"What does it feel like for you?"
My dad gets it, he thinks. He's my dad. He's broken in the same way, right?
"It feels like I'm in a hole," he says. "Like I'm at the bottom of a hole and I can see the light, but every time I try to claw my way out I just dig myself deeper. Is that how it is for you?"
No.
"You're lucky, then," he says, like that's that.

No, it doesn't feel like a hole.
I'm drowning in the middle of the sea.

"You have to hit rock bottom before you decide it's time to get better," he says with authority, because He Knows. "Have you hit rock bottom?"

The thing about drowning is... you don't hit rock bottom, usually. You don't even see the bottom. You're always fighting to keep your head above water, and the bottom is miles beneath you. But the distance doesn't matter. So what if I'm far above rock bottom? That doesn't mean I'm closer to getting out of the sea.

...every time I try to claw my way out I just dig myself deeper.

Sometimes it feels like I can swim back up to the surface, and then I realize too late that I'm actually swimming downward.

Like I'm at the bottom of a hole and I can see the light.

It feels like I've forgotten what the sun feels like.

You have to hit rock bottom--

I'm tired of trying to tread water.

--before you decide it's time to get better--

I can't just decide to swim to shore. There isn't one.

You're lucky, then.

Of course I am. I'll never hit rock bottom. I'll lose energy and give up before then. There's already water in my lungs.

What does it feel like for you?

Would you believe me if I told you?