If there’s such a thing as hell on earth, I resided there. Deadly health scares consumed every waking moment, insecurities altered my appearance, and foreclosure signs rested on my front entrance. I instantly became head of the household while having difficulty accepting my reality: I had always been a single parent. I remained devoted to a man that didn’t love me back; old wombs resurfaced from past hardships while closets released dark secrets I could no longer hold back. My friendships were hanging by a thread, and I became the person who had to borrow money without a deadline for returning it. I put my career on hold and lived paycheck to paycheck as I developed a deep hatred for myself. I spent months thinking that I was hiding my pain from my son, who all along could sense something was wrong. My son was overwhelmed and confused by my daily breakdowns at four years old. “Don’t cry, momma!” he said, staring, misty-eyed, with his little hands shivering as he touched my face. I couldn’t explain to him why his mommy was upset. I couldn’t explain to anybody that I wanted out of this thing called life. I remember riding home from work in a 2-hour commute when bad flashbacks, doubts, fears, anger, sadness, shame, and hatred consumed my thoughts. I was sweating, tearing up, and biting on my lip, not wanting to confess to what I had done too-myself. Who am I? Why am I so helpful to people who are not showing me kindness? Why do I have to sacrifice everything for everyone? Why am I putting my career on hold? Why am I raising my child by myself? Why am I not using my voice? Why am I not losing weight? Why is everyone turning their backs on me? Why am I not at peace? Why am I not happy? Why am I here? I shouted those questions while driving on the bumper-to-the bumper highway. I punched my horn and put my hand over my mouth to refrain from yelling. I wiped my eyes with my shirt, turned on the air conditioner, inhaled, and exhaled slowly. I glanced before me and saw that the traffic was in snail’s motion. Then I looked to my left and froze. A grey goatee gentleman in the lane to my left observed me crying and yelling the entire time. He continued to stare and looked over his glasses with concern. Then he motioned for me to roll my window down. I continued to stare at him. There was nowhere for me to hide from the shame. The traffic started to race; I turned around and pressed 20 to 30 mph down the highway. I wiped my face again with my shirt and stared in my rearview mirror, hoping not to see the black BMW following me. I thought the gray-goatee gentleman knew my secret. A secret that I’ve kept hidden from everyone. A mystery that put my mind, body, and soul in “code red.” I had hit my version of Rock-Bottom. I was unhappy with everything. I wasn’t living for myself anymore. My creativity had died, and I worked hard to build other people’s dreams but not my own. I continued my drive home in tears. When I pulled into my garage, I took my phone out. I permanently deleted all social media accounts. I blocked phone numbers from people who didn’t reach out and deleted text messages that would stress me.
​Those three things (and more) kept me away from my destiny. I had no one to blame but myself for it. I CHOSE to let social media and people’s “madness” get to me. I consumed myself with everyone else lives. I would see them living, enjoying their children, building businesses, going on vacation, and making it work with their significant others. I saw them using all the advice, money, and listening ear I had given them. And here I was alone, single, single parent, heartbroken, my account consistently hit negative, my health deteriorating, and I watched my dreams and motivation drop to -rock bottom. I snatched my garage door opener from my sun visor and pulled my car into reverse while watching my garage door shut. I had a choice: to stay inside the running car or go inside my house to my son.