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| My Journey Back to Baseline - Part 1 |
My journey back to baseline has never felt harder than it has in recent weeks. Over the past 20 years of living with this complex and unpredictable illness, I have experienced countless hypomanic, manic, and psychotic episodes. I have been hospitalized for extended periods while doctors worked to guide me through cycles of mood swings, insomnia, and emotional instability. I have always known that psychosis lurks somewhere between my present and my future, an inevitable part of my bipolar cycle on the road to recovery.
But something has changed, or maybe I have. Since my last severe manic episode, which led to a four-month stay in a psychiatric hospital, I have learned that the journey back to baseline does not have to mean enduring chaos before finding peace. With the right support, determination, and self-awareness, healing can look and feel different.
The summer of 2025 was a whirlwind. I traveled, took on new projects, became a caregiver, and published three blogs a week so readers could walk beside me on this wellness journey. My adventures took me to both new and familiar places, but I failed to notice how exhausted I had become. I convinced myself that small adjustments to my sleep routine would keep me stable and moving forward. What I did not recognize was that my constant motion was not just ambition, it was avoidance. I was running far and fast, refusing to think about what I was really trying to escape.
In May 2024, my mother was diagnosed with dementia, and in the months since, it has progressed. Though she remains physically strong, her memory has begun to fade. Three other relatives in my family are also living with dementia, all at different stages of their journeys. It has been hard for us all because we are a close-knit family, bound by love and history. My Gran Gran Alvira used to say, “Family sticks together because when one of us bleeds, we all bleed.” Lately, I feel like I am hemorrhaging under the weight of my mother’s illness.
As the eldest daughter of two, I have taken on the role of her primary caregiver. My days are filled with doctor’s appointments, daily check-ins, travel companionship, financial management, and personal care. I needed to breathe, so I took a month off. But when I came home, the responsibilities were still waiting for me.
Then came another loss. In November 2024, I lost my sister-cousin to cancer. I have not allowed myself to truly grieve. The only time I let the pain in is during my weekly visits to the lakeshore, where we used to walk together. I go alone because I am afraid that if my family sees me fall apart, they will start whispering worries about my mental stability, predicting relapse before it happens. I know their fear is wrapped in love, but it does not help me process the hole that loss has left in my heart. I did not want to return to old patterns of coping with grief such as substance use or self-destructive behaviour, so instead, I ran again.
By the end of summer, it was time to face what I had been avoiding. My bipolar cycle had veered from my usual baseline into rapid cycling, swinging between highs and lows. By mid-September, sleep had become nearly impossible. I could not regulate my emotions. I was overspending, overworking, and overextending myself, trying to be everything to everyone: caregiver, student, daughter, granddaughter, auntie, listener, writer, and speaker.
It was time for an emergency visit to Dr. A, my psychiatrist.
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