Apparently, Rock Bottom Has a Basement

1. Rock Bottom (Or So I Thought)

I spent months convinced I’d hit rock bottom. I was broke, homeless, and had lost everything. All I had was my job and a totaled-but-technically-still-drivable car. I had no hope, no leads on apartments, and no money even if I had found one.

My days were spent parking‑lot surfing, trying to find a place to sleep. I had no friends to call, my family didn’t care, and I was utterly alone. I was scared and broken. I even tried to end things — and failed at that too.

But somehow, I kept crawling.

2. The Temporary Rise

An insurance check came through for the car, and I found an apartment I could almost afford. I had a roof, a new car, and the illusion that life was stabilizing.

I was still mentally wrecked from the summer, but I pretended I was fine. Fake it till you make it, right? The days blurred. The holidays came and went. I spent them alone, angry at my parents for writing me off.

My patience with Rowan was thin. His constant questions — always the same ones — were reminders of everything I had and lost. And it still hurt. I had trusted someone who used me, assaulted my son, and left me $30k in debt.

I shoved the memories into the catacombs of my mind and told myself the scars would fade if I ignored them long enough.

3. The Slow Unraveling

I was building a new life, or trying to. I didn’t trust anyone anymore — that died with Alex and her friends. I was behind on every bill, but I had energy. Too much energy.

I woke up early, attacked every fire, convinced I could fix the mess of my WTF year. But the energy wasn’t energy — it was mania. My “solutions” were half‑assed. I wasn’t fixing anything; I was delaying the inevitable.

By January, everything collapsed again.

Rent past due
Shut‑off notices
No food
Car engine seized
Rental car wrecked
No insurance

I was in huge trouble. The holidays crushed me. Rowan’s Thanksgiving was spaghetti. Christmas was whatever I could scrape from the cupboards. No gifts from Santa. I wrapped food and random household items and pretended it was a real Christmas.

He was happy. I felt like a failure.

4. The Basement

Nothing was working. No resources could help. My son Ben added stress instead of support. My world was collapsing again, and I kept trying to outrun it.

But eventually, I drowned. I had no energy left to tread water.

I reached out to 988. Someone came to my home. I babbled through the entire year in one incoherent rush. She offered resources — all useless. I wasn’t “financially in hardship” enough.

That night at work, I journaled page after page of garbage — self‑hatred, hopelessness, plans to end everything. The kind of writing that would get me locked up if anyone saw it.

That’s when I realized: Rock bottom has a basement. And I was in it.

5. The Intervention

By the end of my shift, I was so far gone I reached out to the only person I had left — my therapist. She assessed me and told me to go to the ER.

I didn’t want another hospital. But I had no other options. Kerry stayed on the phone the entire Uber ride.

Once I walked into the ER and said, “I need help,” the staff took over. I don’t remember much, but I remember the relief. Someone else was holding the weight for a minute.

I spent two weeks in the psych ward. New meds. Therapy. Psychiatry. A chance to reset.

And I found something unexpected: Writing. This blog.

6. The Climb Back Up

I’m still manic, but monitored. Medicated. Supported. I’m climbing again — slowly, deliberately.

This time I’m taking the stairs. No shortcuts. No pretending.

Yes, I was in the basement. But I’m not staying there. I’m climbing out, step by step, because I finally understand something:

Rock bottom isn’t the end — it’s just the floor you push off from.

And I’m pushing.

Still climbing. Still here. And this time, I’m not taking the elevator,