Rock bottom isn’t poetic. It’s not a dramatic movie moment with a single tear rolling down my cheek. It’s cold, it’s empty, and it smells vaguely like defeat and stale coffee. It’s the kind of place where even the shadows look embarrassed to be seen with you. Definitely not on my five-year plan. Hell, it wasn’t even on my five-minute plan.
But there I was — sitting in the rubble of my life, staring up at the staircase I was apparently supposed to climb. A staircase that, by the way, cost more than my dignity, and that was already in short supply. I didn’t have money, resources, or functioning brain cells. What I did have was a stubborn streak and a rapidly approaching winter that promised to turn my car into a mobile freezer.
Pride was the first casualty. It didn’t even put up a fight. Certainty followed, then hope, then whatever thin layer of identity I’d been clinging to. I stopped recognizing the woman in the mirror — the one with hollow eyes and a smile that looked like it had been stapled on by someone who’d never seen a human face before. I knew exactly who had shoved me off the cliff, and the choices I’d been forced to make on the way down made the landing hurt even more.
Staying at the bottom would’ve been easier. The rent was cheap, the expectations were low, and no one asked questions. But apparently I wasn’t allowed to stay. Fate, or maybe just the last semi-functional neuron in my head, gave me two options:
- Give up and disappear
- Dig my nails into the dirt and start climbing
Clawing my way out sounded noble, but also exhausting. So I decided to build stairs. Unfortunately, stairs require materials — and the universe had already repossessed everything I owned except my sarcasm and a half-dead phone.
The cost wasn’t money. It was me. The last scraps of pride. The ideals I’d been raised on. The belief that “asking for help” was something other people did.
I’d always been the capable one. The one who figured it out. The one who didn’t need anything from anyone. But now? My brain was a tangled mess of short-circuited wires, sparking occasionally but mostly just smoking. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t plan, couldn’t remember what day it was unless my planner told me.
So I went to war.
Armed with:
- my phone
- my day planner
- a pen that barely worked
- and a stack of “resource papers” that were about as useful as a chocolate teapot
I sat in my car — my temporary home, office, and emotional support vehicle — and started dialing. Call after call. Voicemail after voicemail. Every message said the same thing: We’re very busy, we’ll get back to you eventually. Spoiler: they did not.
The few humans I reached told me how “sorry” they were and wished me “luck,” which is code for “you’re screwed, but I’m hanging up now.”
That’s when I pulled out one of the survival skills I’d learned in my personal war zone: I started lying.
Alex had been playing the system for years, and I’d learned from one of the best. My lies were works of art. I’d lost everything in a fire — that was my favorite. People love a good fire tragedy. Tell them you lost everything in a fight with your roommate? They’ll tell you to work it out. Tell them your life went up in flames? Suddenly they’re emotionally invested.
The problem with lying is you have to remember the lies. And my brain, fried to a crisp, was not taking notes. I’d get calls back and have no idea which version of my fictional life I’d told them. It was like juggling chainsaws while sleep-deprived.
But somehow, through the chaos, the panic, the lies, and the sheer force of spite, I started building those stairs. One splintered, uneven step at a time.
Climbing from ground zero to where I am now cost me everything I had left. But it also gave me things I didn’t know I needed:
- a quiet resolve
- the ability to ask for help without choking
- creativity born from desperation
- a map of resources I never knew existed
- and a stubborn belief that I can survive anything
The stairs aren’t finished. Not even close. I’m still building, still climbing, still cursing under my breath. But I’m higher than I was. I can see a plateau up ahead — a place where I might actually breathe without bracing for impact.
And when I get there? I’ll probably sit down, look back at the mess I crawled out of, and laugh. Because of course this is where I landed. And of course I’m climbing out anyway.
Rock bottom isn’t poetic. It’s not a dramatic movie moment with a single tear rolling down my cheek. It’s cold, it’s empty, and it smells vaguely like defeat and stale cigarettes. It’s the kind of place where even the shadows look embarrassed to be seen with you. Definitely not on my five-year plan. Hell, it wasn’t even on my five-minute plan.
But there I was — sitting in the rubble of my life, staring up at the staircase I was apparently supposed to climb. A staircase that, by the way, cost more than my dignity, and that was already in short supply. I didn’t have money, resources, or functioning brain cells. What I did have was a stubborn streak and a rapidly approaching winter that promised to turn my car into a mobile freezer.
Pride was the first casualty. It didn’t even put up a fight. Certainty followed, then hope, then whatever thin layer of identity I’d been clinging to. I stopped recognizing the woman in the mirror — the one with hollow eyes and a smile that looked like it had been stapled on by someone who’d never seen a human face before. I knew exactly who had shoved me off the cliff, and the choices I’d been forced to make on the way down made the landing hurt even more.
Staying at the bottom would’ve been easier. The rent was cheap, the expectations were low, and no one asked questions. But apparently I wasn’t allowed to stay. Fate, or maybe just the last semi-functional neuron in my head, gave me two options:
- Give up and disappear
- Dig my nails into the dirt and start climbing
Clawing my way out sounded noble, but also exhausting. So I decided to build stairs. Unfortunately, stairs require materials — and the universe had already repossessed everything I owned except my sarcasm and a half-dead phone.
The cost wasn’t money. It was me. The last scraps of pride. The ideals I’d been raised on. The belief that “asking for help” was something other people did.
I’d always been the capable one. The one who figured it out. The one who didn’t need anything from anyone. But now? My brain was a tangled mess of short-circuited wires, sparking occasionally but mostly just smoking. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t plan, couldn’t remember what day it was unless my planner told me.
So I went to war.
Armed with:
- my phone
- my day planner
- a pen that barely worked
- and a stack of “resource papers” that were about as useful as a chocolate teapot
I sat in my car — my temporary home, office, and emotional support vehicle — and started dialing. Call after call. Voicemail after voicemail. Every message said the same thing: We’re very busy, we’ll get back to you eventually. Spoiler: they did not.
The few humans I reached told me how “sorry” they were and wished me “luck,” which is code for “you’re screwed, but I’m hanging up now.”
That’s when I pulled out one of the survival skills I’d learned in my personal war zone: I started lying.
Alex had been playing the system for years, and I’d learned from one of the best. My lies were works of art. I’d lost everything in a fire — that was my favorite. People love a good fire tragedy. Tell them you lost everything in a fight with your roommate? They’ll tell you to work it out. Tell them your life went up in flames? Suddenly they’re emotionally invested.
The problem with lying is you have to remember the lies. And my brain, fried to a crisp, was not taking notes. I’d get calls back and have no idea which version of my fictional life I’d told them. It was like juggling chainsaws while sleep-deprived.
But somehow, through the chaos, the panic, the lies, and the sheer force of spite, I started building those stairs. One splintered, uneven step at a time.
Climbing from ground zero to where I am now cost me everything I had left. But it also gave me things I didn’t know I needed:
- a quiet resolve
- the ability to ask for help without choking
- creativity born from desperation
- a map of resources I never knew existed
- and a stubborn belief that I can survive anything
The stairs aren’t finished. Not even close. I’m still building, still climbing, still cursing under my breath. But I’m higher than I was. I can see a plateau up ahead — a place where I might actually breathe without bracing for impact.
And when I get there? I’ll probably sit down, look back at the mess I crawled out of, and laugh. Because of course this is where I landed. And of course I’m climbing out anyway.
Still climbing, but with an attitude,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 