There’s a poster of a kitten precariously hanging from a tree branch or rope.  The text on the poster says, “Hang in there” or, sometimes, “Hang in there, baby!”

No one wants to see a kitten fall out of a tree, but that moment just before it falls is iconic. The tightrope kitten poster decorates the walls of countless schools, hospitals, offices, and porno studios worldwide. The image of a kitten holding on for dear life has become more a symbol for perseverance than Oliver Twist or even Brittany Spears’ career.

There have, of course, been variations of this image. In my small and presently filthy kitchen, I have two posters on the wall. One I received from an ex girlfriend, long after we’d parted ways. It shows a kitten hanging from a rope. It says, “Hang in there, baby!” For personal reasons, it’s one of the most meaningful gifts I’ve ever received.

The other poster I bought from a poster sale at Radford University. It too depicts a precariously suspended kitten. It reads, “OH, SHIT!”

I have the two adjacent to one another for a reason. In life, there are those “Hang in there, baby!” times, and then there are “OH, SHIT!” times. Kittens hanging from trees aren’t assured they’re going to be able to climb back up. They’re afraid: They’ve climbed too high, and if they fall, there are 12 rabid Dobermans foaming at the mouth for a chance at a kitty cuisine. The perseverance doesn’t kick in until the kitten gets a good, solid grip on the branch or rope and thinks to itself in Kitten-ese: “I might actually survive this.”

In this life, things can often seem pretty dire. Sometimes, situations are dire. In these times, we’re “OH, SHIT!” kittens. When we’re given cause to believe we might persevere, we get to be “Hang in there, baby!” kittens.

Recently, I spent a number of months as the fecal kitten. A number of factors contributed to the complete and utter destruction of my self-esteem and zest for life. I was holding on to the rope, but I didn’t think I was going to keep my grip for long. The days got long and the nights got short. I rarely left the house. It was, pure and simple, the lowest low I’ve ever known.

But a dangling feline is a funny thing. While I was hanging there, and while those slobbering mongrels waited impatiently for my hide to drop within chomping distance, I got to know myself. I faced my inner-malarkey. We know ourselves best when the sky falls down on our heads and our egos shrivel like dying grass.

After a few months of exile and depression, I got tired of dangling. I couldn’t just pull myself up, but I wasn’t about to let go. I got sad, and then I got mad. That’s where I’m at now. Those stupid Dobermans aren’t going to eat me. If they do, I’ll make sure they choke.

I write more. I read more. I force myself out into the dreaded public. I’ve undertaken a spiritual journey of sorts that has led me to revisit old friends and loves, some of whom I hadn’t seen or heard from in half a decade. I said “adios” to all of the compromises I’d made to make others happy.  I’m an irreverent scoundrel who scoffs at snobbery and the sacrosanct. Nothing is sacred. If it is, it won’t be when I’m done with it. That’s me, baby—take it or leave it.

There’s a wonderful revelation that arrives when you reach rock bottom. Once things get so bad that you can’t imagine feeling any worse about yourself, things begin to make more sense. Retire the ego and you reach the truth. Ruin and anguish have a strange way of putting things into perspective.

Mark Twain once wrote, “When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.” Sounds like something I would say. (Twain had a smoking problem, too.) I’m still dangling from the tree, but now I’m making faces at those sodding Dobermans, and I’m building leverage for a grand return of balance.

The lesson the suspended kitten teaches us is that letting go means falling down, and that it’s not always as simple as just pulling yourself up. Sometimes you’re stuck dangling for a while. Sometimes, you’ve got to say “OH, SHIT!” before you can convince yourself that it’s not all over. Hang in there, baby.

Charles Smith is a columnist for the New River Voice who, despite showing no clear disdain for kittens in this particular column, actually collects strays and eats them with onions and mushrooms. We’re kidding, of course. He skips the onions and mushrooms.