An Epic Trail Run for Suicide Prevention
I remember the moment being in the mountains pulled me out of a mental breakdown.
I was 27 and my so-far successful career in journalism had just run headlong into a brick wall. The promotion I knew I’d earned went to somebody else, and in the space of a month my self-confidence, sense of identity and the future I’d imagined for myself all just disappeared. The only thing I hated more than the people who led me here was myself, for ever believing that a workplace could be like a family, and for putting so much stock into my career while almost everything else in my life withered and fell away.
My options felt more and more narrowed, and I talked to — cried to — a trusted coworker who held some sway in the organization that had just finished using me up. After I explained that I just can’t do it right now, my coworker told me I should look into disability leave. I would expect to have felt shame and embarrassment in response to that suggestion — I struggle to swallow my pride at times, and never identified as disabled — but I only remember gratitude. Relief that there was, at least for a little bit, a way out.
Barred by policy from participating in any sort of work, I struggled to engage my mind with anything but a downward spiral. I’d been on exactly one hike in the previous decade, but I needed to go somewhere that kept me looking at something other than my phone and thinking about something other than work (which is incredibly difficult when you’re a general assignment reporter for a local news outlet). So one day, I decided to go up Mount Mansfield, tallest mountain in Vermont. I chose Laura Cowles trail, which is less scenic and more steep and strenuous than the neighboring Sunset Ridge trail. I wanted it to suck, because I felt like I deserved that kind of experience.
I checked my phone quite a few times in the first mile of the hike, thinking I must be halfway there given how wasted I felt. Then I gave up on tracking progress — it was too depressing — and just hiked. I hiked to the point where I felt I should check my phone again (This is the right trail, right?), but I didn’t. I just kept hiking, no breaks. It sucked, at first as much as I thought it would, and then even worse.
A steep section of trail had me on all fours, using my hands to balance on the rocks and roots in front of me as I leaned into the mountain and hiked upward despite the small ocean of lactic acid forming in my legs. As I stood up straight at the top of the scramble, I realized I was smiling. Not breaking into a smile at completing the thing, but a cheeks-are-hurting-shit-eating-grin that must’ve formed somewhere on the section below.
All I could hear was my breathing and my racing heartbeat, but I realized I was happy. Not happy with my career, or with what I’d allow it to do to my life, but in that moment, moving up that mountain, I was happy. It was hard and painful and uncertain, but I was doing it one step at a time.
I’ve been into the depths of depression more times than I can count since then, but I take comfort in a saying mountaineers use when they have to abort a climb because of bad conditions: The mountains will always be there. And when I’m in the mountains, exploring my own limits as much as anything else, that happiness is never far away.
The hopelessness I felt before that hike up Mount Mansfield is bigger and more powerful than even the boundless love and patience of my then-fiancee. I was disappearing into it, and quite literally hiked my way out. For more than 40,000 people in the United States each year, there is no hike, no redeeming happiness, and they die by suicide.
I’ve been too quiet about my mental illness for too long, especially when stigma is so much of a barrier for people who need help. This year, in addition to being more open about my struggles, I’m participating in a fundraiser called 46 Climbs. It’s named for the 46 high peaks of the Adirondacks, but the idea is for participants to raise money for the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention as they prepare for one or more hikes (or trail runs) of one or more mountains between Sept. 4 and Sept. 14.
In keeping with the kinds of outings that bring me the highest highs, I’ve planned an itinerary that absolutely sucks: Running 30+ miles over four mountains in one day. My goal is to climb to the summit of Camel’s Hump, then trail run north on the Long Trail until I reach the summit of Mount Mansfield.
I’ll be training like a demon and sleeping like a log for the next four or five weeks in the lead-up to the run, and probably bothering people with an obnoxious number of fundraising requests (sorry in advance). If you can help out, that’s great - head over to my fundraising page to make a donation straight to the American Federation for Suicide Prevention.
If you can’t make a donation right now, I completely understand! I can’t afford it either, to be honest. You can still make a big difference just by being open and accepting about mental illness, wherever it appears in your life.