Losing touch with reality during psychosis was terrifying, but the journey back taught me strength and insight.
Living with bipolar disorder often means facing a mind that doesn’t always feel like your own. When psychosis takes hold, even familiar faces and places can twist into something unrecognizable, turning reality into a terrifying, surreal experience.
I was 22 when I experienced my first psychotic break in January 1998. After three sleepless nights, I was found wandering my university campus, disoriented and hallucinating. I couldn’t even recall my own name.
This episode came exactly four years after I survived a violent crime and was my first bipolar episode linked to post-traumatic stress.
Doctors did not diagnose bipolar disorder at the time, and life kept moving forward. I married my college love and best friend, who has been my greatest support for more than 30 years.
Trauma’s Lasting Imprint
Before age 17, I experienced multiple traumatic events. I know early adversity can shape mental health in ways that last a lifetime. Yet, despite those challenges, I’ve built a life filled with love, happiness, and meaningful connections.
Since that first episode in my early twenties, I’ve endured several powerful breaks from reality — each one vivid, fragmented, and disorienting. I share my story to offer a window into what bipolar psychosis can feel like and to show that, while healing is difficult, it is possible.
Misdiagnosis and Motherhood
In the early years of our marriage, my husband and I traveled, built a home, and a life together. During this time, I was hospitalized three more times with depression — but not psychosis — even though the two look completely different. I was diagnosed with chronic depression, recurrent and severe, but not post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) or bipolar.
It wasn’t until I was 35, shortly after the birth of my second child, that I was diagnosed with bipolar 1 disorder. This first manic episode was incredibly dangerous, but with the support of family and friends, I was able to stay home from the hospital. With a young child and a newborn at home, I couldn’t bear the thought of an inpatient hospital stay.
One moment from that period still stands out. I had arranged for my dear longtime friend to pick up my son. I spoke with her on the phone to finalize plans, but within 15 minutes my mind forgot who she was. When she arrived, I screamed and repeatedly swore at her, insisting I didn’t know her and that she couldn’t have my child. The severity of my illness became apparent in an instant, and the safety of my family became paramount.
Separating Reality From Delusion
Some years later, when I was 42, I was hospitalized with psychosis for eight days — precisely 25 years to the date of the crime. My bipolar psychosis, mixed with PTSD, created the perfect storm. After days without sleep, I was hallucinating, delusional, and suffering severe flashbacks. Within hours, I went into full-blown psychosis and was transported by ambulance to a hospital an hour away.
I still remember every delusion and hallucination from that stay: seeing deceased relatives, believing my husband was outside the window on a hovercraft to rescue me, thinking Barack Obama would break me out on Air Force One, and imagining friendships with Jay-Z and Beyoncé. I even tried to climb the hospital walls to escape.
I wasn’t aware psychosis was happening. Only after my mind began healing could I sort reality from delusion. I continually asked my husband if he had been outside on a hovercraft; he gently assured me he hadn’t. Reading my fragmented journal entries from that week shows me just how ill I was.
Recurrent Psychotic Breaks
It took a year to recover from that major break, but I was hit again the following winter. In January 2020, I was hospitalized for four days.
This time my delusions centered on rescuing refugees. I gave away all my belongings, convinced I was Jesus giving to the needy. During subsequent stays, I believed I was famous, a multimillionaire, or saving the world.
Psychosis is not something I can make sense of, even though it’s not uncommon among people with bipolar disorder, especially those who are hospitalized. But I live alongside it, nonetheless.
Long Remission and the Return of Mania
Between 2020 and 2023, I experienced long-term remission — no bipolar symptoms at all. My medication worked, and I lived a life of stability. I could travel, work, and raise my family. My doctors were amazed at my recovery — a far cry from the days when I didn’t recognize my husband in the hospital.
Humor with my support team, joking about my “saving the world” episodes, helped me heal.
Yet, from October 2023 through December 2024, I went through a year-long manic episode. The first sign was familiar: severe sleep disruption. I slept no more than three hours a night and often paced the halls before dawn.
During this time, I believed I would become a famous author. I formed a business, bought a website, and created a new identity based on a pen name I’d invented while journaling during earlier psychosis. I spent money I don’t remember spending and sent late-night, disturbing messages to friends and family without any recollection.
This is what it feels like to live with blackout bipolar: no control over actions and no memory of them.
Healing and Safeguarding
When remission returns, I must again sort out what was real and what was imagined. It’s painstaking but essential for healing.
I also work to rebuild my self-esteem and remind myself that bipolar is an illness — not a reflection of my character. Forgiveness of myself is critical.
Because mania robs me of safe judgment — I can’t drive, care for my children alone, or make sound decisions — I rely on a safety plan that includes:
Some relatives understand and help; others can’t. Either way, I accept the support I need.
Living With Hope and Forgiveness
Today I’m once again approaching remission and take each day as it comes. Managing bipolar disorder isn’t easy, but with treatment, planning, and a strong support network, stability is possible.
I’ve learned to forgive myself for what happens during episodes so I can live free from shame. There is still stigma around mental illness, but sharing our stories helps break it. We have all endured hard things and rebuilt.
Resilience is our strength.