“I’ve hit rock bottom.” That phrase means something different to everyone. Some people, maybe even the majority, associate rock bottom with addiction and that’s one variety. If someone had asked me what rock bottom looked like twenty-five years ago, I would have said it was being a single mother on food stamps. Walking into the DHS office and filling out those forms so I could make sure my baby was fed and had medical insurance, looking at all of the other single mothers, people society deemed as moochers and lazy bottom feeders…I realized I would be seen as one of ‘them’ and it was one of the most humbling experiences of my life. I wasn’t there because I was lazy (and neither were ninety-eight percent of the women in that room by the way). I was getting my teaching certification, going to school at night, taking care of my son, babysitting for two lovely families, shuttling their kids to private schools, working as a hostess two nights a week, student teaching, essentially…busting my ass to survive. And I did. I survived my first true rock bottom.
Then I landed a teaching job, bought a house and was a pretty happy single mom for a few years. I was off welfare, gainfully employed and taking care of my physical and mental health. My son was one happy little boy with a village of loving people helping me raise him. I had great friends and went out dancing, saw bands at the Blues Café. Went on trips to London and San Francisco. I was turning thirty and loving life. I’d arrived. The only thing I could imagine making my life any better was falling madly in love with someone who was madly in love with me.
Be careful what you wish for!
When I was thirty-one, I did indeed meet a man who swept me off my feet and married him less than a year later. I went from being a single mom with a few nickels to rub together to a married woman of means. Glitch? He was abusive and is probably the most controlling man on the planet. A toxic narcissist of the first order. What’s the expression? Marry in haste, repent at leisure? I’ve been repenting for over twenty years though the ink dried on the divorce papers a decade ago. And the repenting ain’t over yet. We have two children together. I’ve got about three solid years of repenting left…seven, max.
I saw the red flags before I said ‘I do’ but ignored them. To this day, I’m not sure why. Was it because I was in my thirties and thought I should be married? Or because he was more into me than any man had ever been? I was used to male attention, but not his intense adoration. He moved across the country to be with me after knowing me a week. Hello! Bright blood red flag! Was it the financial security he provided? The diamond earrings he bought me? The trips he whisked me away on? The fancy shoes and clothes and first class plane rides? I never believed I was shallow, but looking back, maybe I was?
For a few months, I believed I was actually in love and perhaps I was? But some part of me knew it wasn’t right. He wasn’t right. Those red flags were everywhere and impossible to ignore, and believe me, I tried. Desperately. In the days leading up to our wedding every part of me revolted, the thought of getting married (I couldn’t admit at the time) to him made me physically ill. I’m talking literally sick! And still I ignored my instincts. I was hopped up on all sorts of medication at my wedding and could only focus on getting through the day.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Talk about short-sighted! What about the rest of my life? What about my son’s life? I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for dragging my boy into that unhealthy situation. I didn’t listen to my gut and we both paid the price.
I hit more rock bottoms than I can count during our marriage. From abuse-related trauma to post-partum depression to marital infidelity to my last stand. I’m intimately related with rock bottom. In the book I’ve been writing, I finally delve into these dark issues, so I won’t recount them here. Let’s just say every day spent married to him brought with it a fresh hell.
I’m not looking for pity. I made my bed and I paid the price. Insert whatever cliché that comes to mind here. But I’m an expert at making ‘lemonade’ and came out of that marriage stronger than ever.
My point is this: rock bottom isn’t a place people hit once, and it looks different every time you plummet. My mother’s death was another rock bottom, which was only surpassed by my brother’s passing last summer.
And now? My latest rock bottom. I hate writing these words because they sound so trivial in comparison to my other rock bottoms, but it doesn’t feel trivial. It feels massive, intense and consuming. I’m talking about weight and age, ladies and gentlemen. Having recently broken through the fog of grief, I looked in a mirror and found a much older lady staring back at me. A chubby older lady. I thought (hoped) I was imagining it, but I’m not. I received proof positive last night in the form of several photographs from a cookout I attended…and promptly broke down in tears.
What the fuck happened to me? I wasn’t this old and fat in February. I looked pretty good in the pictures from my trip to Italy! What happened? How? Why? I know I’m in the throes of menopause but come on! Haven’t I been through enough? I’ve survived so much worse and THIS is what’s going to knock me down for the count?
Last night I was inconsolable, the pain was fresh and real. Weight is a battle I’ve fought my entire life, but I’ve felt good the past five years. Now? I don’t want to go anywhere or do anything. I want to crawl into a cocoon and wait until a miraculous transformation occurs and I emerge a gorgeous butterfly. Fuck! I hate myself for writing this, for thinking these things. How contrary they are to the lessons I’ve taught my children and students!
I can repeat these words until the cows come home: I am not my age or weight. My worth is not defined by these things. But dear god, it hurts. I haven’t cried this hard in a long time.
So, yeah, this is my newest version of rock bottom. My only consolation given my vast experience dwelling here, is that once you hit bottom, the only direction left to go is up. I know what I have to do and it’s going to suck. Deprivation, single-minded focus, diligence, routine, blah blah blah. I’m tired of climbing mountains. But it has to be done because I really want this to be the last rock bottom I ever hit.
Fingers crossed.