Rock Bottom:

When guns were drawn pointing at me, my eyes desperately tried not to squint, as the police lights bore down hard, upon my 46, year old self. Shame took me in its’ firm grasp, as I stood in the night with my hands held up in surrender.

I finally realized that I didn’t really want to die. The understanding of what my therapist tried helping me to see, finally sunk in. Death for me, represented a relief or reprise from the hell on earth I had created for myself.

Waiting for the police to show up, all kinds of different scenarios played out in the frantic chaos of my mind. I had called 911 on myself. This is one of the ironies in such a pivotal point of my life.

I was cuffed and taken to the county jail, where I ended up laying on the cement floor of the isolation cell in a padded suicide suit. It clung to my sweated body mercilessly. Its sewn in folded pads surrounded the entirety of that damn suit. It was hot, scratchy and purposefully uncomfortable. I felt like I could be the advertisement for tires, just as easy as that stupid Michelin Man was.

Stupid, stupid me! Sleep escaped from the backs of my lids, inflicting torture upon my mind, forcing me to reflect upon my misery, of how the hell I got to this point in my life.