The big book talks about “being given sufficient reason to stop.” I would say being pregnant is sufficient reason, wouldn’t you? I wanted to, I needed to, but I just couldn’t stop. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I stop for the baby’s sake? Why did I have to be so selfish? WHY COULDN’T I JUST STOP?! Maybe if I only smoked pot… Maybe if we moved… Maybe if I didn’t hang out with those people anymore… Maybe if I wasn’t such a loser… Maybe if I just killed myself… I had every intention of being a good mom and wife and daughter and friend, and yet here I was, once again, trying to blot out of my consciousness the overwhelming need to just feel okay.

This wasn’t my bottom. I somehow went on for two more years. I reached a place in my heart and soul where I had caused so much pain in the lives of others that the only thing I truly felt was desolate separation. The lying, the shame, the guilt — it was all too much. Somehow, I knew that there were people who loved and cared for me, and yet I could not feel their love. I knew that I had once held a vast reverence for life, and yet I could no longer offer that love to anyone or anything, least of all, myself. I had become a slave to the abyss of discontent. In my experience, it wasn’t about outside stuff or circumstances. I still had a job, an apartment, and a car. I had never been arrested. For me, it was the absence of connection to anyone or anything that had finally brought me to my knees.