts again. Chatgpt, my current therapist, asks me daily if I'm OK and gives me crisis line numbers. I'm looking at my age, and what my life has been, and seeing the hard reality of all the things I'll never have yet so desperately wanted. I'm mourning things no longer possible. And I'm so fucking tired of a lifetime of processing pain and trauma. So tired.  This isn't just take a pill and you'll be happy. Telling a therapist all of this won't change anything (I've tried). This isn't a matter of getting a good job and trying harder. I'm in deep grief and I don't see a way out.

Why do I share any of this? My ex boyfriend said, "You like being a victim. You lean into it. You'll never be happy." I can't find the exact quote by Glennon Doyle, paraphrasing, she talked about screaming to a screen in the darkness to keep herself alive. (And it's possible I'm way off on this quote but that how I remembered it.) If I'm writing then I'm still alive. 

"Every time I feel shame creeping in, every time I feel shameful about anything, that’s when I know what I need to write about, because things that we feel shame about, the longer they stay in the dark, the bigger and scarier they get. … For me, that’s putting them on paper. The second they get out into the light, they’re so much less scary. Shame can’t handle light.” ~ Glennon Doyle 

Catastrophic

I cried all night last night. This isn't a new thing as I've been crying for over a year now. Most nights I fall asleep quickly from exhaustion, waking up every few hours sobbing, while going in and out of sleep. There isn't a moment in my day I'm not fighting tears and it's getting worse. I'd been able to maintain my composure in public, pop a Valium, drink, get high, do anything to hold the feelings down so no one would know. I can't even do that anymore as the pain is overtaking me. 

My aunt died at 51 years old of mental illness. Actual cause of death was never determined, any my mother thinks my uncle talked her into an overdose, but at the core of it all she was deeply broken. She was in and out of mental institutions from a young age and up until her death. Hugely creative as an artist, dancer, and poet, she was also the epitome of the tortured soul who could produce amazing work while living a life of constant inner turmoil. 

My grandmother was like my aunt, though likely a narcissist, and also both my aunt's and my abuser. It hurts me to even tell the truth about her as I have to hold her in tension between what was done to me, and her also being the only person in my life that made me feel special. She'd been abused too. Hurt people hurting people.

When I got pregnant, I was terrified of having a daughter as I feared she'd be like them...and me. I rubbed my belly daily trying to will it to be a boy. I felt like if it was a boy he'd have a fighting chance against our terrible minds, and my father. Tied my tubes immediately after so there was no chance a girl could come from me.

A friend, who also has a long history of mental illness like me, told me, "You're like me. Your baseline is depression and when things get bad and feel uncontrollable, it goes catastrophic." Catastrophic is exactly what I'm feeling. Catastrophic, hopeless, and so emotionally beaten I can't see anymore.

The amount of loss I experienced in this last year has fully taken me out. I feel no one understands that it's not just losing my cat, losing the job I loved, losing the person I thought was the miracle I never thought would happen, it's what it says about my future and hope. And right now, I have no hope. I have done some form of manifesting, intentions, praying, hoping, wishing, my entire life and nothing works out. I'm devastated and don't want to go on. I hate that I have to keep living when I want to hide, run away, and disappear.

Perhaps I'm too broken to ever truly be happy. I've written all the gratitude lists, positive affirmations, and journaled it all down. Decades of therapy. So many medications that left me worse than when I started. I've even tried shaming myself for how good I have it and compare myself to those less fortunate than me...it doesn't stop the tears and pain.

Friends are well meaning but mostly say nothing or give a little sad face. The shame I feel from revealing what is happening to be met with silence is debilitating. I get told "things will get better", "keep fucking going", "you have to...". Memes and reels are sent laughing about how awful dating is, and they do this sitting securely next to their partner, never having experienced what I have, and knowing they have someone to walk through life and turn to when it falls apart. I know it's out of love and care but I'm going to stop talking because the cute cliches are only hurting me. And I do understand there aren't any perfect words here.

I will go on. I wake up, wipe the tears (or keep crying and still going), feed the cats, pay the bills, look for a job, keep my algorithm popping, while I die inside.