Tropical meltdown

Flashback to my 30th birthday.

I was supposed to be in Punta Cana sipping margaritas, living my best life, celebrating my flawless transition into adulthood. Instead, I was having a mental breakdown in a hotel bathroom, convinced ISIS was outside my suite.

I was in my hotel when I first heard it. Two men talking outside, muffled voices whispering like something out of a bad spy movie. The sound came through the slatted walls of my private outdoor shower. I could almost hear their breath, like I was being stalked by an invisible army.

ISIS was outside my suite.

The thought hit me like a freight train, and suddenly my heart was pounding, my palms were sweating, and in my head, I was already being dragged away in chains.

So, I locked myself in the bathroom. Naturally. Who needs logic when you can hide in the bathroom like a grown adult, clutching your phone and Googling “How to survive a terrorist attack in a 5-star resort”?

I started packing like I was preparing for a cross-country escape—except my flight wasn’t for five more days. Five. Days.

But that was the least of my problems. The real issue was the fact that I had no intention of sleeping. I couldn’t. I wasn’t safe enough to snooze out. My mind was running a marathon, fueled by panic and the sweet taste of insanity.

Five days of insomnia-induced mania. Five days of delusions, panic, and a growing sense of doom that nothing could shake.

And then, before I got on my flight home, I did it. I posted everything on Facebook. Not because I needed anyone to believe me, but because I wanted someone to know what had happened to me in case I died. Sure, it might’ve been dramatic, but who has time for subtlety when you’re in full-blown psychosis?