I think that I've already hit rock bottom. I thought that when I was eleven and suddenly found it harder than usual to be happy. I thought that when I was twelve and I believed that pain on the outside would make pain on the inside go away. I thought that when I was thirteen and I sat on the floor of my room and wrote poem after poem about how much I wanted to die. I thought that when I was fourteen and felt like my heart must be forty because why else would I be having a midlife crisis? I thought that when I was fifteen and felt as if my experiences with depression had alienated me from the outside world, as if I could no longer relate to people my age who cared about the trivial. I thought that when I was sixteen when my chronic pain turned into a chronic illness diagnosis.
That makes six times in six years that I have hit rock bottom and gotten up again. Maybe I like a battered, bruised bird with a broken wing, still trying to fly. And this world keeps pushing me back down. But I tell you, I will fly one day. I will keep trying.
The interesting thing about rock bottom is that once you get there, there's nowhere else to go but up. You can stay there, of course, but I've never been able to keep still for long.
But it's also scary, to realize that this may not have been the worst, that life may have even more troubles for me down the road. But I'll figure out what to do when I come to them, and I'll pick myself up again. If and when that time comes, I'll still be here, trying to fly.
And someday, someday I'll take off, and I will.
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