I find myself sprawled on my soft white comforter, unable to budge, as pain radiates through my aching legs. My gaze drifts to the palm trees swaying in the Caribbean breeze outside my hotel room. Alone, I contemplate the psychiatrist’s number sitting idly on my phone. I realize I should have reached out for help long ago.
I’ve hit my lowest point. I know I need assistance.
The past three years have been an uphill battle. I went from sleeping soundly for ten hours to waking up before dawn. Exhaustion enveloped me, yet my mind remained in constant overdrive. Each evening felt like a mental marathon with no finish line in sight. Panic attacks became my unwelcome companions, forcing me to flee social gatherings or shy away from situations that I knew would trigger them—like public speaking.
I often found myself filled with resentment, not just toward others but also toward myself. There were days when I dreamt of jumping in my cluttered minivan and driving into the abyss, without a clear destination, just a desperate need to escape. But I never left. I stayed for my kids, for my husband, and for everyone else but myself.
Once, I believed I had it all figured out. I was a thriving businesswoman who had scaled my own career mountain. But somewhere along the way, I stumbled, tumbling down that mountain and hitting every bump possible. As I spent more time at home with my children, I slipped further down the slope. I reached for the exposed roots to regain my grip, but nothing worked. Medications failed to alleviate the pain, and therapy felt like a mere Band-Aid for a deep wound. Friends and acquaintances had no clue how far I had fallen; I didn’t even recognize it myself. My spiraling mental health had become my new normal.
My family, on the other hand, noticed how unbalanced I had become. Irritability seeped into every aspect of my life. My kids seemed slow, the dog was always in the way, and the laundry pile felt insurmountable. Life transformed into a source of frustration. My temper flared, and my husband walked on eggshells around me. The anger consumed me, and I felt powerless against it. My pain no longer affected just me—it began to impact my children.
It was around this time that I started drinking most evenings. I told myself I was merely enjoying a few craft beers, just enough to feel a slight buzz but not enough to suffer in the morning. I transitioned from rarely drinking with neighbors to stumbling over the fence at 4 a.m., waking up on the bathroom floor with beach towels as my makeshift blanket. I hadn’t smoked in 15 years, yet suddenly I found myself asking for cigarettes.
I failed to recognize the downward spiral for what it was. I convinced myself I was reliving the carefree days of my youth. Caution was thrown aside, and I indulged in the freedom that comes with being 21 again, even though I was a married 39-year-old mother of two living in the suburbs. My daily life revolved around school drop-offs, sporting events, and house chores. I had left my corporate career behind to stay home with my children and never missed it—at least until they began school. With all that newfound time, I found myself lost, searching for purpose to fill the void. It was a perfect storm waiting to explode.
Everything came to a head in that hotel room, with the palm trees swaying just outside. Alone and in pain, I stared at the ceiling and recognized how far I had fallen. I was merely a shadow of who I used to be and a whisper of who I aspired to become. I felt like a hypocrite; I had just published my first book about navigating mental illness through humor, yet I was completely devoid of laughter. I was drowning in an illness I hadn’t even realized existed until that moment.
What possessed me to think I could travel solo to the Caribbean to hike a mountain? Perhaps I was subconsciously attempting to reclaim the vibrant person I once was. Maybe I needed to prove to myself that I could embark on a trip alone at 39 and succeed. Perhaps I sought an outlet for my frustration, wanting to show everyone that I could do it. Or maybe, deep down, I was already lost and yearned to be truly lost. I wish I had the answers.
I trained for two months for this hike, my first exercise in years, but it wasn’t enough to prepare me for the trail. My lungs struggled to adapt to the elevation of 3,500 feet in the humid Caribbean climate. My stubbornness and the thought of disappointing my children pushed my legs onward, despite the shallow breaths and relentless negative thoughts. Climbing the mountain, sweat streamed down my face as I pondered how I had ended up in this situation. It was during those six grueling hours of climbing that I felt a mix of pride and humility. I was proud of my accomplishment but also painfully aware of how far I had fallen.
As I lay in bed the day after my hike, I resolved to find a psychiatrist to help me. Despite the physical ache from my hike, the internal turmoil was far greater. I sensed something had snapped, and I needed external support to piece myself back together. I gazed out at the trees swaying on the majestic mountains rising from the ocean, wondering if I would ever emerge from this dark place. Would I ever find my way down from this mountain, or would I fall, crashing onto the rocks and roots before plummeting into the turbulent ocean below? I felt the weight of the water pulling me under, struggling for breath just as I had on the hike. Clenching my teeth, I steadied my grip and resolve as I heard a voice on the other end of the line, “Hello, how can I assist you?”
If you found this piece relatable, check out our other blog post that dives deeper into the journey of self-discovery and healing here. We all have unique paths to navigate, and sometimes it helps to share our stories.
In summary, my journey through mental illness has been a challenging one. While attempting to reclaim a sense of purpose through physical exertion, I ultimately realized that seeking help was the most vital step I could take. We all deserve support, and reaching out can be the first step toward healing.