Two years ago, I lost the will to live. I had been pressed to withstand the hindrance of battling mental illness since the years of my youth. My life was an ongoing nightmare, only one I couldn’t awake from. I had endured a lifetime of hardships, despite the fact that I was only 27 years old. I couldn’t bear another moment of the torment that ran rampant inside of me. I deemed myself as hopeless.

I was deep in the throes of drug addiction, and my mental health was deteriorating rapidly. Every last flicker of hope in my eyes proceeded to fade. I was mentally and physically drained from the lifestyle I was leading — waking up in heroin withdrawal, saturated in sweat as I drove to my dealer’s house, getting “well” — and then pressing repeat over and over. My life was reminiscent of the movie Groundhog Day; every day that passed by felt the same as the last. 

My depression was deepening, consuming me whole. The use of drugs afforded me some solace, but it was inevitably short-lived. I bore the burden of living with crippling agoraphobia for eight long years — I was sick and tired of it. Agoraphobia is a condition in which one fears and avoids places or situations that might induce panic or cause feelings of entrapment. My irrational fear of exiting the confines of my home debilitated me. The only time I braved the outside world was to purchase illicit drugs, and even that provoked the occasional panic attack. This period of regression precipitated my suicidal contemplation. 

I remember asking my parents why they conceived me. I told them it was selfish to bring a life into this unfair world we live in — I was 11 years old when that conversation took place. Two years later, my mom activated the child-safety locks in her car as a preventative measure. There were numerous occasions where I attempted to jump out into ongoing traffic, while she drove 70 miles per an hour.

The immeasurable love I feel for my nine-year old daughter Simone kept me alive longer than I ever expected to be. I gave birth at the age of 20. My daughter has this beautiful innate quality, in which she generates a bit of sunshine into my days of darkness. Her enchanting smile, our warm embraces, every joke she tells — Simone’s positive energy gave me a reason to wake up each morning. 

I was in sobriety for nearly eight years; I relapsed several weeks before Simone’s seventh birthday. Throughout recovery, the symptoms of my psychiatric disorders were unceasing, and it was a challenge. I was no longer basking in the glorious numbness heroin elicits — I felt depressed, anxious and worrisome — but I continued to persevere. I was a loving mother, always doting on my little girl. I refused to allow mental illness to dictate my ability to parent. 

With that being said, when I relapsed two years ago; everything collapsed in on me. Simone went to live with my mother for nearly a year. I knew it was for the best. I would’ve taken a bullet to save my daughter’s life, yet I couldn’t resist the urge to satiate the desire for more hits off a glass pipe — or more shots of heroin. I didn’t want to be this way, but I was failing to find an alternate escape. 

I began to believe my family would be better off without me. Depression combined with mind-altering substances tends to produce illogical thoughts. I vividly recall grasping a prescription bottle of pills in one hand, and a pen in the other. I wrote a suicide letter addressed to my mother and father — and one for Simone. Her note was stained with tears, as they uncontrollably fell from my eyes. I sat on my kitchen floor, indulged in my last hit of crack — exhaling the smoke into the universe as a final farewell. 

Directing my gaze toward the ninety pills in my palm, something occurred to me. What had I accomplished? Would my tombstone read “Megan Lane – Junkie – Mentally Ill – Watched Too Much Netflix?” I refused to opt out of life with no memorable achievements, aside from raising the most perfect little human. I tossed the pills inside my garbage pail, and eagerly rushed to my laptop, carrying a pen and pad. My desire to live had resurfaced. 

I jotted down “Bucket List” at the head of my paper. I sat entranced for several hours, researching unique travel destinations. Who knew Costa Rica has a self-sustaining treehouse community amid 600 acres of rainforest? I yearned to immerse myself in such an unrivaled experience — disconnecting from the real world and connecting with nature. I had too much to live for, and plenty to look forward to. 

Below you will find the top five travel destinations on my bucket list; the very list that prevented me from committing suicide in 2017. When I feel myself starting to unravel, I remind myself that my list is still blossoming and I can continue to add new places at any time. I’m doing relatively well now. I have almost two years sober, I attend therapy sessions weekly and I continue taking medications for my generalized anxiety and depression. 

BUCKET LIST — TOP 5

1. Finca Bellavista Treehouse Community in Costa Rica — A remarkable alternative to an ordinary hotel. 

2. Queensland, Australia — The only place in the world that allows one to hold a koala bear. 

3. Gently shutting my eyes while spinning a globe, I will place my finger… and then travel to the location blindly selected — I love the spontaneity of this!

4. Balos Bay, Greece — The water and sand alike are pastel pink in color; it’s breathtaking. 

5. Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, France — I’ve aspired to visit Jim Morrison’s grave since I was a teenager.

Megan Lane is a twenty-nine year old New York-based freelance writer. After taking a hiatus to focus on her mental health, Megan is back pursuing her passions as a writer. Her niche is mental health. She has been published on websites, such as HuffPost, Parents Magazine, The Temper and Psych Central.