Rock Bottom
“I didn’t fall apart all at once. It was quiet. A slow erosion of fire. Smiles that didn’t reach. Words that weren’t mine. Promises I made to myself but broke by morning. That’s the thing about losing yourself—you don’t even notice until there’s nothing left to lose.”
The Quiet Kind of Collapse
Most people talk about rock bottom like it’s a crash. But sometimes it’s a slow fade—the kind of unraveling that fools even you. No sirens. No blood. Just this strange numbness that becomes your new normal.
And that’s the scariest kind of broken. Because when you’re falling apart out loud, someone might notice. But when you’re hurting in silence? You can rot behind a smile and still get praised for being strong.
This is the kind of loss that wears your skin, walks your walk, and pretends it’s you—until even you start believing the act. You look in the mirror and see someone who kind of looks like you, kind of sounds like you, but feels hollow. That’s what rock bottom can look like. Not dramatic. Just a slow burn.
