I find myself sprawled on the soft down comforter, each muscle in my body aching while sharp pains pulse through my legs. My gaze drifts to the palm trees swaying in the warm Caribbean breeze outside my hotel room. Alone, I contemplate the psychiatrist’s number lying on the nightstand. It’s a call I should have made long ago.
I’ve hit my lowest point. I need assistance.
The past three years have been a relentless battle. I transitioned from sleeping soundly for ten hours each night to waking up before dawn. Exhaustion enveloped me, yet my mind raced, a mental marathon with no finish line. Panic attacks plagued me, prompting me to leave social gatherings prematurely or to sidestep situations I feared would trigger another episode—like speaking in public.
Many days, I found myself filled with resentment toward everyone, including myself. I even daydreamed of hopping into my cluttered minivan and driving away into the unknown. I didn’t have a specific destination in mind; I just knew I wanted to escape.
But I didn’t flee. I stayed for my children, for my partner, for everyone except myself.
Once, I had it all figured out. I was a thriving businesswoman, having conquered my own metaphorical career mountain. But somewhere along the way, I stumbled, sliding down the mountainside and encountering every obstacle imaginable. As I spent more time at home with my children, I fell further into despair. I reached out for help, but nothing seemed to work. Medications failed to alleviate the pain, and counseling felt like a mere Band-Aid over a deep wound. Those around me were oblivious to my downward spiral; I was unaware of it myself. My mental chaos had become my new normal.
However, my family could see the disarray. Irritability seeped into every aspect of my life. My kids were too slow, the dog was always in my way, and the laundry was an endless chore. Frustration consumed me, and I found myself yelling more often. My husband tiptoed around my emotions. The anger enveloped me, and I felt powerless against its hold. It wasn’t only my struggle anymore; my children were feeling the repercussions too.
Around this time, I began drinking most evenings. I kept it manageable—three craft beers a night, just enough for a slight buzz without the hangover. I went from never drinking with my neighbors to stumbling over the fence at 4 a.m., waking up on the bathroom floor, beach towels as my makeshift blanket. After fifteen smoke-free years, I found myself bumming cigarettes again.
I didn’t recognize my descent for what it was. I convinced myself I was reliving my youth. Responsibility faded from my thoughts as I indulged in the reckless freedom of being 21 again. Except I was a married 39-year-old mother of two living in suburbia, immersed in drop-offs, pick-ups, sports events, and household chores. I had traded my corporate career for motherhood and hadn’t missed it—until my children started school. Suddenly, I faced large expanses of time with little purpose, creating the perfect storm of discontent.
Everything came to a head in that hotel room with palm trees outside. Alone and aching, I stared at the ceiling, realizing how far I had fallen. I was a shadow of my former self, a mere whisper of who I aspired to be. I had just released my first book about overcoming mental illness through humor, yet I found myself devoid of laughter. I was drowning in an illness I hadn’t even recognized until that moment.
What prompted me to venture alone to the Caribbean to hike a mountain, I’ll never know. Perhaps I was subconsciously trying to reclaim my former self. Maybe I needed to prove to myself that I could manage a solo trip at 39 and succeed. Or perhaps I simply wanted to channel my pent-up frustration and demonstrate to the skeptics that I could do it. Maybe I felt so lost that I wanted to be truly lost. I wish I could pinpoint the reason.
I trained for two months for this hike, the first physical activity I’d undertaken in years, but it wasn’t enough to sustain me on the trail. My lungs struggled to breathe at 3,500 feet in the Caribbean humidity. My stubbornness and the fear of disappointing my children pushed me onward, even as negative thoughts clouded my mind. As sweat dripped down my body on the mountain, I questioned how I ended up here. And that’s why I now lay in bed, a day after the hike, searching for a psychiatrist. In those grueling six hours on the trail, I experienced a fleeting sense of accomplishment—pride in my resilience and awe for the beauty around me in a developing nation. Yet, I also recognized how deeply I had fallen.
Wiping the tears from my face, I finally made the call I should have placed years ago. My heart raced as I gripped the phone tightly. The pain from my hike was minor compared to the turmoil within me. I sensed a breaking point; I needed an outsider’s help to piece myself back together. I looked out the window at the trees swaying atop magnificent mountains rising from the ocean. Would I ever rise from this dark place? Would I descend this mountain, or would I tumble and crash into the turbulent waters below? The waves pulled at me, reminiscent of gasping for air on my hike. I clenched my teeth and fortified my resolve as I heard the voice on the other end say, “Hello, how may I assist you?”
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In summary, my journey through mental illness has been tumultuous, filled with struggles and revelations. Ultimately, I recognized the importance of seeking help and taking steps toward healing. The climb may have been physically challenging, but the emotional journey has been far more significant.
Keyphrase: Mental illness recovery
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