We have reached Part 3 (the final part) of “The Bottom.” But before getting into it, let me address a couple things…

First, this part of the story might be a little more clear if you go back and read Part 1 and Part 2.

Second, a few more people begin to enter my story at this point. And before I ever write about a person that becomes part of my story (at least in any sort of detail that their identity could be recognized), I ask for their permission to do so. I want to thank everyone who has been a part of my healing, and for their willingness to be a part of this narrative. And if you have entered my story, in any way whatsoever, and if you do not make it into this composition, please don’t feel slighted. My fear is that I have forgotten a moment or two where someone helped. But when one is at the bottom, clear thinking is not always a companion.

The Bottom, Part 3

I sat there for a while, beginning to realize that I didn’t have enough strength left to make it through the shift. My “miserable mantra” no longer had any power. And then, the levee breached further. I was done. I had had enough. I no longer gave a rat’s behind who or what saw me cry. I got up from my chair, exited my lifeboat, and walked into my deputy chief’s office.

With tears streaming down my face, I stated, “I cannot take this anymore!” It was then, at that moment, the levee burst completely. And along with it, that overloaded box of grief, emotion, and undealt-with traumas exploded as well. I sobbed…

I was immediately embraced.

I feel the need to digress just a moment here. Leaders frequently wear many hats. And in the fire service, it is oftentimes a hardhat; both literally and figuratively. When the, um, dung is hitting the fan, leadership strength takes the form of ordered decisiveness. But at other times, leadership strength takes a gentler form. Maybe it’s being a coach. Maybe it’s a listening ear. And maybe, just maybe, it’s a warm embrace. Don’t think so? Please consider reevaluating your position.

I sat down in her office and continued to sob. I had zero control over this emotion. As I mentioned before, this was not completely foreign to me over the past several months. However, I had always been able to keep it under wraps at work. Not anymore. I don’t remember what I said as I sat there belching words of anguish through tears and snot. (Yup, I was a hot, freaking mess!) But I do remember that I had someone willing to listen sitting across from me. And I don’t remember how long I sat there, but I do remember that I felt safe to unload and no pressure to pull it back together. (This was good, because I was powerless to do so!) Once again, I don’t remember a lot of the details of that moment; I was not in a frame of mind that allowed me to keep any sort of specific record. Nonetheless, I was/am thankful that I was being cared for.

As I look back at this moment, I wonder how I would have reacted if the tables were turned. What would I have done if I was the officer and someone in my charge came to me in this state? I honestly do not know. But having seen this moment through the lens of the one in need, I hope I would have responded the way my chief did.

It was clear that I couldn’t finish my shift. And after my chief took care of the staffing needs she transported me to my chiropractor. I imagine at this point you are asking yourself, Chiropractor? Well, given the information you have thus far, I understand your confusion. I mean, it’s not like I had just thrown my back out. But what you don’t know yet is that my chiropractor (who happens to be a mutual friend of my chief and mine) does more than adjust spinal columns, she is a true caregiver—in the broadest, and best sense of the term. The timing was perfect (for me), her office hours had just ended.

Not many doctors would have stayed after hours to help. Furthermore, she had an out. My “issue” could have been chalked up to, “beyond her scope.” But that’s not what happened. She sat with me. She listened. She cried with me. She shared with me her own story. She cared.

The rest of that evening is a blur. Against the advice of my caregivers—and my wife, by phone—I drove home. It was where I wanted to be anyway. This was my real lifeboat. And being in the arms of my wife was the one final place I felt secure.

Something occurs more clearly to me now. From one angle, this part of my story, this day, marks “the bottom” for me. This is the day where I lost my strength. This is the day that I felt completely out of control. This is the day I felt helpless, hopeless, abandoned, lost, and at the absolute end of myself. But from another angle—and the clarity of hindsight—this day was also a beginning…

Well, there you have it. We have reached the dreaded bottom. But as my strategic cliffhanger implies, there is more to my story. Next week, I will begin writing about my journey to getting my life back.

I hope, even if it’s in a small way, that you are identifying with my story. And if so, I pray that you are experiencing a little hope knowing that you’re not alone in your struggles. If there’s something about my story that has struck a chord with you, please comment below. Or, if you’d like to share something with me privately, please contact me. I would love to hear your thoughts.

And please don’t forget to share Jim Ladiski Writes with all of your friends and family.

Be well…

P.S. If you have a story to tell and would like to join Jim Ladiski Writes as a guest blogger, please contact me!