It’s official: I’ve hit rock bottom.

It looks like this: sitting on my kitchen floor, eating cereal from a mug at midnight because I’ve forgotten to eat all day yet again. The same song on repeat–sometimes Shakira, sometimes the Fugees, sometimes soft piano because that is the only thing that won’t destroy my already weak psyche. Swinging between feeling like a phoenix finally risen from the ashes of her own fire and crying silently because I am convinced I will never amount to anything and my life won’t even be memorable enough to even be a footnote in someone else’s story. All the while, thinking on every action I’ve taken and every word I’ve spoken these past few months in a futile attempt to figure out how I got here, how did my kitchen floor become a safe space, why my Google searches became variations on the question, “how to feel like myself again,” how did my dreams and plans crashed and burned so spectacularly.

I ask myself the same questions every day, as I try to remember how to be on my feet again:

Did I love?
Was I kind?
Did I make a difference?

So much ink spilled on the pages of my journals as I try to make sense of it all. So many hours gone to my own thoughts as I hope and pray this fight will make the victory worth it. So many days spent painstakingly rebuilding myself one piece at a time, only to see it all shatter again at night, when I am weakest, when the disappointment and the shame feel the heaviest.

So much I’ve lost. But, my god, I’ve also gained so much!

And so, rock bottom becomes the only solid ground beneath my feet

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