Image evoking terms often provide in our minds the poorest representation of their actuality. When he said "rock bottom," I imagined something similar to the blue pebbled floor of an aquarium. In my mind, I could see him floating gracefully down, encompassed by bubbles and the peaceful hum of the fish tank's cleaning system. When he got to the bottom, I imagined, a few blue pebbles scattered about, and the impact had the severity of a toddler dropping to his derriere on the plush carpet.
We aren't babies, though, and our relative density on earth is much greater than that of an object, sinking in water. When a force greater than gravity grips a man from a height higher than a foot or two and sends him plummeting toward the depths, the man contains about as much grace as a caravan of elephants whose step is lost on a narrow staircase. The journey involved in "hitting rock bottom" is loud and clumsy; it is painful for every observer, but far more painful for those who somehow get tangled in the mess.
I didn't know what the bottom felt like, but I wondered as I staggered along middle ground. Anytime I fell and skinned my hands on the gravel or forgot where I was going, i would run up the stairs to his old apartment and bury my head in his chest. I became so dependent on the knowledge that I had a shoulder to cry on, that I stopped taking responsibility for things. I could dig my fingernails into his shoulder and whine without saying words, and things would feel better; because suppression was the key to what was, I felt, emotional stability. It wasn't the solutions he offered that caused my tears to dry, but the fact that he was there.
Our relationship became, to me, a less intimidating approach to life. Two was somehow easier than one. Later we agreed that we had both gotten what we were after: I had someone to lean on when I was doing poorly, and he was allowed to be a hero; I was a mute, so he never had to bother with listening; I wanted someone to blame for my mistakes, and he was willing to take the blame. Three dysfunctional years into it, we could both see that we had either martyred ourselves or slaughtered one another.
So, letting go - that was the easy part. I walked away with a spring in my step and all was well until I hit a bump in the road. I tumbled down, my arms flailing, and I grappled for something secure to sink my fingernails into. Whatever I could latch onto would become my tower, and all the nicks and bruises along the way would be without explanation.
I think about how many times since then that I have attempted to bury uncertainties under the shadow of a man, finding comfort in the idea that another's presence could fill in the gaps and paint over everything that is wrong with me. I often wonder if this is why we choose to become a pair in the first place - the attraction having less to do with affection and more to do with each person's ability to outshine the other's dull spots.
When he talked about hitting rock bottom, I could hear the vulnerability in his voice. It was the lowest of the low, the most exposed and painful of places - yet it was the starting point for his journey home. When he was down there, he came face-to-face with everything he had hidden. It was terrifying to face his fears and admit such defeat, but it marked an unforgettable point in which he saw himself for what he was really worth.
He was without influence, without substance, without grey areas. Though nearly worthless and violently worn, he realized down there who he was and that became the foundation for what he is now.
Whatever it was that shook him so hard he finally fell, I have yet to find; but as I cried myself to sleep last night, I could see an image of myself, dangling over a pit - my claws were buried in some stronghold, my face was pressed into the shoulder of some unsuspecting victim.
What was worse than the image of myself clinging to what I don't own for answers and support, was the confirmation in my dreams, telling me that as long as I am holding on, I am, by definition, another person. Until I let go, I am relying on his influence.
I said I wanted a suggestion. I was frustrated. And then, I was in bed, admitting to my absolute confusion, when I realized my source of sanity will forever be a dead end until I let go.
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