Downward tumble: Recovering from a mental health crisis

It should have been a nice end to a great weekend

Photo by Lisa Grouette

Sunday evening, June 1, I had just returned from a successful surprise birthday trip to celebrate my younger brother's 40th birthday. I had spent the weekend with many family members and had the time of my life celebrating my little brother. But once I got home and got settled, I felt off. I tried to ignore it.. to no avail. "Oh great, a freaking panic attack," I thought to myself as doom encroached. I took some panic meds and laid down on my couch to snooze it off.

When I awoke, things were still amiss. I felt no better — actually, it was worse — crushing dread. I knew this feeling well, but it had been at least six years since I'd come upon it.

By Monday afternoon, the sensation hadn't loosened its grip. I began to properly panic. I knew what it was. It was a spiral. Fuck.

In 2019, I was diagnosed with bipolar, severe anxiety, and generalized panic disorder. Lots of fun stuff. I had always known something was off, but it was at a friend's behest that I see a doctor for a clinical diagnosis.

Since 2019, I've been well medicated, so a spiral seemed like a distant memory.

But 2025 showed its fangs. Twelve days before Christmas 2024, my mother died unexpectedly. I found myself picking up the pieces of my heart while putting together the pieces of her estate. While deep in my grief, my beloved job was cut as part of a budget slash in March.

I tried to hold steady.

May 4, we held my mother's celebration of life, playing her favorite music while the sun went down in front of her house. May 11 was a brutal Mother's Day.

Although my brother's birthday celebration was a great time, it couldn't reflect the attack headed for my poor, sweet mind. I couldn't defend myself from what was coming.

Monday was tough. It was dense and dark. It was brooding and intense. My body ached, my heart ached, my mind twisted inside itself. I was flying a kite in a tornado. It seemed impossible. I bore down and did what I could. I ate, drank, slept and waited until Tuesday to raise my head.

Tuesday arrived with no clouds in the sky. This would mark about 48 hours into whatever it was I was working though. I swallowed all of my pills diligently. I opened my doors and my blinds. "Sunshine," I told myself. "Sunshine will help." Except it didn’t. I felt weak, tired, lonely, scared, nauseous.

Fresh air did nothing. Socializing did nothing. Medicine did nothing. Sleep was my only relief. My head hurt. My bones felt weary. This was going to be a rough go. Tuesday night, I told myself that if I didn't feel better in a few days, I'd call my provider for guidance.

Wednesday arrived with little to offer in the form of respite, but I trudged on. Laundry had to be done, dishes needed put away, food had to be prepared. I forced my body off the couch and promised myself an afternoon nap as a reward for staying caught up on housework — something that often falls by the wayside when I have a depressive episode.

That was just the thing, though. This wasn't depression, nor was it mania. It was both, twisted around one another and wrapping their spindly fingers around my throat.

Suicidal ideation is something that I struggle with during mental health crises. Never any plans, but certainly thoughts of ending my life as a means to end the torture my mind is inflicting on me. The dark thoughts terrified me, but they wouldn't cease. "Power through it, dude. Just power through."

I'd also begun having horrible nightmares — which I've dealt with since I was a kid — but they were disrupting the only source of relief I had. My sleep was choppy and tense. I had started to feel even more drained.

Thursday, though. Thursday was lighter. Thursday was better. I didn't nap once. I didn't cry, I didn't rock back and forth on my couch trying to console myself. I just was. A flicker of light shone across the tunnel walls. Finally.

Friday, I felt just a hair better than the day before. I treaded lightly about the day as to not disturb the monster. I could breathe deeper, slower. I knew I wasn't out of the woods, but I could at least see the sky through the tops of the trees.

The next week, I continued to get better. I tended to my wounds as I tried to recover from the spiral. The fear of another bout was top of mind, but I tried not to let it take over my thoughts. By the following Friday, I had been offered my job back, as they realized cutting my position was a mistake. Stress began to melt away, but there was still something lingering that I can't quite describe and I still can't shake.

A month out, I'm still recovering from the trauma of the event. I'm still protecting myself from stress, and I'm trying to keep active and productive. I'm back to work now, and I am so scared of another wave of instability.

I do know that should I experience this again, I'm calling my doctor the same day. It's not to be messed with.

I am alright now, but I am wary, and I am vigilant. And I am here to tell you that mental health needs to be taken as seriously as any other health issues.

Mental illness can be just as debilitating as any other illness, and should be handled as such. If you don't feel right, reach out to a mental health provider. Tell them everything you're experiencing. Don't do what I did and try to power through.

Thirty days later, I'm still reeling from the effects of my spiral. I should never have waited, and if you're struggling, you shouldn't wait either. We deserve to feel like ourselves. We owe it to our bodies and spirits to reach out for help.

If you or someone you know is having thoughts of suicide or self-harm, text or call 988 immediately.

Lisa Grouette is a proud member of the Iowa Writers Collaborative, a group of Iowa writers, authors, and content producers. If you enjoy hearing from Iowa voices, please consider helping to broaden their reach with a paid subscription. Your support goes a long way.