the breaking point.

January 2009.

Beautiful Mexico.

The sun was shining just like every other day of the year. My memory of the sun this particular day was annoying brightness. I looked up at the clear sky and inside I screamed angry words at it. How can the sky be so blue and the sun be so warm when everything within me is wilting away?

I stood, barefoot and disheveled, on our 6 foot by 4 foot balcony overlooking a busy street.  My vision of the street below was filtered through the evenly spaced black iron bars that protected our house from thieves. I watched the cars go by. I stared at the men in uniform delivering bottled water to houses. The people dressed in workout clothes walking to the gym across the street seemed endless. My eyes glazed over the men and women in business suits hurrying to the office. The rhythm of the cars speeding down the road, slowing down at the speed bump, and then accelerating was absurdly normal and fluid. How can these people go about their day when I am locked in this house, suffocating in this life that I chose, that I wanted, that I cannot escape from?

I envied each person I saw outside my house that day.  Regardless of their present reality, my warped vision saw each person as happier, safer, healthier, and saner than I was.  I felt distinct rage for these people whose lives were normal.  I found myself wanting, more than anything, to trade lives with strangers. More than anything, wanting it to end.

I ran my hands along the dusty solid iron bars, and I felt trapped. These bars meant to keep thieves from coming in were ironically also preventing me from getting out. From ending the pain and confusion that had overcome my existence. From getting out of this life that I did not recognize. I had no tears this day. The sobs had already fallen into the shower drain and I came out dry.  I was simply hollow.

On the floor in the room behind me my five-month-old son lay on a white changing pad. I looked at him and felt ashamed. Ashamed that I did not love motherhood…or motherhood did not love me. Ashamed that I couldn’t just snap out of it.

I felt guilt. Guilt that I wasn’t thankful for this perfectly healthy baby I was privileged to care for and call my own. Guilt that I was putting my husband through hell.

I felt fear. Fear that I would never be myself again. Fear that I would lose everything.

I felt regret. I regretted moving. Regretted traveling. Regretted my c-section. Regretted becoming a mother. (It messed up my mind, after all.)

I felt alone. Alone. Alone. Utterly alone.

It was as if my face turned to stone and my insides a hollow, dark cave. I did not know this person I had become.

This was the breaking point.

Describe a moment when you saw someone hit their breaking point.