The Bottom of my Deep Dark Hole
I am determined that this journal, this blog — whatever it is — will not be the writing of someone who reluctantly walks closer to, and ultimately commits suicide. No. These writings will document my journey out of an unimaginably deep dark hole and back to a world of color that is not black and white.
But this must be the bottom. It has to be. There have been many times before where I thought I was at the bottom — but the sad reality is that our holes can always get deeper. Someone somewhere came up with the phrase
“Once you have hit rock bottom, there is nowhere to go but up.” But they did not realize there is a darker truth, that holes can always get deeper. We can always feel smaller, more inferior, more worthless, more consumed, more afraid, more alone, more confused, more disoriented, struggle more with our memory, and even lose our ability to think and process information in any rational way. There is always more of us that can evaporate no matter how deep of a hole were in.
But no more! No deeper! I won’t do it and I can’t do it. I am clinging to whatever I can get a hold of, whatever roots might be buried deep with me. I am pressing my back and feet against the sides of the hole as hard as I possibly can. I won’t let my feet sink any deeper into the mud. When I chose to write about my experience, my life, my reality the other day — what it is like to be this deep — that is my act of will and defiance. To talk about it, to write about it. This is the beginning of my journey out. To not be ashamed and write about what I feel, my struggles, and to say they are valid! That I am valid. I matter and I exist, I am not inferior to anyone else.
When I had not yet hit my personal bottom I did not write. I could not think of what to write. I did not believe writing could be helpful. I felt overwhelmed. So I wrote nothing. It was only when I felt the most unlike expressing myself, the most uncomfortable and ugly, that I decided to write. At first I only wrote a little. It was difficult and I wanted to stop. But then I wrote a lot. It only scratched the surface of my struggle. So there is much more to write and to express.
I think I am learning the secret to writing and expressing yourself. DO IT. Don’t wait until you have the words. It might feel uncomfortable at first, it might feel like you can’t put anything into words — but if you write then you will write words. You might write a little or a lot. You don’t have to write a lot. Sometimes less is more. Manifest what is inside you in your own words. Let it be structured or unstructured, whatever is easiest. You can always change it later. Do not censor yourself or write for an imaginary audience or person. Write for you.
When I was very young I loved to write, and I wrote for myself. To explore imaginary concepts. To follow different thoughts and see where they took me. I wrote for my own enjoyment. One day I found myself writing a story in middle school, and during my choir class I placed it under my chair. Some boys found it — they laughed and they mocked me. I felt horrible and that was the last time I wrote for myself, for my own joy. I would write plenty later. But it would always be for someone else. For an assignment, an essay test question, maybe to some audience or person I sought validation from. But not for me, at least not until now. This is for me. If anyone out there finds value in my words then it can also be for you. But that is not required. This is mine. These are my thoughts. My words.
I hope that as I write about my recovery from the deepest darkest hole of mental illness that someone might come across what I write. Someone who is also lost — or who will be. I hope that person will see in my writing a reflection of their own struggle to breathe, to stay afloat, to stay alive. By the time they read this my deepest darkest point, this point, may exist only in my memory. They, or perhaps you, I hope will be able to see it is possible to live a nightmare and to change all the things inside that feel unchangeable, those things that keep you anchored to the nightmare. I hope my journey might serve as a road map for others who find themselves marooned on a similar vacant island. Its a nice thought — that my suffering could be a beacon of hope for others. But it does not have to be true. What I write is meant for me. To explore, to express, and to grow beyond.
I write this now feeling something a little more than just an empty shell and I am reaching now to take my humanity back. I search for meaning in a place that feels just a little less like a void. I write alone fantasizing about meaningful beautifully complicated relationships that I may not have now but will. This is the most painful period of my life that one day will only exist as a memory. This is something I will surpass and overcome. The next thirty five years will be better than the first.
