I have often heard about the concept of ‘rock-bottom’, read about how one feels after hitting that inevitable wall of realization that life can’t continue the way it is currently unrolling itself in front of one’s eyes. The literature I consumed seems to indicate that for addicts of all kind it is some sort of cathartic moment, a shining light at the other end of the tunnel, a beacon of hope that – finally – the righteous path of self-preservation and happiness might be found. Henceforth, weakness, sadness and despair won’t matter, as rock-bottom is shining its warm light on the unyielding mess existence has become. No longer bound by the shackles of the past, a flight forward now seems possible, an escape to normality all that awaits them. For them, rock-bottom is deliciously imbued with a serene projection of empathetic peace and understanding. It’s not like that for me.

Today, suddenly, waking up to a grey day framed by the early morning emptiness of my apartment sounded and felt thunderous, the events of the last months delicately crashing down on what little remains of me. Every word, scream and tear became a rushing wave, engulfing me in their darkness. The solitude I have tried to curate, the sight of his picture, the lack of laughter from his room, the feelings of inadequacy, the powerlessness, the shame, but above all, the guilt; they all conspired to form a wall of despair around me, encapsulating me into a walking tower of general sadness and self-pity. The last few weeks seem to have been undergone, me being a dazed visitor in my own life and theatrically playing the role of a grey rock withstanding the awesome power of an ocean … This was yet another crisis in my life; but again, one of those I was certain to overcome, as I always had and always will be. Strong me. Unmovable and headstrong me. Projection became a way of life, even more than before; and – believe me – I’ve always lived by the motto ‘Fake it till you make it …’. My friends and family would guide me through this rough patch in life, I would have shoulders to cry on and hands would be eagerly tended to bring me into the light and away out of the darkness. I was assured of their pride in how I handled this and confronted with uncharacteristic courage almost insurmountable problems; time and time again, they expressed I was told they were a mere phone call away, any time, any place. As usual they trusted me to come out the corner swinging, taking on Goliath and biting through blood, sweat and tears to avoid the bitterness that lay ahead, back then unbeknownst to me but quickly unfolding like a suffocating blanket after their departure towards a foreign city, hundreds of kilometers and a language away.

At first I wallowed I my newfound freedom, ignoring the faint sadness but aware of its incremental growth with the sight of happiness, of a family walking in the park, a stolen kiss between lovers on the train, the smile of a child crossed in the street. Little by little, my heart grew heavier, my smile more unnatural, my existence lonelier. I tried embracing solitude, tried pretending I was happier than ever, and played the role of so well! I threw myself into my work, created dating profiles and rearranged my environment to suit no other than my tastes. I declared my peace with cleanliness and my desire for her happiness, in whichever form that should come. I reassured myself I did it for him, that his future was more important and that my support system was in place. I made many plans for the future during those initial drunken nights, good intentions abound, I decided and promised myself I would change, become a better man. The calls would come rushing in, the dates would be weekly if not daily; and a new life of promise would unfold itself in front of my eyes.

And then no calls were received, and those I made were unanswered or led to disbelief of the facts, despite all evidence to the contrary. My story was doubted, I was told not to make waves and to respect the death; all triggering oft-ignored feelings of shame, guilt and solitude. One by one it seemed they all hooked off, one after another; leaving me alone in the middle of the geographical triangle my pasts represent. Thousands of kilometers separating them, but united in torturing me with their indifference and outright rejection of the facts, all while being blissfully unaware of the context. Rationally and systematically I attacked the smorgasbord of problems I was left and confronted with. From the financial to the logistical to the emotional; I convinced myself I would find solutions through my singlemindedness and hard work. I passed hours sifting through the remnants of the past, illuminated only by a desk lamp and a desire to see this through, to take up my responsibilities. Day after day, I bit back the mounting darkness, encroaching on my life in any way imaginable; and moved forth undeterred by the reality being construed in front of my eyes. Despite everything, I turned out to be no better than my past, a relic of stupidity in a world where my peers had moved on. Friends liquefied before my eyes, and the handful remaining turned out to be on the same plane of what I was trying to escape. More and more of my international calls, both ways, went unanswered. Longer and longer were the periods between me having a conversation unrelated to work, with a human being. I managed 78 hours before I cracked. More and more I needed to counteract the emotions. Feel nothing, be dazed, sleep. ‘Metro, boulot, dodo’ goes the French saying; I didn’t even have to get on the metro, as I dragged myself from desk to bed to desktop desk, in never-ending avoidance of the many pictures of him, avoiding above all what I did not want to feel.

And then today. I don’t know whether I will get through this. I am frozen in terror at what I feel. The all-enveloping darkness winking at me, the continuous desire to hide in sleep and unconsciousness.