A Conversation With Someone Else Who Lived Through Collapse

(DPDR • Nervous System Collapse • Trauma Recovery Story)

There’s a kind of conversation that doesn’t need much explaining. When someone has lived through a nervous system collapse and DPDR, you can skip the surface talk and go straight to the marrow.

I sat down with M., who experienced her collapse a couple of years before mine.

Different timeline, different triggers but the same landscape: the sudden drop, the months of static, the slow thaw. This is our conversation.

Before the Collapse

Me: Can we start at the beginning? What was life like before everything shifted?

M: I was… busy. Holding everything together. I had a full-time job, two little kids, and I was basically living on adrenaline without knowing it. I’d dealt with anxiety for years, but it was always manageable. I just pushed through. That was my default.

Then one afternoon, I was driving home from work. Normal day. Sunny. Music on. And suddenly it was like a wave rolled through my body hot, sharp, and completely foreign. My hands didn’t feel like mine on the steering wheel. My heart exploded into overdrive. I honestly thought I was having a stroke.

I pulled over shaking. That was the moment my old life ended.

The First Weeks: “Like Someone Unplugged Me”

Me: What happened after that day?

M: The weeks that followed were the worst. My nervous system felt like it had been unplugged but never plugged back in. I couldn’t sleep. My heart slammed in my chest every night at 3 a.m. like it was trying to escape. Everything looked too sharp, too far away. My stomach was clenched 24/7.

And emotionally? Nothing. Flat. Muted. Like someone had switched me off.

My family didn’t get it. My husband said, “Just relax, it’s panic.” My parents thought I was being dramatic. I didn’t have the language to explain that it wasn’t just panic it was like my entire sense of self and safety had been erased overnight.

Six Months of Fog, a Year and a Half of Survival

Me: How long did that last?

M: The acute phase the nonstop adrenaline, full dissociative fog, total terror, lasted around six months. But the overall collapse period? Closer to a year and a half.

There were phases. First came sheer survival: sleepless nights, endless tests, panic that didn’t have a source.

Then came the plateau. I wasn’t panicking constantly anymore, but I felt unreal all the time. I’d be in the grocery store and it was like watching a movie of myself pushing the cart. That’s what DPDR is living through glass.

How Her Family Experienced It

Me: How did your family adjust?

M: At first they tried to fix me. They sent articles, told me to think positive, suggested vitamins. It made me feel invisible. Over time, especially after doctors ruled out everything else, they started to understand something deeper was happening.

My husband had to pick up so much in those early months. I couldn’t function. I’d sit on the couch while the kids played, watching life happen like a spectator

.

The hardest part was the emotional disconnection. My daughter hugged me one night and I felt… nothing. Just that fog. I cried later, alone, because I wanted to feel it so badly.

What Helped Her Begin to Return

Me: What eventually helped you start to come out of it?

M: Two things.

First, medication. SSRIs didn’t fix it instantly, but they quieted the adrenaline enough for my body to start sleeping and digesting again. That gave me space to heal.

Second, body work. My therapist understood trauma and dissociation. We didn’t focus on “positive thinking.” We worked on orienting, gentle breath, tracking sensations. It was boring, honestly. But slowly, my vagus nerve started to wake up.

There wasn’t one big turning point. It was a thousand tiny ones.

• The first morning I woke up without panic.

• The first meal I actually enjoyed.

• The first tears.

• The first moment in the kitchen where I thought, I’m here.

That’s how the nervous system comes back one flicker at a time.

What She Wants People to Know

Me: Looking back, what do you wish people understood then?

M: That this isn’t weakness. Collapse isn’t giving up it’s the body doing something ancient to survive. And recovery is slow. My family thought I’d bounce back after a few therapy sessions. It doesn’t work like that. It’s not linear, and it’s not always visible from the outside.

For Anyone Still in the Fog

Me: If someone’s reading this who’s in that state right now, what would you tell them?

M: You’re not gone. I know it feels like you are like someone took you away and left a shell behind.. but you’re still in there. Healing doesn’t come in fireworks. It’s tiny shifts that build up when you’re not looking.

Me: And give the people around you time to catch up. They might not understand it yet, but that doesn’t mean your experience isn’t real.

Different timelines. Different lives. Same terrain: the sudden drop, the months of static, the slow thaw.

If you’re in it right now, this is your reminder, you’re not alone. And this state isn’t permanent.

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