I find myself lying on a pristine white comforter, completely immobilized, every muscle in my body aflame, and waves of pain coursing through my legs. My gaze drifts to the palm trees dancing in the Caribbean breeze outside my hotel room. Alone in this compact space, I contemplate the psychiatrist’s number sitting on the bedside table—an overdue call I should have made months ago.
I’ve hit rock bottom. It’s time to seek help.
The past three years have been an uphill battle. I transitioned from sleeping blissfully for ten hours a night to waking up before the sun. Exhaustion enveloped me, but my mind refused to quiet down. Every evening turned into a mental marathon with no finish line in sight. Panic attacks plagued me, causing me to flee gatherings early or dodge opportunities I knew would trigger an episode—like public speaking.
Some days, I found myself harboring resentment towards everyone, including myself. The thought of jumping into my cluttered minivan and driving off into oblivion crossed my mind more than once. I didn’t have a destination in mind; I just felt an overwhelming urge to escape.
But I didn’t run. I stayed for my children, my husband, and everyone else who depended on me—except for myself.
At one point, I was a successful businesswoman who had summited my own career mountains. Somewhere along the way, I stumbled and tumbled down the rocky slope, hitting every bump. As I spent more time at home with my children, I slipped further down the hillside, desperately trying to grasp the exposed roots of life, but nothing seemed to anchor me. Medication offered little relief, while counseling was merely a bandage on a deep wound. My friends and family had no idea how far I had fallen; I was in denial myself. My chaos had become my new normal.
Yet my family noticed the changes; irritability seeped into every corner of my life. My kids didn’t move quickly enough, the dog became an obstacle, and the laundry never ceased. Frustration simmered, my anger skyrocketed, and my husband began to tread lightly around me. The pain I felt was no longer confined to me; it now rippled outward, affecting my children.
Around this time, I began drinking most nights, pacing myself with three craft beers, just enough to feel a slight buzz without the morning after effects. I went from avoiding drinks with neighbors to staggering over the fence at 4 a.m., waking up on the bathroom floor covered in beach towels. I hadn’t smoked in 15 years, yet suddenly found myself bumming cigarettes.
I failed to recognize this downward spiral for what it was; instead, I convinced myself I was reliving my youth. Abandoning caution, I embraced the carefree spirit of a 21-year-old, except I was a 39-year-old married mother of two navigating suburban life. My days were filled with school drop-offs, sports events, and endless chores. After stepping away from my corporate career to raise my children, I never missed it—until my kids started school. Suddenly, I was left with vast stretches of time and no sense of purpose, creating a perfect storm for my mental health crisis.
It all came crashing down in that hotel room with palm trees swaying outside. Alone and in agony, I stared at the ceiling and recognized how far I had fallen. I was no longer the person I once was; I was a shadow of my former self and far from the person I aspired to be. It was ironic—I had just published my first book about surviving mental illness through humor, yet I was devoid of joy, drowning in my struggles that I hadn’t even acknowledged until that moment.
What made me think I could travel alone to the Caribbean to hike a mountain? Perhaps I was subconsciously trying to reclaim the woman I once was. Maybe I wanted to prove to myself that a solo trip at 39 could be a success. I could have been channeling my aggression into this adventure, attempting to silence the naysayers. Or maybe I felt lost and wanted to embrace that feeling. I truly wish I knew.
I trained for two months for this hike, which was the first exercise I’d engaged in for years, but it was insufficient for the rigorous trek ahead. My lungs weren’t ready to inhale at 3,500 feet amidst the humid Caribbean air. My stubbornness and fear of disappointing my kids pushed me through each jagged breath and relentless negative thought. As I climbed, sweat trickled down my body, and I questioned how I ended up in this situation.
Now, lying in bed after the hike, I was searching for a psychiatrist to help me. Six grueling hours on that mountain had given me a taste of success. I felt pride and humility amidst the beauty of a developing nation, yet I also recognized how deeply I had fallen.
Tears streamed down my face as I finally made the call I should have initiated years ago. My heart raced, and my hand trembled around the phone. The pain in my muscles paled in comparison to the turmoil inside. I sensed something had snapped; I needed help from someone outside my own mind to piece myself back together. As I gazed out at the majestic mountains rising from the ocean, I wondered if I could ever rise from this dark place. Would I ever descend this mountain, or would I plummet into the rocky depths and be swept away by the crashing waves?
With clenched teeth, I tightened my grip and steeled my resolve as a voice on the other end of the line said, “Hello, how may I help you?”
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Summary:
In this heartfelt account, Jennifer Matthews shares her journey through mental illness, reflecting on the challenges of motherhood and the struggle to find herself again. A solo trip to the Caribbean in search of adventure leads to a painful reckoning, ultimately pushing her to seek the help she needs. The narrative highlights the importance of acknowledging one’s struggles and finding support, resonating with anyone facing similar battles.
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