Rock Bottom

I did not know this is what rock bottom would look like. And I bet, if I asked you to tell me what you vision rock bottom to be, it would NOT align with where I am at, in this moment, where I can say, without hesitation, that I am at rock freakin’ bottom. Join me, won’t you?

If I am being honest with you, which I will be, because that is my vow with my writing, is that I thought I already hit rock bottom. I thought I hit rock bottom five years ago, in the early stages of my happy marriage where I found myself, alone, in a bathroom hitting myself until my skin bruised because I was so deep in anxiety that I felt like I would physically explode and all I wanted was to breathe, to feel a release.  I still do not fully know how I got there. How I got that far, to harm myself. I had read about self harm many times and even though there I was, doing it, I still disconnected in a way where I convinced myself, well I’m not quite fully there, right? I was, I was there. I know that now.

Then, I was so sure I was at rock bottom when I hired a food therapist because I had newly found out I was (unexpectedly) pregnant and instead of jumping for joy and embracing the absolute miracle I was going to produce, I was overwhelmed and obsessed with the possibility that I would get fat.  I watched the control of food slip right through my fingers. I woke up everyday not concerned with the health of my growing child, but with a dark hanging cloud shouting at me that I was getting fat, my biggest fear coming true by the minute. I gave birth to my daughter in the early morning. By the time I made it to my room, settled in with the six hour clock started to ensure I stood up and walked post one of the most invasive surgeries you can get, a C-section, I had already downloaded a new food journal. I started counting calories only hours postpartum because well, I could not be fat. When my daughter could not settle in her first night, I paced around the room holding her, thinking, ‘okay good, I am getting steps in, that will help me lose the weight.’

If that was not quite enough to qualify me into rock bottom, I surely was there in that same moment, pacing that tiny hospital room with my newborn in my arms. I had a required mask over my mouth, and I was operating after not sleeping for 36 hours. I remember shifting myself off the bed when I heard my baby cry knowing it was time to eat for her. Everything felt blurry and warm even though it was the middle of December. It was dark. The kind of dark that is lonely, not the kind where you peacefully fall into a deep sleep. Sitting up felt like a risk I did not want to take. My stitches only hours fresh. But I had to because she needed to eat, and I was the only one able to do it. I wasn’t breast feeding. I was just alone. Less than 24 hours post her arrival, on the very first night of rest for her in this world, I was fully alone. The chair where my husband should be half asleep in was empty. He had chosen to leave me there, with our newborn, alone. His reasoning not important anymore, because what could possibly be more important than your wife and your daughters first night together. While I paced the room, bouncing and feeding her, I felt a stream of warm liquid making its way down my leg. The tiny light shining in the room let me see the bright red blood piling up just below my feet. I didn’t know what to do. So, I kept pacing. I kept feeding her. I don’t remember the rest. I assumed, the rest, was my rock bottom.

Then finally, I had REALLY reached rock bottom only four months after my second one was born and a very normal weekday morning kicked off. My Mom was on her way over to take on her usual weekly watch the kids' day and my husband was accomplishing all the tasks it takes to get everyone out the door on time. I pulled the covers up to my neck, secured a grip on them so hard that it left marks in the palms of my hands. When my husband checked on me for the obvious reason that I wasn’t moving into my routine, I told him I didn’t feel good. It wasn’t a complete lie. Technically, it was the worst I had ever felt. He hurried out letting my Mom know I didn’t feel well and was still in bed. I could hear her happily baby talking her newest grandson. I got out of bed and walked downstairs in a numb silence I hope I never have to experience again. I told her I had to leave. That was that. We silently packed up my car with anything I could think in the moment was of importance or of need. We didn’t even talk. All action until it was time to go and my Mom looked at me and said, ‘Are you sure?’  She knew the answer. I knew the answer. Moments later, we got into our separate cars and left. That was the last time I’d live in the big beautiful six-bedroom house, I thought was my forever home.

I am not proud of that moment.  You would think as a 38-year-old independent, single woman, this is where I write the rise from ashes part. The phoenix boss babe who says she knew that was the turning point. Her moment of victorious courage that changed her life forever, and for the good. But that isn’t the truth. I cowardly wrote my husband a text that I was done, and I had left for good this time. I had no plan, no money, and not one ounce of pride left in me. It wasn’t the end, and it wasn’t the beginning. I have learned that the most difficult parts of our life often sit somewhere in between. We battle with them so fiercely because we can’t fully identify them. We don’t know their purpose and we don’t know their outcome and it’s a risk you are forced to walk into with no confirmation that you will make it out okay. Spoiler alert, you make it out okay.

So here I am. After all of that, all those moments that were dark, and scary, and lonely, and yet none of them end up being my actual rock bottom. My actual rock bottom happened only a week ago. I sat across from my brand new, highly regarded manager, in a conference room still fresh from it’s new build with floor to ceiling glass doors, only to hear the words, ‘I don’t want to do this, but I have to put an email together that I need you to acknowledge.’. I had used all my excuses up. All my freebies. All my get out of jail free cards. I wasn’t performing and I had to be told. That actually wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the embarrassment I had no choice but to sit in, and feel, while I shook my head that I understood. Hours later I took a pre-scheduled meeting with a lawyer I could not afford who opened with “what brought you to me?”  And again, I had no choice but to hear my own words of why. My own declaration of why I needed her help and how long I had endured things that I certainly should not have had to endure. There is nothing quite like listening to yourself tell the story of your demise, to a complete stranger, who at the end confirms. Yes, you definitely need my help.

I drove home that night at a crossroad. On the outside, I looked like I was killing it. In fact, that weekend, someone had even complemented me how much I appeared to be killing it. Keyword, appeared. The truth is, I wasn’t. I wasn’t killing it; I was barely holding on by a thread. My rock bottom had become a moment where I had to be the most honest with myself, I have ever been. I had to look myself in the mirror and confirm that this was not who I wanted to be, and the only way to change that was to go right when I had been consistently going left. I knew going right was going to be new, and that is what terrified me. I knew going tight would mean no more pity parties and more difficult times ahead when all I wanted was the complete opposite.

I knew going right, was my only way out. It was now or never. I got myself into this spot and now I had to get myself out. There was no running away and no hiding. No shortcuts and no putting on hold. You don’t know your true strength until you hit rock bottom. Where there is nowhere left to go. No one left to pull you out. No reason to believe you won’t fall back down like you have a million times before. It is you verse you, and on top of that, you have two little one’s whose wellness depend on it.

So, I went right. I turned right out of pure desperation knowing my first stop would be faced with the many things I had been avoiding out of fear. Fear was standing there just like I expected ready to let me have it.

So, I told fear… to go fuck itself. And that, is where my story began.