One of the key points to addiction recovery is what they call ‘hitting bottom.’ The theory suggests that until you have hit a bottom, you really do not take recovery seriously and will not succeed. The problem is that ‘the bottom’ is a very personal experience. Most people hit more than one bottom and are surprised when a new one comes along. I have given up trying to tell other people what their bottom is, but I remember my lowest point so far.
To put this into perspective, chronologically I was 26 when my mother died. However, in reality I was emotionally still a young teen. I was totally dependent on her. Yes, I lived in Connecticut and she was back in Rochester, but my memory is that I didn’t brush my teeth without asking her first. Financially, I was totally dependent on her. She was charismatic, intelligent, beautiful and a powerhouse. This was my mother.
By the time I was 14 or 15 years old, I knew that I felt empty inside. I now know that my dependency contributed to my depression. I was nothing in comparison to my mother, father or brother. For the next ten years, I filled that emptiness with stuff from outside me. I am clear of four things I routinely used to fill me the void. First, I used toys. I can remember buying a C.B. radio, new skiis or some other toy and I would feel full for a short time. Usually within a week or so, the emptines would return. Men like to use toys to fill ourselves. Women tend to buy purses or shoes, but really it’s the same thing. The second thing I used to fill me were girls. When a new girl would come into my life, I would feel full, worthy, successful and complete. I knew “what a woman could do for my soul.” Over time she would grow tired of fixing me, making me feel healthy and adequate. Then we would have to start talking about our relationship and everything would go to hell. I would hang on deparately. She would eventually leave and I would be empty again.
The third filler in my life came as a senior in college. My girlfriend had me try marijuana. It took me three times before I felt anything. When it worked, it worked. The problem with drugs is they work for a while. For many years I would smoke some pot and feel better for a while. Then all the problems would be back.
The fourth substance I used to fill me was psychology. I would read a new theory about schizophrenia or depression and I would be excited and enriched and turned on. I was surprised how much my interest in people excited me.
This continued until my mother was killed. Anyone who has ever experienced something like this knows what happens first. You became a robot. You are in shock and go through the motions without being totally there. During the next week, when we went up to Rochester and made the ‘arrangements’ and had the funeral, I was in shock. You lose all sense of time and space. I remember being amazed that the world went on the way it did.
I ended up back in my apartment faced with an emptiness that wouldn’t go away. For the first couple of months I totally drowned. I had to learn how to cry all over again. My mother had taught me that mourning was a good thing. At first, I learned every trick in the book to avoid crying. But, I couldn’t avoid the grief. I remember the pain as devestating. There were times I wondered if I would survive. While I’m not aware of ever being suicidal, I certainly didn’t take care of myself. Hence, I hit bottom.
It was a Friday morning. I woke up and the first thing I had to do was go to the bathroom and upchuck. I had been sick all week. Drinking, smoking pot and not sleeping had resulted in my feeling terrible. When I found my way back to bed, I started thinking how this was the fifth day that week I had started it by barfing. This was becoming my life. Then it came to me. All my life, whenever I was sick, my mother would come and take care of me. Here I was sick, with the unconscious hope that my mother would come take care of me. Reality hit me. She wasn’t coming. Either I could get my act together and take care of myself, or this would be my life.
That was my bottom. After that I started taking better care of myself. I stopped drinking alcohol. Some nights I would cry. Most nights I would avoide it. But overtime, I mourned. I allowed myself the thoughts of missing her. I believe that over the next year I healed the empty space inside of me. The emptiness shrank as I worked through my grief. This changed everything.
When the dark cloud lifted off of me during the months after the anniversary, I found a new person. I had considerably matured. First of all, I now took responsibility for myself. I no longer could make any excuses for my behavior. Second, my relationships changed. I didn’t expect women to complete me or fix me any more. I had used relationships as the filling to complete me. After I had mourned, relationships became the icing on the top of the cupcake. I didn’t need them to complete me. Hence an intern coined this my hostess cupcake theory. While it is an unfortunate name, it is an accurate metaphor.
Several years later, I met my wife. After our first child was born, I stopped smoking pot. I couldn’t figure out how to tell my children to not do drugs, if I was doing them.
I will always remember the morning I hit bottom. It has been up hill ever since. I continue to struggle. Everytime I mourn, I have to relearn how to cry. Yet, I now have confidence in knowing that I can tolerate it.
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