rock bottom

Someone recently asked me what my “rock bottom” was, and I found myself struggling to find the “right” answer. I’ve written about some really low points in my life on this blog. In pondering the question, though, I noticed a desire to be really honest – with myself!

Early on in recovery, someone told me “Rock bottom is where you stop digging”. The truth is that my “rock bottom” happened even as I thought I was on my way up – after I had already begun pursuing recovery. Seems I hadn’t let go of the shovel yet.

Before I could even share about my “rock bottom”, I noticed a need to stop and give voice to the deep sadness I felt welling up. To give words to the sadness, though, I had to pull out my Feeling Wheel. The words that I locked onto included feeling stupid and ashamed. I also noticed remorse bubbling up. And, I had to let myself know that those are valid feelings to have. I chose to notice them and give myself some compassion. And then I started sharing.

I didn’t stop digging just because I had a therapist, just because I read some good books and listened to some great podcasts. Not even having some trusted allies on the journey, with whom I was being fairly honest, was enough to keep me from digging. Why was that??

At the time, I was managing a retail-type specialty store – part of a regional company with about a dozen stores/locations. I loved my team, my employers, and had good relationships with staff across the company. I was being noticed and recognized. The CEO had even asked me to consider stepping into a bigger role. I was flattered and accepted his offer. Not long after, my stepmom died. I took some time off to be with family. We all knew my dad could not be on his own. He was going to need support. Even though her mom was already living with us, my wife and I felt like we needed to be that support. This meant moving and giving up on the promotion, but it was best.

Around that same time, I met a female employee from another store. The first time she walked into the room and introduced herself, I felt an impulse to spend more time with her, a “spark” that I recognized as dangerous. But hey, I was in recovery! I could do things differently this time. I told a few guys in recovery with me, and I told my wife. I didn’t act on the impulse. I was proud of myself. It was just a one-time moment, and we worked in different stores, different states even. Nothing further could happen.

I was already beginning to form an exit plan from the company. Chances of ever seeing this young lady were pretty low. I was safe. Bullet dodged.

And then, the next month, I saw her again at a last-minute company event that I’d been asked to help with. How was I to know she would be there? We were cordial but stayed distant. Then the event was over, and I decided to stick around and have lunch with this young lady and one other coworker, with whom I had a healthy relationship. The conversation got really deep, really quick! Turns out we had all been reading the same book, What Happened To You (great book). We each shared a little of what had happened to us. It felt good, but didn’t feel entirely safe. Still, we were all just helping each other, right? And after all, I rationalized, I was just trying to do the things I was learning in recovery – be vulnerable and transparent with other people. And I would be sure to tell my wife and my recovery guys all about it. Which, I did. Only, leaving out certain aspects that might cast a less favorable light on me. In particular, leaving how that conversation left me feeling. I think I was trying to hide that from myself as much as anyone else.

The three of us continued a text conversation about the book, and then about other topics. Then this female and I started chatting 1-1. Still, I told my wife about the conversations – to an extent. Always making it seem as though I was just being a friend, just helping. My wife didn’t think it was a good idea, but I convinced myself it was a way I could reclaim earlier failed situations that were similar in nature. I was in recovery! I could do this!

As my impending departure from the company came hurtling at me, this friendship continued. My wife and I invited her over to our house. She came – even from a state away. We drove to her house as well, and went to social events with her and others. She was becoming closer with my wife, seeking her out for conversations too. We told her our marriage story – all of it! And, along the way, she shared about herself – even things she hadn’t voiced to anyone else – with me. I felt so good that she felt safe enough to tell me. Oh, how badly I wanted to be a safe person! She told me I could share her story with my wife too – which I did. I also encouraged her to share with others, not to keep this part she felt was shameful hidden, but get it out there – douse it with empathy from others so the shame would lose its grip!

By this time, she and I were texting constantly and talking on the phone regularly regular, and leaving each other voice memos when our schedules didn’t match up. She asked me along the way if my wife knew how much we were talking. I dodged the question as best I could, or just lied. Truth is, I hid the frequency of our conversations my wife, telling her just enough to keep from seeming like I was trying to hide anything. And yet, my wife knew. She saw how distracted I was – so focused on trying to be something I couldn’t, my wife felt it as neglect.

I knew it wasn’t all healthy. I told her we really needed to stop talking so much. I sat in my car one morning and bawled my eyes out. I felt so broken! This wasn’t what I wanted, what I meant to happen. At least, that’s what I told myself. It’s what I told my wife, too. But it was also exactly what I wanted. It made me feel good to be so needed. After all, I was helping, right? I had more plates spinning than I could handle, and I was desperate not to let any of them come crashing down.

But then, they did. One evening, after feeling the neglect yet again, my wife asked me to look at my phone. I didn’t want to let her. She would see the thousands of text messages between me and this lady – which the lady told me she didn’t ever want me to delete, as proof that nothing improper was taking place.

The problem wasn’t so much what we were saying, it was the sheer amount of time I was giving to her (and stealing from my wife). In seeing the texts, my wife would have confirmation that I was hiding this significant detail. I was still trying to get it together, make it right. I was trying to find a way out, on my own. I didn’t want my wife to know I couldn’t handle all the plates. But, I finally gave in and handed her the phone, dejected and ashamed.

My wife was deeply hurt, as she read through all the texts – for hours. I felt so small, so helpless to do anything. We didn’t know what to do next. We both felt stuck.

As it happened, my daughter and son in law were visiting us at the time. They could clearly see (and likely heard) that not everything was okay between my wife and me. We’ve been pretty transparent with our kids and theirs spouses about our marriage journey for a long while now. We sat down together and I explained the whole thing, and again bawled and cried until I was entirely spent.

My wife, my daughter, and my son in law just sat with me, heard and saw my anguish, and stayed with me through the evening until I was able to get my wits about me. The secrecy was gone, and still I was loved and known.

I am sure this was my “rock bottom”.

My wife and I, together, decided to remain in her life – as sort of consultants – but made it clear she was only to text us in a group conversation – never 1-1. We also set some time/frequency boundaries for ourselves on how much and often we would communicate with her. For several months after we moved, we stayed in touch through the group text and an occasional group phone call. But things just stayed awkward. As much as she needed help, we were not the people who could give it. She eventually had enough of us, and stopped communicating entirely. Ironically, she was following my blog and it was something I wrote that caused her to cease all communication. Though I wrote it in a way that wouldn’t at all reveal her identity, she didn’t like that I’d written it at all. That was the end.

This was a relationship doomed from the start, and a huge warning flag for me. There could be times in the future when I feel that “spark” again, but it’s not something I can afford to mess with. Even so, I grieve how the whole blasted thing went down. And, speaking of grief, I am certain that I was more vulnerable in the first place due to the death of my stepmom. This experience undergirds how important it is to practice self care and stay within my recovery loop in times when major life events happen. It’s also one of those areas I’ll always have some regerts about. But, those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it (Santayana, Churchill, and many others have made similar statements). So, I will not ignore my own history. I am determined to learn from it, as I continue to practice recovery.