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.