Rock Bottom Was Only The Lobby

Author: Sarah Jones

  • IF JASON COULD TELL HIS SIDE OF THE STORY

    IF JASON COULD TELL HIS SIDE OF THE STORY

    If I could tell you what happened after I died, I don’t think you’d believe me.

    I didn’t know what came after death. I don’t think any of us really do. But if I could go back to the beginning, I’d start with the truth. January 22, 2020. The day I died.

    I didn’t intend to die. I wasn’t trying to die. I wasn’t saying goodbye. I wasn’t making some final decision to leave this world.

    I thought I was going to wake up the next day. I thought there would be another day. Another argument. Another apology. Another chance. Because that’s what we always had. Another chance.

    I’d been awake for four or five days. Drugs were keeping me going. My mind was exhausted, scrambled, and nowhere near where it should have been.

    But before everything went wrong, I had asked her to marry me. I told her I wanted to marry her. I told her I wanted to get clean. I told her I wanted to do better. I told her I wanted to be a father to my kids. I told her I wanted to be her husband. I told her I wanted to be good to her. I told her I wanted to change my ways. I said all the things she had spent two and a half years wishing I would say. And I meant them when I said them.

    At least, I think I did.

    I wanted to believe I could become that man. I wanted to believe I could finally give her the life I’d promised her. And she wanted to believe me. That’s why she went into the bathroom.

    She wasn’t just hiding in there. She wasn’t simply taking a break. She was trying to decide whether to believe me. Whether this time was different. Whether she could trust the promises I’d just made. Whether she could marry me. Whether she could stay. Or whether she needed to walk away from me for good.

    And while she was sitting in that bathroom thinking about all of that, she kept thinking about her son. He had told her that as long as she was involved with me and living this life, he couldn’t have anything to do with her. And that was what she was thinking about. Me. My promises. Her son. Her daughter. Her life. Everything she’d already sacrificed. Everything she was afraid she would lose. She stayed in that bathroom for a long time because she was conflicted. Because I’d finally said everything she’d wanted me to say for two and a half years.

    I had asked her to marry me. I’d told her I wanted to get clean. I wanted to change. I wanted to be a father. I wanted to be her husband. I wanted to be good to her. And then she had to decide whether those words were worth believing.

    Eventually, she came out. And I was asleep. She woke me up. And she was angry. She wanted her car. I had come home without it. She wanted to know where it was. She was yelling at me.

    “Where’s my car? Bring my fucking car home. I want my car back now.”

    And then she told me she wasn’t going to marry me. She didn’t want to be with me. She wanted me out of her house. She never wanted to see me again. Everything I’d just promised her was being thrown back at me. And I panicked. I didn’t know how to handle losing her. I didn’t know how to handle hearing that she was done. I didn’t know how to handle the possibility that this time she really meant it.

    So I grabbed the gun. TJ was sleeping in the living room. He and his girlfriend had come over the night before and had fed her because she hadn’t eaten for four days. And in my desperate, drugged, exhausted state, I threatened to kill him. She told me to put the gun down. She was scared. She told me I was going to shoot one of us. And I remember thinking:

    “How the fuck am I going to do that?” The gun was empty. I thought it was empty. I pulled the slide back and showed her. She could see the barrel. There was nothing there. Empty. And that’s where everything went wrong.

    Because somewhere in all that confusion, I put a round in the chamber. And I didn’t know I’d done it. I didn’t remember doing it. I believed the gun was empty. She believed it too. So she relaxed. She leaned back on the bed. And she kept arguing with me. Kept telling me she was done. Kept telling me to leave. And I was still being dramatic. Still trying to make her understand how serious I was. Still acting like I was in control.

    I wasn’t.

    I’d been awake for four or five days. Drugs were keeping me going. My judgment was fucked. My memory was fucked. But I still thought I knew what I was doing.

    I put the gun to my head. Not because I wanted to die. Not because I had decided my life was over. Not because I was saying goodbye. Because I thought it was empty. I thought I was making a dramatic gesture. And I pulled the trigger. And everything ended. Just like that.

    The most horrifying irony is that on the very first day I met her, I had gotten into a fight with her over Keith. Her husband. He had died by suicide. And I called him a pussy. I said suicide was a pussy way out. We actually argued about it. The first day we met. That’s how strongly I believed suicide was something I would never do. And years later, I died because I put what I believed was an empty gun to my head.

    Not intentionally. Not because I wanted to die. Because I made a catastrophic mistake. A stupid, irreversible mistake. And now I can imagine all the questions she must have carried.

    Did he mean to do it? Was he trying to kill himself? Could I have stopped him? What did I miss? Why didn’t I know?

    But if I could answer those questions now, I would tell her: No. I wasn’t trying to die. I didn’t know there was a live round. I thought the gun was empty. I thought I was being dramatic. I thought I was going to wake up the next day. I thought I had more time. And I didn’t.

    It doesn’t excuse the drugs. It doesn’t excuse threatening TJ. It doesn’t excuse the fear I caused. It doesn’t excuse the things I did to her.

    I was an addict. I made terrible choices. I hurt people. I could be a terrible person in terrible moments. But I loved life. And I didn’t want mine to end. She knew that. She knew me. And she knew that I would never have intentionally chosen death. But knowing that doesn’t make the aftermath any easier. Because she was still there.

    She had to live. She had to wake up the next morning. She had to remember that the man who had just asked her to marry him was suddenly gone. The man who had promised to get clean. To change. To become a father. To become her husband. To finally be good to her. All of those promises were suddenly frozen in time. And twenty-three days later… it was Valentine’s Day. February 14, 2020.
    Twenty-three days. That’s all.

    She was sitting in her apartment, surrounded by boxes. She had been forced out because of the violence. Her entire life was in chaos. She had lost me. She was losing her home. She was thinking about her son. She was thinking about her daughter. She was thinking about the promises I’d made. She was thinking about everything that had happened.

    She sat down on the couch to take a break. And there was a little heart sticker on her. A heart. On Valentine’s Day. Twenty-three days after I died. If I could do anything in that moment, I think I would have wanted to tell her something. I would have wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to spend the rest of her life wondering whether she could have saved me. She couldn’t.

    She couldn’t save me from the drugs. She couldn’t make me sleep. She couldn’t control my choices. She couldn’t know the gun wasn’t actually empty. And she couldn’t know that the thing I believed was an empty gun would be the thing that killed me.

    My death was not a failure of her love.

    She had loved me for two and a half years. She had given me chance after chance. And even when she was sitting in that bathroom trying to decide whether to leave me, part of her was still wondering whether this time I really meant what I said. Because she wanted to believe me. She wanted that life. She wanted the husband. She wanted the family. She wanted the man I’d promised to become. And then, twenty-three days later, she was standing in the aftermath of a life she never imagined. And then she took a photograph.

    She wasn’t looking for me. She wasn’t trying to find a ghost. She wasn’t expecting anything. She just took a picture.

    Later, she looked at it. At first, she didn’t really see anything. Then she looked again. There was a face in the darkness. And when she changed it to black and white… she saw me. Or what looked like me. The shape of my face. The eyes. The nose. The familiar arrangement of features. And then she pulled up a real photograph of me. And compared them. And suddenly this wasn’t just some random face in a picture to her. It was me.

    And what made it even stranger, is where the face appeared. Right over the place where I had died. Twenty-three days earlier. Twenty-three fucking days.

    Maybe it was shadows. Maybe it was light. Maybe it was pareidolia. Maybe her brain recognized a face it wasn’t ready to stop looking for. Maybe it was coincidence. I can’t tell her which one it was. But if I could choose what that moment meant to her, I wouldn’t want it to frighten her. I wouldn’t want it to pull her backward. I wouldn’t want her to spend the rest of her life looking for signs from me.

    I’d want her to hear something simple. Something gentle. Something I couldn’t tell her while I was alive.

    I’m sorry.

    I’m sorry for the things I did. The abuse. I’m sorry for the fear. I’m sorry for the promises I made and the times I broke them. I’m sorry she spent two and a half years waiting for me to become the man I kept promising I’d become. I’m sorry that the last promise I made was that I wanted to marry her, get clean, be a father, be her husband and be good to her… and then minutes later, I was gone.

    But most of all, I’m sorry she ever thought she could have prevented it. Because she couldn’t. She couldn’t save me. And my death was not proof that she didn’t love me enough. It wasn’t her failure. It wasn’t because she didn’t say the right thing. It wasn’t because she went into that bathroom. It wasn’t because she came back out. It wasn’t because she was angry. It wasn’t because she broke up with me. It wasn’t because she didn’t believe my promises.

    It was a terrible accident. And she was left to survive it. 

    So if I could tell her anything now, it would be:

    Go live. Live the life I didn’t get to finish. Love. Laugh. Make your flowers. Tell your stories. Be loud. Be soft. Be your “stubborn ass self”. Be ridiculous. Build something beautiful.

    Love your children. Love the people who stayed. And when you remember me, remember all of me. Don’t make me into a saint. I wasn’t one. Don’t erase the terrible things I did. They happened. Don’t pretend the drugs didn’t destroy pieces of my life. They did. But don’t let the worst parts of me erase the fact that I loved life. That I wanted another chance. That, at least in that moment, I wanted to get clean. I wanted to change. I wanted to be a father. I wanted to be your husband.I wanted to be good to you. And I didn’t want to die. I just didn’t know that the gun wasn’t empty.

    So maybe that photograph was nothing. Maybe it was everything. Maybe it was simply light and shadow on Valentine’s Day, twenty-three days after my death. Maybe her brain found someone it wasn’t ready to stop looking for.

    Or maybe… just maybe… I got one little moment to say goodbye.

    And if that’s what it was, I wouldn’t waste it. I’d tell her everything I never got to say.

    I’m sorry. I love you. I never meant to leave this way. It wasn’t your fault. My death was not a failure of your love. You were never supposed to save me. And you don’t have to carry me like a punishment. Then I’d tell her the one thing I hope she finally believes:

    Go live. Because I didn’t get to. You did. And if you see my face again… don’t be afraid. Don’t follow me. Don’t stop. Just look at me. Smile. And say:

    “Hi, Jason.”

    Because maybe… just maybe… that’s all I was trying to say.

    Hi.

    ❤️

  • A Letter To My Unborn Granddaughter

    A Letter To My Unborn Granddaughter

    Dear Noelle,

    You’re not here yet. You’re still tucked safely inside your mama, growing quietly and completely unaware that there is already an entire world waiting for you. But somehow, little girl, you have already changed mine. Your name is Noelle Bradley. And one day, when you’re old enough to understand why your Grandma gets a little emotional when she says your whole name, I’ll tell you a story.

    I’ll tell you about your daddy. And I’ll tell you about my grandmother. And I’ll tell you about how sometimes the people we love don’t really disappear. They just find another way to stay.

    Your daddy’s name is Bradley. I chose that name for him because of my grandmother, Estella Pearl Bradley. She was one of the most important people in my entire life. She wasn’t just my grandmother. She was home. She was the person who made me feel like I belonged somewhere simply because I existed.

    I grew up with her. She was there for so much of my life that I can’t separate the woman I became from the little girl she loved. And then I lost her. She died just nine days after your daddy was born. Nine days. I had just brought a new life into the world, and nine days later, one of the people who had meant the most to me left it. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain what that did to me. It was joy and grief occupying the exact same space.

    I had a son. And I had lost my grandmother. But I had already given my son her name. Bradley. And now, all these years later, my little boy is having a little girl of his own. You. Noelle Bradley.

    Do you see what I mean when I tell you that names can carry stories? Your middle name isn’t just something written on your birth certificate. It’s part of a story that started long before you ever existed.

    It’s your daddy. It’s the little boy I once held in my arms. It’s the man he became. It’s the grandmother who helped shape the woman who raised him. And now it’s you. Three generations of love, somehow sitting inside two words. And someday, when you ask me about her, I’m going to tell you everything. I’m going to tell you that she wasn’t some perfect, larger-than-life woman. She was real. She was funny. She was complicated. She had her quirks. She had her own way of doing things. She was human. And she loved me in a way that taught me something I wouldn’t fully understand until much later:

    There is a kind of love that makes you feel safe simply by existing. She gave me that. And when she died, I spent a lot of my life looking for that feeling again. I didn’t always know that’s what I was doing. Sometimes I looked for it in people. Sometimes in relationships. Sometimes in places. Sometimes I tried to create it for myself. Sometimes I got it wrong.

    Really wrong.

    I’ve made mistakes, Noelle. A lot of them. I’ve loved people I shouldn’t have. I’ve stayed too long. I’ve left too soon. I’ve trusted the wrong people. I’ve hurt people I never intended to hurt. I’ve been hurt myself. I’ve made choices that I wish I could go back and change. I’ve had seasons where I barely recognized myself. I’ve had moments where surviving the day felt like enough. And I’ve had to learn, over and over again, that being broken isn’t the same thing as being finished.

    I hope you learn that too.

    Because life is going to hurt you sometimes. I wish I could promise you otherwise. I can’t. There will be heartbreak. There will be disappointment. There will be people who don’t understand you. There will be people who leave. There will be days when you don’t recognize the person staring back at you in the mirror. There will be times when you make a mess of things. And baby girl, when that happens, I hope you remember this:

    You are not your worst day.

    You are not your mistakes. You are not the person who hurt you. You are not the things someone else said about you. You are not required to be perfect to be worthy of love. You never have to earn your place in this family. You never have to become smaller so someone else can feel bigger. You never have to apologize for having a big heart. And please, please don’t spend your life begging someone to love you. The right people won’t make you audition for a place in their lives.

    I hope you love fiercely. I hope you laugh until your stomach hurts. I hope you dance badly. I hope you travel. I hope you make ridiculous memories. I hope you fall in love. I hope you have friendships that survive decades. I hope you do things that scare you. I hope you fail at things.

    Yes. Fail.

    Because failure isn’t the opposite of success. Sometimes it’s how you find out what you’re actually capable of.

    I hope you learn to say no. I hope you learn to leave. I hope you learn to stay when something is worth fighting for. I hope you become the kind of woman who can look at herself honestly and still choose to love herself.

    And more than anything, I hope you stay soft. The world will try to convince you that being soft is dangerous. That caring too much makes you weak. That vulnerability is something to hide.

    Don’t believe it.

    Some of the strongest people I’ve ever known were the ones who still managed to love after life gave them every reason not to. I want you to be one of those people.

    But I also want you to have boundaries. Because your heart is precious. Don’t hand it to everyone who asks. And when somebody breaks it, don’t let them convince you that you should stop having one.

    Now let me tell you something else. You are going to have a Grandma who is probably going to embarrass you.

    A lot.

    I’m going to take too many pictures. I’m going to tell stories you probably don’t want me telling. I’m going to kiss your face when you’re trying to act grown. I’m going to worry about you. I’m going to spoil you when your parents tell me not to. And I’m going to love you so fiercely that you may occasionally wonder if I’m completely ridiculous.

    I probably am.

    But I also want to be something else for you. I want to be home. Because that’s what my grandmother was for me. And maybe that’s the greatest gift I can give you. A place where you don’t have to perform. A place where you don’t have to pretend. A place where you can show up messy and exhausted and heartbroken and still be loved. A place where you can tell the truth. A place where you can say, “Grandma, I fucked up,” and know that the first thing I’m going to say is, “Okay. Come here.” Because I want you to know what my grandmother taught me without ever sitting me down and teaching me a damn thing:

    Love doesn’t mean someone never makes mistakes.

    Love means they still have somewhere to come home to. And Noelle, you will always have somewhere to come home to. I wish I could tell you that your great-great-grandmother will meet you. She won’t. But I will make sure you know her. I’ll tell you about her until you can picture her. I’ll tell you the funny stories. I’ll tell you the stories that make me cry. I’ll tell you about the woman who helped make me who I am. I’ll tell you about the grandmother who made me feel safe. And maybe someday you’ll understand why I get quiet when I talk about her. Why I still miss her. Why a little piece of my heart still belongs to a woman who has been gone for years. And maybe you’ll understand why your name means so much to me.

    Because when I say Noelle Bradley, I hear more than your name. I hear a little girl I haven’t met yet. I hear your daddy as a little boy. I hear myself as a little girl. And somewhere underneath all of it, I hear her.

    Estella Pearl Bradley.

    The woman who loved me. The woman who helped make me.The woman whose absence has never quite stopped hurting. And somehow, through your daddy, a piece of that story made its way to you. That’s the strange and beautiful thing about families. We leave pieces of ourselves behind without ever knowing where they’ll end up. A name. A laugh. A recipe. A mannerism. A story. A way of loving. And sometimes, decades later, you look into the face of a baby who hasn’t even been born yet and realize:

    The love didn’t end.

    It just kept moving. From her to me. From me to your daddy. And now from him to you. You are the next chapter, Noelle. And I cannot wait to meet you. I cannot wait to see your little face. I cannot wait to hear your cry. I cannot wait to hold you for the first time and have that surreal moment where the whole world probably disappears for a second.

    I already know I’ll cry. I’m crying now. You’re not even here yet and I’m already crying. Because you are my first grandchild. My first little girl in this new chapter of my life. And you have no idea how much has happened before you. You don’t know how many things your Grandma has survived. You don’t know how many times I’ve had to start over. You don’t know how many people I’ve loved and lost. You don’t know how many times I’ve had to find my way back to myself. And you don’t need to know all of it yet. But someday, I’ll tell you.

    Because I don’t want you to think your Grandma has always had it figured out. I haven’t. I still don’t. I just kept going. And maybe that’s one of the things I want you to remember most.

    Keep going.

    Not because life is always easy. Not because everything happens for a reason. Not because everything works out exactly the way we want it to. But because there is still so much life you haven’t lived yet. There are people you haven’t met. Places you haven’t seen. Songs you haven’t heard. Food you haven’t tasted. People you haven’t fallen in love with. Mistakes you haven’t made. Things you haven’t survived. And moments of happiness you cannot possibly imagine yet.

    You have an entire life waiting for you. And I hope you live the hell out of it. I hope you make it yours. I hope you don’t waste it trying to become who somebody else thinks you should be. And when you lose your way, and you probably will sometimes, come home. Come find me. I’ll remind you who you are.

    And if someday I’m not here anymore, I hope this letter reminds you. Because I want you to know something that I know with every part of me:

    You were loved before you were ever born.

    You were wanted. You were dreamed about. You were talked about. You were waited for. And you were already making your Grandma’s heart bigger before I had ever seen your face.

    So come on, Noelle. January can’t get here fast enough. Your mama is waiting. Your daddy is waiting. Your whole family is waiting. And your Grandma? Well, I’ve been waiting for you longer than I even knew. And when I finally hold you, I’m going to think about the woman who once held me. I’m going to think about the little boy I named Bradley. I’m going to think about the man he became. And I’m going to look at you. Noelle Bradley. And I’m going to know that somehow, impossibly, beautifully, the love made it here. All the way to you.

    Love always,

    Grandma