I think I hit bottom
I think I hit bottom. At least I hope I did, because “up” is so far away, I can’t see the light. If it is not the bottom, I hope that what’s left before I hit it will be short – I know not to expect sweet.
I think I hit bottom. I think because I want to return to surface. The want to return to surface always happens when my feet find something to land on – the bottom – even though it can be rocky or tiny or covered in mud so I can’t see it. But hitting the bottom is finding somewhere to take off in order to return to surface.
I think I hit bottom. I look at my children, I look at how I am around them and I think to myself that if it gets any worse, if I am less of a mother, less of an institution of endless love and understanding, I shouldn’t be around at all. “I don’t like it when you yell, mum” my daughter tells me, but the answer to why I do it (I hit bottom), will not satisfy her, will not do. That answer will not make her home grounds safe enough for her to explore the world and not be afraid to step out into it. That answer will not make her confide in me or let me help her or even let me hold her hand and tuck her in when she wants her pacifier and I have to tell her that it’s gone.
I think I hit bottom. I look at my husband and I wonder what life was like when I wanted to kiss him first thing when he got home in the afternoon, when love was in the air even though the kids were screaming and dinner wasn’t ready. I look at my husband and I long for the times when the look of the two of us never left anyone in doubt of why we married, why we had kids, why we are meant to be. Because we are. We are. Meant to be.
I think I hit bottom. And I think it’s time to get away from there. To reach out to those who are already reaching out to me, to love those who are already loving me, to not care about a burnt dinner or a new job that doesn’t come, to respect myself and the life I – nobody else – chose. I think it’s time.