I had taken my psychiatric meds every day for six years. In one fatal afternoon I deleted all my Facebook friends and closed my account. I would never be able to retrieve them. I had eliminated my past and was completely living in the moment. I truly believed that would solve all my problems. And that was not rock bottom.
I had taken my meds everyday for seven years. My best friend’s dad died. A man who had done countless good deeds for me. I didn’t go to the funeral though I was in town. I’ve only spoken to that best friend a handful of times since then. Always awkward, but the subject has never been breached. I truly believed that was the right thing to do. And that was not rock bottom.
I had taken my meds everyday for eight years. My first cousin, the only person who never gave up on me died. Despite the fact I was in my small hometown and my mother and sister practically begged me to attend the funeral, I did not go. I truly believed that was the right thing to do. And that was not rock bottom.
I hadn’t taken my meds in nine months and in one fatal afternoon, I deleted close to twenty years of writing including seven unpublished novels, at least fifteen short stories, numerous poems, and several essays. I’ve never been able to retrieve them. Not a friend in the world, barely anything to prove that I existed the last twenty years. And that was not rock bottom.