I find myself sprawled on a plush white comforter, every fiber of my being screaming in pain. Outside my tropical hotel, palm trees sway gently in the ocean breeze. Alone in this small room, I glance at the psychiatrist’s number, a call I should have made ages ago.
I’ve hit rock bottom, and I need assistance.
The past three years have been a relentless battle. I went from blissfully sleeping ten hours a night to rising before dawn, my mind racing while my body felt like lead. Each evening turned into a mental marathon with no finish line in sight. Panic attacks plagued me, making me flee from social gatherings and shy away from opportunities that could trigger an episode—like speaking in public.
Some days, I felt an overwhelming disdain for everyone, including myself. I often daydreamed about jumping into my cluttered minivan and driving far away, without a destination, just yearning for an escape.
But I didn’t run; I stayed for my kids and my husband. For everyone but myself.
There was a time when I had it all under control. I was a thriving businesswoman, scaling my own career heights. Somewhere along the way, I stumbled, tumbling down the mountain and hitting every bump. As I spent more time at home, I felt myself sliding further down the slope. Attempts to grab onto exposed roots for support were futile; medication offered no relief, and therapy felt like merely placing a Band-Aid on a deep wound. Friends had no idea how far I had fallen; I didn’t even realize it myself. My insanity had become my new normal.
Yet, my family sensed the shift. Irritability seeped into every aspect of my life. The kids didn’t move fast enough, the dog was always in my path, and laundry felt like an endless chore. Life became a source of frustration. My temper flared, and my husband walked on eggshells. The anger consumed me, and I was powerless against it. Now, it wasn’t just me who suffered; my children were affected too.
Around this time, I turned to drinking most nights. I’d pace myself with three craft beers, just enough to feel a buzz without the morning regret. I went from never touching alcohol with our neighbors to stumbling over the fence at 4 a.m., waking up on the bathroom floor, beach towels my only cover. After fifteen years of not smoking, suddenly I found myself bumming cigarettes.
I didn’t recognize my downward spiral for what it was. I convinced myself I was simply revisiting my youth. Caution abandoned me, and the freedom of being 21 wrapped around me—except I was a 39-year-old mother of two, navigating the mundane life of school drop-offs, sporting events, and endless chores. I had traded my corporate career for the role of a stay-at-home mom and hadn’t missed it—until my kids started school. Suddenly, I was left with too much time and not enough purpose, creating a perfect storm.
Everything came crashing down in that hotel room with the swaying palm trees outside. Alone and in agony, I gazed at the ceiling and recognized how far I had fallen. I was a mere shadow of my former self, a far cry from who I aspired to be. I was a walking contradiction. I had just published my first book about overcoming mental illness through humor, yet I was devoid of laughter. I was drowning in an illness I hadn’t even realized I was battling until that moment.
What possessed me to travel solo to the Caribbean for a hiking adventure? Perhaps I was subconsciously striving to reclaim the person I once was. Maybe I felt the need to prove I could embark on a journey alone at 39. Maybe I wanted to channel my frustration into a physical challenge and show everyone, including myself, that I could do it. Or perhaps I was just trying to escape my reality—I wish I had the clarity.
I trained for two months for this hike, the first physical activity I’d attempted in years, but it wasn’t enough. My lungs struggled to take in air at 3,500 feet in the humid Caribbean climate. My stubbornness and the thought of disappointing my children propelled me forward, even as negative thoughts clouded my mind. As I climbed that mountain, sweat pouring down my face, I couldn’t help but wonder how I ended up here. This was why I found myself lying in bed the day after my hike, searching for a psychiatrist to help me. In those grueling six hours of climbing, I experienced a fleeting sense of accomplishment, yet I also recognized how deeply I was sinking.
Tears streamed down my cheeks as I finally picked up the phone to make the call I should have made years ago. My heart raced as I gripped the phone tightly. The physical pain from the hike paled in comparison to my internal struggle. I knew I had reached a breaking point and needed an outsider’s help to begin piecing myself back together. I looked out the window at the majestic mountains rising from the ocean. Would I ever rise from this low point? Would I climb down this mountain, or would I crash into the rocky waters below? The waves threatened to pull me under, just as I gasped for breath while hiking. Clenching my teeth, I steadied my grip and resolve as I heard a voice on the other end, “Hello, how may I assist you?”
For more insight into mental health and the journey of self-discovery, you can check out other resources like this excellent guide on infertility or explore this article for more information on related topics. And if you’re considering home insemination, BabyMaker provides a wealth of advice.
In summary, my journey has taught me that escaping mental illness isn’t as simple as climbing a mountain. It requires seeking help, acknowledging the struggle, and taking the first step toward healing.