Not Even Climbing a Mountain Could Help Me Escape My Mental Illness

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I find myself lying on the plush white comforter, unable to move as pain courses through my legs, every muscle screaming in protest. My gaze drifts to the palm trees outside my Caribbean hotel, gently swaying in the ocean breeze. Alone in this small room, I look at the psychiatrist’s number on my phone, realizing I should have reached out months ago.

I’ve hit my lowest point. I need help.

The last three years have been a battle. I went from sleeping soundly for ten hours a night to waking up before dawn. While my body craved rest, my mind ran a mental marathon each evening, with no finish line in sight. Panic attacks plagued me, making social gatherings feel impossible. I often found myself leaving events early or avoiding opportunities altogether, like public speaking.

Most days, I felt anger towards everyone, even myself. I imagined jumping into my cluttered minivan and driving away into the void, with no particular destination in mind, just a desperate need to escape.

But I didn’t run. I stayed for my kids, for my husband, for everyone but myself.

There was a time when I felt I had it all together. I was a successful businesswoman, climbing my own career mountain. But somewhere along the way, I stumbled and fell, hitting every bump as I descended. As I spent more time at home with my children, I fell deeper into despair. I reached out for support, but nothing seemed to work. Medications failed to ease the pain, and counseling felt like a temporary fix. My friends had no idea how far I’d fallen; I didn’t even recognize it myself. My new normal had become an overwhelming sense of chaos.

My family, however, noticed the changes. Irritability crept into every aspect of my life. The kids didn’t move fast enough; the dog was always in my way; the laundry never seemed to end. Life became a frustration. My yelling increased, and my husband learned to tiptoe around me. The anger consumed me, spreading its impact to my children.

That’s when I turned to drinking most evenings. I limited myself to three craft beers a night, just enough to feel a buzz without suffering the next morning. I went from avoiding drinks with neighbors to waking up on the bathroom floor, beach towels serving as my blanket. After fifteen years without a cigarette, I found myself asking others for smokes.

I didn’t recognize my descent for what it was. I convinced myself I was reliving my carefree youth, tossing caution aside and embracing a false sense of freedom. But I was a married 39-year-old mother of two, living in the suburbs, dealing with school drop-offs, sporting events, and endless chores. I had traded my corporate career for motherhood and never looked back—until my kids started school, leaving me with time and no sense of purpose. It created the perfect storm.

Everything came to a head in that hotel room, with palm trees swaying outside. Alone and in pain, I stared at the ceiling, realizing just how far I had fallen. I was a shell of my former self, barely a whisper of who I wanted to become. I felt like a hypocrite. I had just published my first book about surviving mental illness with humor, yet I had run out of laughs. I was drowning in an illness I hadn’t even recognized until that moment.

What possessed me to think I could travel alone to the Caribbean and hike a mountain? Perhaps I was subconsciously trying to reclaim the version of myself that I always envisioned. Maybe I wanted to prove to myself that I could succeed on my own at 39. Or perhaps I just felt so lost that being literally lost seemed appealing.

I trained for two months for this hike, the first real exercise I’d done in years. But it wasn’t enough to prepare me for the trail. My lungs struggled to take in air at 3,500 feet in the Caribbean humidity. As I pushed myself forward, the sweat dripping down my body, I questioned how I ended up in this situation. And that’s why, the day after my hike, I was searching for a psychiatrist. In those six grueling hours of climbing, I tasted success and felt proud, but I also realized how deep I had sunk.

Wiping away the tears, I finally made the call I should’ve made long ago. My heart raced as I gripped the phone. The physical pain from the hike was nothing compared to the internal turmoil. I recognized something had broken within me, and I needed help to heal. I gazed out the window at the majestic mountains rising from the ocean. Would I ever rise from this dark place? Would I descend this mountain, or would I tumble down, crashing into the stormy waters below? The waves threatened to pull me under, just as I had clawed for air during my hike. I clenched my teeth and strengthened my resolve as I heard the voice on the other end, “Hello, how may I help you?”

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Summary: In a heartfelt narrative, Jane Thompson shares her struggles with mental illness, detailing her descent from a successful career to a painful battle with anxiety and depression. After realizing the extent of her struggles during a solo hike in the Caribbean, she finally seeks help and confronts her demons. Jane’s journey highlights the importance of recognizing when we need support and the courage it takes to reach out for it.