November 17, 2015….the day before my twenty-ninth birthday.

It will forever remain in my mind as one of my most miserable and loneliest days, despite the fact that it, if my memory is accurate, was a gorgeous, sunny, crisp autumn day…the season having set the leaves ablaze with the most vibrant colors against a cloudless blue sky. But in my mind, in my soul, it was already winter. No, it wasn’t a winter scene from Courier and Ives with softly fallen snow and garlands of holly conjuring images of happy Christmas festivities. My internal weather instead looked and felt like something described in Moby Dick, an icy, bitter, damp New England-style winter with rain, sleet, heavy snow, and choppy seas abusing those who lived along its shores. In my mind, I saw nothing but gray clouds.

No. Make that black clouds….black clouds with seemingly no break that threatened to consume me, literally and figuratively.

I had hit rock bottom before, but if rock bottom has a basement, I had discovered it the day before I was to begin the last year of my twenties. And it appeared that the basement door had locked me in.

I woke up that morning later than usual. Waking up to see 9:30 AM was unfamiliar to me. I had just finished my active service in the United States Army where waking up before six was standard. I had just started my terminal leave following the end of my contract and continued to wake up around five each morning to workout at the gym. I wanted to keep up some kind of routine as I transitioned back into “normalcy” and sought employment for the first time in nearly seven years since I first enlisted. I also vowed to keep waking up like a Soldier to maintain some sense of control as I sailed uncharted waters.

When I rolled out of bed that morning, the sun rudely getting into my face like a drill sergeant for oversleeping, my head ached from the copious amount of cheap rum I had consumed the night prior. I couldn’t remember if I had puked during my drunken stupor, but given the intensity of my hangover that morning, it was likely that I had paid homage to the porcelain god before stumbling into bed at God knows what hour.

As much as I hated the feeling of nausea… the heat rising into my cheeks as I tried to suppress the inevitable emptying of insides, the uncontrollable dry heaving that segued into chills and breaking into a cold sweat… it provided me with some relief, both physically and psychologically. As a woman who was fighting an ongoing battle with anorexia and bulimia, involuntary puking as a result of heavy drinking was like second nature to me. Maybe if I continued to starve myself, to forcibly purge the minimal amounts of food in my system. I could perhaps purge the depression, loneliness, and hopelessness that shrouded me.

Still groggy, I groaned and popped two Advil gel caps. The gym wasn’t happening today. I wasn’t even motivated to head downstairs to make coffee (although my headache certainly would have appreciated a communion with the sacred brown liquid.) Truth be told, I wasn’t up for adulting at all that day, even though I needed to continue searching for and applying to jobs. I had just over two weeks remaining of my terminal leave; just one more paycheck coming in, and just a few weeks that I’d continue to have my medical and insurance coverage before I was officially separated, severing my benefits once I had officially transformed from Sergeant Rafferty to everyday Shannon Marie. If I didn’t find a job soon, I had no idea how I was going to keep my car, insurance, student loans, and credit card bills paid.

I was fortunate to know that despite my uncertain employment and income status, I wouldn’t be without a roof over my head. My older sister, Colleen, had offered me a place to stay after I moved from Fort Stewart, Georgia a few weeks earlier. My sister, a brilliant history teacher with a PhD that she earned at the University of Delaware, lived in a quiet, affluent neighborhood in Newark, Delaware just a mile from the school. Also living in her immaculately clean and orderly colonial were my brother-in-law and one year-old nephew, Ryan.

Sharing similar physical characteristics like mine…a sub-five foot frame, thick hair, a distinctive nose, blue-green eyes…our personalities couldn’t be more different. Colleen grew up a very shy, quiet girl with organizational skills that could be considered obsessive compulsive. Everything she has ever said, done, or thought has been strategically planned out to ensure total organization and predictability.

On the other hand, there was me. Organized, ambitious, but with a love for adventure, living in the moment, and hasty decisions. I should have known that moving in with my sister, so different from me, would not be a smart move for my emotional stability when I was at an all-time low

Up until my last active month of duty, the thought of living in congested, boring Delaware or even moving back to my native Philadelphia hasn’t crossed my mind. Since arriving home from Afghanistan in April. I had my sights set on employment and housing in the Seattle/Fort Lewis area. After departing for his year-long tour to South Korea, Matt, my once-true love and now ex- fiancé, received follow-up orders to go to Ft Lewis after he returned to the states. Knowing that I was in the last year of service, he asked me to come with him. Knowing how much I loved the Pacific Northwest and realizing how much I loved him and was dreading the separation from him while I was in Korea, I agreed and invested excessive amounts of time and energy planning a westward move following the end of my Army career.

The night before I deployed to Afghanistan, Matt traveled from his post at Fort Benning, Georgia (four hours west of my assigned base) to spend time with me and see me off the following morning with my squad. As we drove back from dinner at Savannah’s Moon River Brewing Company, Matt was keenly aware of my silence beside him. I was scared of the unknown…not the unknown of the war-torn Afghanistan to which I was to serve for an indefinite amount of time. No…I was scared about my future with him. Two service members in two different jobs who were about to be half a globe away. How was this going to work? Would war and separation bring us closer together or sever our relationship.

Responding candidly to my unusual silence and seriousness, Matt said, “okay…what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I mumbled, trying to maintain cheerfulness in my voice. My poker face, however, wasn’t supporting my feigned contentment. Matt wasn’t buying my claim.

“Bull shit, Shannon. I know you’re not okay. Your voice is always so monotone when you’re upset and your forehead is scrunched. What’s wrong?”

I unloaded: “Matt, be straight with me. This thing…this…you…me…us. Are we going to be okay? Are we still going to be together after all of this… you in Korea? Me in Afghanistan? Am I going to see you after this shit show? Or are you going to ghost me like every other mother fucker I’ve ever tried to love?” 
My voice cracked and I struggled to suppress the tears behind my eyes.

“What? No…no, Shannon. I would never do that to you. If I didn’t think things could work between us I wouldn’t be here right now. Look, I know I’m not always the best at expressing myself. I’m sad about us being apart. But I don’t want to call it off. I want to marry you!”

That exchange was one of my fondest with Matt. I believed him. I trusted his sincerity. My fear of losing him was dissolved in just that one heart-to-heart conversation. I went to bed that night, Matt beside me, feeling happy and confident and more determined than ever to be the woman Matt wanted to wed. War would be no match for the love we shared…or the love I assumed we shared…

Flash forward twelve months later…

But instead of spending my November 17 unpacking my belongings into a new condo, ideally offering a view of the mighty Cascades, instead of heading off to work as a fitness instructor making an adequate salary and feeling like a productive member of society, and instead of purchasing a four-figured plane ticket to Daegu, Korea to visit my husband to be during the holidays, my November 17 was being swallowed by the cloud of despair I spoke about earlier.

Instead, I found myself as a guest in my accomplished sister’s perfect home, a blemish on her meticulous and perfect life, uncomfortably aware of her silent judgement and scorn of me and my inability to get my shit together at age twenty-nine. Each day that I came home from job searching without any success, I was met with her scowl, her blue eyes glaring into my sheepish ones. Instead, I found myself as a veteran with a bachelor’s degree and stellar military record, but no job, no clue as to what I was qualified to do, and applying daily to dozens of jobs ranging from project manager down to part-time house keeper. And instead of blowing half of my paycheck on airfare to reunite with the man who said he wanted to marry, I was blowing what little money I had on alcohol to try to purge him from my memory.

Matt had deserted me a few months prior to the end of my Army contract. No explanation, no argument, no letter, no phone call, no respectable severance of the engagement. Matt pulled the ultimate ghosting move by avoiding my frantic correspondence with him. My desperate attempts to hear from him, to know he was alive, to know that WE were alive as a couple were never acknowledged. Without warning, we went from late night Skype dates, planning out my trip to Korea to see him, planning out a future together, and existing as a team to the vanishing man and broken-hearted, perplexed woman who had opted NOT to continue her successful career to be with him.

The moment that I felt the rush of angst, of panic, and of dread when I realized he might not be returning to me…figuratively and literally…I chalked up to a woman’s intuition. It was the end of July and I had taken a week of leave (my last paid vacation before I left the Army) and spent it in the Florida Keys. Since Matt’s departure to Korea in April, I liked to keep him updated on my adventures back home and despite the time zone difference, he was always diligent about responding to me in a timely manner.

As I made the eight hour drive back to Georgia from Key Largo, I was struck by an overwhelming realization: Matt hadn’t responded to any of my calls or texts in over a week. Nothing. Radio silence. I wish I could offer a reasonable explanation to my sudden and awful epitome, but I can’t. My instincts, my gut, told me that something was wrong…and that Matt had seemingly changed his mind about marrying me.

As I felt his love for me and existence dissolve into nothing, and for at least six months after I reached this new low, I asked myself incessantly…

What happened? Was it me? We never fought. Was I not enough? Did I not love him enough? Did I love him too much? Will I ever see him again? Will I survive this hurt?

Ultimately, I never heard from Matt. He could be married or dead for all I know. And although I came to a place of peace with this and have accepted Matt’s mystery betrayal (once I reach the point of not giving a fuck about someone or something, I know that I have officially broken free), the culmination of Matt’s desertion, my lack of employment, money, and inspiration, feeling like a leach by accepting my successful sister’s hospitality in a state I hated with no friends, and embarking on my last year in my twenties…I felt trapped.

As I stood in my bedroom, still hungover, still lost within my head, I picked up the bottle of rum that was underneath of my bed and took a shot, its contents burning my dehydrated throat and empty stomach.

“Fuck it,” I said aloud to no one except the four walls enclosing me, “if I die from alcohol poisoning, I’ll be in much less pain than I am now.”

Then a thought that I never could have imagined contemplating interrupted my wallowing.

“It doesn’t have to be this hard. I don’t have to keep fighting and keep hurting. I could end it. I totally understand why people kill themselves…what an easy way out!” The thought continued:

“I’m nothing but a burden to my family. They don’t deserve to be bombarded by me. I’ve caused so much trouble. I’ve lost my friends. Matt left me. I’ll die alone anyway. My sister hates me and doesn’t think I’m trying to get my shit together. I contribute nothing of value to this world. Why stick around and suffer?”

If I ended my life before December fifth, my life insurance would still be valid. The best thing I could do for my parents was have them inherit a quarter of a million dollars from my death. See? I justified, you’re worth more dead than alive!

I don’t know if my initial contemplation of suicide was the result of my current state of depression or my long-suppressed PTSD finally making its presence known. But as quickly as that thought emerged, the Soldier in me asked,

“Jesus Christ, Rafferty! What the hell are you thinking? You’ll get through this, but you can’t do it alone. Put your big girl panties on and drive on. Talk to your family. Talk to your friends. Go to therapy. Go to an eating disorder clinic. But don’t give up, Dammit!”

I’m not sure if I believe in Divine Intervention. I’m not sure that I believe in fate. Perhaps I simply believe in luck and free will. But whatever forces were at play on November 17, 2015, they managed to crack the door to Rock Bottom’s basement just enough so that I could open it and get some air. As I struggled my way out of that basement, the black cloud consuming my life had turned into a less-threatening shade of gray. In fact, I may have caught a glimpse of the sunlight as I pulled myself up, licked my wounds, and dusted myself off.

Shannon is a 6 year veteran of US Army and served in Afghanistan during operation Resolute Support. She is a professional singer, musician; a dog and travel lover; and a huge academic nerd. Shannon believesS in the therapeutic values of the fine, creative, and performing arts and hopes to encourage others to make peace with their demons through her writing.

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