Rock bottom is always better with a friend

Meet ya there.

Jul 02, 2025

A woman in the bathtub with clothes on — Credit: Naomi August on Unsplash

Well, it finally happened — I broke. I felt my heart split straight down the center of my chest, like when a bolt of lightning strikes sand, and I put my head on my forearms at my kitchen table in broad daylight and I sobbed. I’m talking about the type of sound Hollywood producers should have on hand when they need to illustrate a character’s unfettered, limitless grief. I emotionally blacked out. I cried to the point of feeling nothing.

I know myself well enough to have predicted that the past few months were going to split me open at some point. In some ways, surgery can be a great distraction when you live a life like mine. I had so many dots to connect, appointments to schedule and reschedule, meds to stock up on, insurance authorizations to hunt down, and bags to pack for where I’d be spending the hardest part of my recovery.

And then recovery came and went, and I had been so focused on doing everything I could to hit post-op milestones and feel better, that the rest of my seemingly impossible symptoms and health mysteries faded for a while. I had a singular goal in mind: to heal, and heal well. Now? I’m past that point. But instead of a horizon rising to greet me, it’s a trio of infections. Steroids. Antibiotics. Scans. Phone calls. Consults. Puzzled faces. Deep, draining misery. Body parts wrapped in heat. Sweat-soaked clothes clinging to the crevices of the couch. Suicidal thoughts that whisper, “This is the life you were trying to get better for?”

Two phrases that I wrestle with (and hear) a lot are, “I couldn’t imagine what you go through” and “You are so strong.” Because they ultimately trigger the following questions inside me: Do you think I imagined this for myself? Do you think I woke up one day, faced my mortality, and said, “I was meant for this”? Do you think my suffering is brave? A choice? A personality trait? A party trick? Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful for all of the good stuff I’ve been lucky to experience and do in my lifetime. If this was the end for me, I’d be OK.

I used to pride myself on being strong, but now I almost hate the word. What does strength mean? Does everyone else have an unlimited supply but me? If so, I’d love to borrow some. Because I’m unfurling at the seams as hope drip-drops through my limbs, pooling at my feet. I see the person I am right now staring back at me and my reflection causes visceral hurt. I want so much more for myself, but I’m incapable of it right now. So is that apathy or realism? Do some people wake up every day, know the hell they’re about to face, and simply do it? Are you exhausted?

A lot of times I think “strength” is a label that people just feel comfortable assigning. Chronic discomfort is unsettling, so when you varnish it under the guise of “bravery in the face of adversity,” it makes it easier for them to sleep at night.

When I get like this, I tend to isolate myself. Sometimes the isolation is really visible to the people around me, and other times it’s more subtle. It can look like not responding to texts, sleeping a bit more than normal (but not so much that’ll make someone worry), coasting through my days with little to no emotion. And I feel that urge blooming in my bloodstream right now. I want to hide. I want to forget the sun exists. It’s like depression and existential dread had a baby and the baby is me. But I know the future version of myself, the one I daydream about, needs and deserves more. And I know the past version of me is somewhere out there screaming, “You have suffered and survived so much already. Your past is proof that you know how to keep going. SO DO IT ALREADY.”

So those versions of myself, the person I was and the person who I want to be, are who get me out of bed right now. Because ultimately I have to claw my way through this for myself — not for my family, my friends, my dog, my career. I need to do it for the shell of who I am right now, powered solely by caffeine and dark humor and greek yogurt popsicles. What’s that saying? “I didn’t come this far to only come this far.” Maybe I should make it my next tattoo.

If you’re reading this and feel any emotional shade similar to mine in the box of Crayons we call life, I’ll leave you with these parting words: Rock bottom is always better with a friend. I’ll save you a seat.