The Night of My Rock Bottom.
And Why I’m Thankful it Happened.
It’s 2:00 AM on a Saturday night. I’m awoken from a dead sleep by my 4-year-old daughter’s cry for help. Everything feels hazy. I have no idea how long she’s been calling for. But the desperation in her voice tells me it’s been too long.
I can barely open my eyes. My head is spinning. My thoughts feel far away. My body is heavy. I’m awoken, but I’m not really awake.
I seriously debate ignoring her, just so I can remain still. Moving feels impossible. Maybe she’ll stop, the vile thought pierces my waning dignity.
I have to brace myself on the wall next to my bed. I try to focus, but my mind is swirling in disorientation. Walking takes tremendous effort. The room tilts as I lurch towards her bedroom.
Mommy, I throwed up.
She’s crying and clinging to her favorite stuffed animal. The smell of vomit is pungent in the air.
I stand there.
I’ve received the information, but my mind isn’t processing it. My brain is stalling out. I’m completely incapable of forming coherent thoughts. I know I need to do something, but I’m not sure what it is.
With the competence of a semi-conscious halfwit, I manage to get her somewhat cleaned up and back to…
