The Hole

“Hitting rock bottom” is a phrase that almost everyone has heard when talking about the topic of addiction. For a phrase that is so important to the discussion of addiction, you may think that rock bottom could be easily defined or identified. In all actuality, rock bottom is a concept that means something different to each and every individual struggling with addiction.

Generally, rock bottom refers to a time or an event in life that causes a person to reach the lowest possible point in their disease. It is a time when the person feels like things cannot get worse for them. Their life has been damaged so badly that it seems like there is nothing good left to destroy. What follows below is an account of my “Rock Bottom”.

The Hole - June, 2007

I was handcuffed. I could feel my rage, my hate, and violence boiling within. I felt the impulse driving me, felt the desire to kill. I wanted to kill those men who had carried me into the cell. My anger, that sheer bitter rage inside me came alive like a living thing. I started pounding on the steel door of my solitary cell. Every ounce of strength I possessed went into my blows. Hot droplets of blood began striking my face, my wrists and hands were cut by the handcuffs. Blood welled from the torn skin and flowed. I focused on the pain. It made me feel something deep within me. It felt good to feel something again, even if it was pain. Again, and again, I struck the door. Again, and again, dark blood hit the walls.

This situation hit me like a hammer. Cold. Hard. Simple. It was my actions, my choices that had given those men the power to control my life. The more I pushed them, the worse I made things for myself. I stepped away from the door, blood dripping freely to the floor, and closed my eyes. I stood without moving for a long time. I wondered why I should bother going on. What was the point of changing if this was to be my future? What was there to live for in an environment dominated by the beliefs of criminals? People that didn't want to change anything surrounded me. They simply wanted to beat down anyone else who did, as if by destroying productive thinking, productive change they could revoke reality. All of those people who defined their existence with a burning hatred for others and institutions were smothering me. It would be so easy to give up, so easy. No one would know. No one would care.

I was desperate. The solitude of my cell, the isolation, only emphasized just how desperate I'd become. All that was familiar had been stripped away - my wife and children, my friends and family, my home and possessions, my entire world. Gone. Everything I'd relied on, even the sense of how things should work had vanished. I sank to my knees and started to cry. I cried because nothing would ever be the same. My marriage was over. My children had lost their father. I'd abandoned them. I failed. I hadn't cried in a long time and wouldn't have cried at all if I could have prevented it. Someone might have heard and by hearing come to understand just how devastated I was. I always viewed crying as a weakness and spent my life keeping any sense of weakness hidden. I'd fought to protect myself by hiding my feelings, but all my methods of self-protection had vanished. So, I cried.

Kneeling there in my solitary cell, I reluctantly admitted to myself that I had thrown away all I'd worked for. It was an overwhelming realization. I had blundered through the majority of my life without realizing what was important. I had to admit to myself that doing things my way hadn't worked. I let my anger go and the cold appraisal of justice took over. My fear disappeared. Calm purpose and control replaced it. I saw the truth of my situation. I had condemned myself. I made my own choices and now I would have to endure the consequences of those choices.