Beyond the Lowest Point

For the longest time, my identity revolved around being reliable. In the last couple of years, I’ve shattered that image for myself, and possibly for others too. The previous year, and this one in particular, has been horrible. I’ve spent a good chunk of it moving between hospitals and health facilities. This isn’t the norm for me, so I hated it—rightfully so, because it’s expensive both financially and with regard to time.

I started feeling sad, as all people do from time to time, but some of these things exacerbated it to the point where I developed an apathetic nature toward most things in my life, including myself. My phone would light up with messages. I’d watch it buzz against the table, knowing I should pick it up, but my hand wouldn’t move. It wasn’t a choice. It was just… nothing. I didn’t care if I lived or died. I didn’t care if I hungered beyond the point where my body was trembling uncontrollably. Most days, I wished to go to sleep and not wake up—only to be stirred from bed by the sound of a rooster screaming through my window.

In those moments, nothing mattered more to me than not waking up. In the beginning, it was difficult to talk to anyone about it. When I was finally able to, I mostly wished I hadn’t. The response was always the same: I shouldn’t be feeling this way because things aren’t bad for me it could be worse. Can’t argue with that logic, but most of it wasn’t constructive advice. Just rhetoric that suggested maybe I was being ungrateful, not appreciating the things in my life. That wasn’t it. I couldn’t care about anything, not the job, not staying alive, not the next shift or the one after that. What’s the point of appreciation when existence itself feels meaningless?

“Oh, think about your family.” I have thought about them, and I felt nothing. I tried to summon something, anything—it didn’t come. The love I knew I was supposed to feel had simply vanished. The only conclusion I’d reach after days of thinking, the one that felt rational, was to die. What use is a man to the world who can feel nothing and do nothing?

Death was the only answer. Maybe I had thought about it too much but even now, it seems the only rational solution to a hopeless existence. I became a shut-in. Days blurred together, the same stain on the ceiling, the same dust settling on my desk, the same half-written email I’d stare at for hours without typing a single word. It’s not like there was anything productive going on. Then I would wish I was dead even more. I saw no purpose in living, and I felt like I was wasting my time. At what point would it matter again? At what point would curiosity be rekindled? At what point would I be able to appreciate the beauty of the world again? I’m writing this from a place I didn’t think I’d reach—not recovered, but no longer drowning.

One day at a time. That’s all that matters. One slow, long day at a time, alone. In that solitude, a new perspective might emerge, and a new person along with it—one that has more hope in his eyes. The one thing I’m learning, slowly: you’re alone in this. Friends and family can only do so much, and I can’t keep depending on others to pull me through or even provide any help at all. Somehow, I have to find my own way out.