Sometimes, bottoming out brings a kind of relief. It tastes like the first bite of a summer peach after a winter of frozen fruit. It feels like clarity: you still have a body, a life, people who love you.
Have you ever thought you lost everything? You probably did.
And then little by little, you forgot it all–the bills you hadn’t paid, the papers you never filed, the CDs you never played, the books you hadn’t read in years, the addresses you never wrote to, the names you had long stopped uttering.
What you remembered were her eyes, his skin, the scent of someone you love catching you off-guard and suddenly you’re standing in the produce aisle looking around for a ghost.
You’ve replaced wallets, notebooks, shelving, and passwords, but you could never replicate her smile were it lost to you.
If you have eyes or hands, you can read; if you have ears and a heart you can listen. Intuit danger and turn back, or sense risk and decide better to plunge in than hold still a minute longer questioning yourself.
You write and revise and step back and in again, say what needs to be said, not to change anyone’s mind but to speak your own, no longer willing to bottom out into a hole of silence or resentment.
You choose being free over being right, losing scrap after scrap of ego, knowing it will always replenish itself and show up at your bedside begging for more.
Do not fear bottoming out. You will survive it. Again and again.
Just keep beginning.