Introduction

On Feb 5 2026 I was hospitalized for mental health reasons; which is to say, I checked into a psych ward due to suicidal ideation. It was the absolute nadir of my existence. 

My hospitalization was preceded by two years of unemployment; a desperate attempt to start a matchmaking business; and the psychological and physical drain of running that business. 

After quitting my soul-sucking job at Starcom in 2024 (more on that later), I decided to start my own matchmaking business, and finally launched it in August 2025, after earning a matchmaking certification at the Global Love Institute (yes, that’s a real thing). While I enjoyed interviewing clients and making matches, the work was endlessly draining, and ultimately, not sustainable for a naturally introverted person like me (who also hates social media). Launching a matchmaking business means you have to be an opportunist: you attend networking events, parties, and meetups. You’re constantly on the hunt for potential clients, and constantly selling your services to everyone you meet. For the four months that I actually worked as a matchmaker, my sleep and workout schedule was sporadic, if non-existent. Sometimes I went out five nights a week; sometimes just twice a week; and after each event I was so drained that I could barely move the next day, which meant I wasn’t exercising. This meant I wasn’t sleeping properly, and that cycle of irregular sleep, the constant pressure of doing social media and getting clients, all combined with little to no physical activity destroyed me psychologically. 

The week before I checked in to Montrose Behavioral Health, I stopped eating and was taking multiple doses of hydroxyzine each day to keep myself from crying constantly. The pills were prescribed to my husband when he was having trouble sleeping a while back. He didn’t need the pills anymore and they were sitting unused in his medicine cabinet, so I figured I would help myself. The pills ensured that I could lay in bed all day and not cry. I didn’t want to live anymore so I also stopped eating. My husband kept giving me bowls of oatmeal, soup, salad – I would chuck the food out on the porch, put the dishes in the sink, and go back to my room. 

One night I couldn’t take it anymore and told him that I wanted to kill myself, and that I should probably check myself into a psych ward. I looked up the first two places that were available based on my insurance: Rising Resilience (which I automatically nixed because the name made it sound expensive), and Montrose Behavioral, which was close and promised  “individualized treatment plan[s],” that could include “group therapy, individual therapy, and family therapy.” The website claims that “therapeutic services are delivered by a multidisciplinary team of professionals, which may include licensed clinical professional counselors, licensed clinical social workers, psychiatrists, recreational therapists, art therapists, and dietitians.” I figured I could go there, get some intensive therapy for a week, figure out what’s wrong with my brain, and learn how to move on with my life. It was also a 15 minute drive from our house. I told him to take me there the next morning. 

The following blogs posts are a detailed account of my experience at Montrose.