I lay on the crisp white comforter, paralyzed by pain, every muscle in my body aflame. Gazing out at the palm trees swaying in the Caribbean breeze from my hotel room, I felt utterly isolated. In my hand was the psychiatrist’s number—a call I should have made long ago. I’ve hit my lowest point. I need to reach out for help.
The past three years have been an uphill battle. Once, I used to sleep soundly for ten hours; now, I wake long before dawn. Exhaustion envelops me, but my mind races relentlessly, a mental marathon that never seems to end. Panic attacks have become my uninvited companions, forcing me to leave social gatherings prematurely or to avoid situations that might trigger them, like speaking in public.
There were days when I was filled with resentment, not just towards others, but towards myself. I imagined hopping into my cluttered minivan and driving far away, with no destination in mind—just a desperate urge to escape. But I never did. I stayed for my kids, my husband, and everyone else—except for myself.
At one point, I had everything figured out. I was a thriving professional, scaling my own career mountains. However, a misstep sent me tumbling down, hitting every bump along the way. As I devoted more time to my children, I found myself slipping further down the slope, grasping for stability but only finding exposed roots that offered no support. Medications failed to alleviate the pain, and therapy felt like a mere bandage over a deep wound. Friends remained oblivious to the extent of my struggles, as did I; my turmoil had become my new normal.
Yet, my family noticed my unraveling. My irritability seeped into every aspect of my life. My children seemed sluggish, the dog was constantly in my way, and the laundry felt endless. Everything became a source of frustration. My outbursts increased, and my husband walked on eggshells around me. The anger consumed me, and I felt powerless to fight it. Soon, my children began to feel the repercussions of my distress.
It was during this chaotic time that I began to drink most evenings. Three craft beers became my routine—just enough to achieve a mild buzz without the hangover. I transitioned from being a teetotaler to stumbling into my neighbor’s yard at 4 AM, waking up on the bathroom floor, swaddled in beach towels. I hadn’t smoked in 15 years, but suddenly found myself bumming cigarettes.
I failed to recognize the downward spiral I was in, convincing myself I was simply revisiting my youth. The caution I once had vanished, replaced by a reckless sense of freedom that was unwarranted for a married 39-year-old mother living in the suburbs. My days revolved around school drop-offs, sports events, and household chores. I had exchanged my corporate career for motherhood and never looked back—until my children started school. Suddenly, I was left with vast expanses of time and no purpose to fill the emptiness, which created a perfect storm for my mental health.
Everything came to a head in that hotel room, where I sat, alone and in pain, staring at the ceiling. I realized I was merely a shadow of my former self, a whisper of the person I aspired to be. I felt like a hypocrite—having just published my first book about navigating mental illness with humor, yet I was devoid of laughter. I was submerged in an illness I had only just begun to recognize.
What possessed me to travel alone to the Caribbean to hike a mountain remains a mystery. Perhaps I was subconsciously striving to reclaim the version of myself I once knew. Maybe it was a quest to prove I could embark on a solo adventure at 39. Or perhaps I was looking for a way to channel my pent-up aggression and show everyone that I could succeed. Maybe I simply wanted to be lost—an escape from reality. I wish I had the answers.
I trained for two months for this hike, the first real exercise I had attempted in years, but it was insufficient to prepare me for the trail. My lungs struggled to adapt to the altitude of 3,500 feet in the sticky Caribbean air. Stubbornness and the fear of disappointing my children pushed me forward, even as negative thoughts plagued my mind. On that mountainside, as sweat dripped down my face, I reflected on how I had arrived at this moment.
The six grueling hours it took to reach the summit brought a fleeting sense of accomplishment. I felt pride and humility in my surroundings. Yet, I was also starkly aware of how far I had fallen.
With tears streaming down my cheeks, I finally dialed the number I should have called years ago. My heart raced as I gripped the phone tightly; the pain from my hike paled in comparison to my internal struggle. I recognized that something had broken within me, and I needed an outsider’s help to piece myself back together. I looked out at the majestic trees swaying on the mountains that rose from the ocean, wondering if I would ever emerge from this desolate place. Would I manage to descend this mountain, or would I tumble down, crashing into the turbulent waters below? The fear of being drawn under, gasping for air just as I had on my hike, clenched my teeth with determination. As I heard the voice on the other end say, “Hello, how may I help you?” I knew I was finally taking a step towards healing.
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In summary, mental illness can be a debilitating experience that affects not only the individual but also those around them. Acknowledging the need for help is the first step toward recovery, and seeking support can lead to a path of healing and rediscovery.