When I Finally Asked for Help

There wasn’t one big breaking point—just an extended quiet collapse. It was like a hundred little cracks, that finally gave way. I was tired all the time. Numb. Angry. Not just worn out from parenting or life’s usual stress, but deeply hollowed out inside.

I was doing everything I could to hold it together. Smiling when I needed to. Showing up for others. Being functional through the days like I always have. But behind all of that, I was drowning. I didn’t think anyone would understand, and honestly, I didn’t think I deserved help anyway, even with some pushed me knowing I wasn’t okay.

But I asked. Eventually, I asked. And everything changed.

I Thought I was Supposed to Handle It.

I grew up learning how to survive. I had no other choice. From a young age, I experienced things no child should—sexual abuse, relentless bullying, a kind of loneliness that burrows into your bones. My mother knew what was happening. She saw the signs. Heard the words. And still, she did nothing.

That silence taught me something dangerous: that pain was mine to carry, alone.

So, I got good at pretending. I got good at hiding. I became a “functional” addict, living with a 13-year opioid addiction that no one—not family, not friends—ever suspected. I worked. I showed up. I played the part. But internally, I was always managing some level of chaos, always looking for the next way to quiet the ache.

When you live that way for long enough, you start to believe it’s just who you are. That you’re broken. That if people really knew, they’d walk away because they did not understand and probably wouldn’t care to know.

The Day Everything Cracked Open

For two and a half years, I felt like I was barely hanging on. My brain was always racing. I couldn’t focus on conversations, not on tasks, not even on the people I loved most. There were times I would think I said something out loud, but I hadn’t. Other times, I would say something out loud, thinking it was just a thought. I was living in constant confusion and emotional exhaustion. My anger was closer to the surface than I wanted to admit.

Then, on December 26, 2023, I hit my wall.

A client, at the inpatient facility I worked at, overdosed. When he came to, he lashed out with anger, violence, and out of control. I watched him drag a coworker down the hallway while trying to attack another. Instinct kicked in, and I did what I had to do. I stepped in and helped restrain him until police arrived, trying to keep everyone safe.

But the darkest part of that day wasn’t what he did. It was what happened in me.

Something in my mind snapped. I wasn’t just restraining him, I was fighting and restraining with everything in me not to hurt him. I could feel this raw, uncontrollable urge to hurt him, to make someone else feel my rage and anger. I didn’t give in, but the fact that I wanted to scared me more than anything. I knew then I wasn’t okay. I hadn’t been okay for a long time.

I Quit Everything

After that day, I quit.

I quit my job. I quit school. And the hardest part of quitting was I wanted to quit on my family. The people I loved most. The ones who were always there for me, the ones who depended on me. It wasn’t that I wanted to leave them. There were no suicidal ideations, no thoughts of ending my life. But I wanted to disappear. I wanted to walk away from everything and not be who I was in front of them anymore.

I wanted to hide.

The guilt of even thinking about walking away from my family ate at me, but the overwhelming urge to escape my own life—just to escape myself—was all-consuming. I didn’t know how to show up anymore. I didn’t know how to be present for them when I could barely show up for myself.

A New Beginning, with Help

It was my wife who stepped in and helped when I couldn’t help myself. She helped me get insurance through the state, something I have considered before but always got turned down. Her help with this, allowed me access to therapy. That was a turning point.

I started my mental health journey seriously. But it wasn’t just my mind I needed to work on. My body had been neglected for so long too. I began taking steps to improve my physical health. It was a slow process and still is. It was me  utilizing exercise, eating better, and listening to my body to help feel a positive change. The physical and mental work went hand in hand, helping me rebuild my strength in a way I hadn’t experienced before.

In the last year, I’ve lost over 50 pounds. It wasn’t just the body weight, it was the weight of years of neglect, emotional exhaustion, and silence. I was taking my power back.

What Therapy Revealed

When I finally got into therapy, I thought I just needed to decompress, talk some things out. But session by session, it became clearer that there was so much more under the surface.

I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder and PTSD. The labels didn’t shock me but they explained a lot to me. A few months later, after more evaluation, I was also diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder. Suddenly, the racing thoughts, the mood swings, the confusion, the irritability all made sense.

I started treatment:

• Lamotrigine, to stabilize my mood.
• Mirtazapine, to help me sleep and fight the weight of depression.
• Hydroxyzine, to manage the anxiety that had been quietly ruling my life.

I didn’t feel better overnight. But I finally felt understood by someone else, and more importantly, by myself. Meds for mental health are only a tool that helps clearing your head, and you’re still left do a lot of heavy lifting on your own and I learned I had some heavy lifting to do.

Healing Changed Everything

With the right diagnosis and treatment, things slowly began to shift. I started to feel more grounded. I could hear people my wife and kids again. I could pause before reacting. I wasn’t constantly on edge.

I wasn’t a perfect parent before, and I’m not one now, but I’m more present mentally. I’m more self-aware. And I’m learning to respond from love instead of reactivity.

Not only did therapy save me, it gave me the tools to start over.

If You’re Where I Was…

If you’re barely hanging on, if your mind feels like it never stops, if you’re scared of what might happen if you don’t ask for help. Please hear this:

You’re not weak. You’re not broken. You’re not alone.

I spent years masking my pain with addiction, distraction, and silence. But silence didn’t protect me. It just buried me.

When I finally asked for help, I started to breathe again and somedays I must pause and learn to breathe again. And for the first time in a long time, I started living and not just getting by.

You’re allowed to ask for help. You’re allowed to need it. I did. And because of that I am still learning to heal and grow.

And so can you.