What Rock Bottom Taught Me: Stories of Resilience

Rock bottom didn’t look the way I expected

I never used the phrase “rock bottom” while I was living it. That’s something I only say now, looking back. At the time, it just felt like life getting smaller and heavier at the same time. Fewer people around. Fewer things I cared about. More effort required just to get through the day.

I didn’t crash all at once. Nothing exploded. I didn’t lose everything in one dramatic moment. It was more like erosion. Little things disappearing without me fully noticing. Trust. Motivation. The ability to relax without a drink or something else to take the edge off. I kept telling myself I was still functioning, and in some ways, I was. I showed up. I paid bills. I answered texts when I had to. But inside, everything revolved around avoiding discomfort.

Denial was quieter than I thought

There was one night that stands out, not because it was especially bad, but because it was boring. I was sitting alone, scrolling on my phone, not really watching anything, not really enjoying anything either. I remember thinking, is this it? Is this what my life is going to feel like every day? That question scared me more than any consequence ever had.

I spent a long time believing that if I could just get it together, everything would be fine. I tried cutting back. I tried rules. I tried convincing myself that other people had it worse, so I shouldn’t complain. When those attempts failed, I blamed myself. I thought it meant I didn’t care enough or wasn’t disciplined enough. It never crossed my mind that maybe I was dealing with something bigger than willpower.

Rock bottom taught me how convincing denial can be. I wasn’t lying to anyone else nearly as much as I was lying to myself. I minimized things constantly. I ignored how anxious I felt when I didn’t have access to what I used. I ignored how exhausted I was from keeping everything hidden. I ignored how lonely I felt, even when I wasn’t technically alone.

Asking for help came from exhaustion

Asking for help wasn’t some brave, cinematic decision. It came after I ran out of energy. I didn’t reach out because I felt hopeful or inspired. I reached out because I couldn’t keep pretending I had a handle on things. There was a strange relief in admitting that out loud. Embarrassing, yes. But also honest in a way I hadn’t been in a long time.

Recovery didn’t feel like a fresh start at first. It felt awkward. Uncomfortable. Slow. I remember being frustrated by how normal everything looked from the outside while my internal world felt completely scrambled. Sitting with my own thoughts without numbing them was harder than I expected. I realized how much emotion I had been pushing down for years.

One thing rock bottom showed me was how disconnected I had become from myself. I didn’t trust my own decisions anymore. I second-guessed everything. In recovery, rebuilding that trust happened in tiny steps. Waking up when I said I would. Being honest when it would have been easier to dodge the truth. Doing the next right thing even when it felt pointless.

For many people, learning when and how to ask for help is a critical step, and resources like asking for help can be a starting point for understanding available support.