Onika L. Dainty

You Don’t Know What You Got Til It’s Gone

My Journey Back to Baseline - Part 2

As I sat in the waiting room of Dr. A’s office at the hospital I once called home, I was terrified. To my right was the door to the inpatient unit, and I knew that after this difficult conversation, I might be returning there once again. Grama Judie sat to my left, quietly holding space beside me. I was in the midst of a hypomanic episode and I knew it, Grama Judie knew it, and soon my doctor would too. I sat in silence, rehearsing what I could possibly say to avoid being admitted behind the reinforced steel doors of the psychiatric unit I feared more than anything. When I looked up from my thoughts, Dr. A appeared, summoning us into his office.

My psychiatrist is a well-dressed, well-spoken Nigerian man who always seems in motion but somehow manages to slow down and give my care his full attention. We have worked together for almost three years, during which he has seen me in hypomania, mania, and psychosis. His decision to refer me to long-term care at a local psychiatric hospital once saved my life. It gave me the space to rebuild, rediscover hope, and find a healthier way to manage my bipolar disorder. If baseline represented recovery, this latest episode felt like relapse. I could only hope that my unconventional doctor would hear and support my unconventional idea for how to find my way back to baseline once again.

Dr. A began our appointment as he always does.

“What’s going on with you, Onika?”

That simple question broke me open.

“Doc, I’m having a hypomanic episode. I’m averaging one to two hours of sleep a night. My thoughts are racing. I spent my rent money impulsively. I’ve blown through my inheritance. I’m overwhelmed by family responsibilities. I’m hypersexual, though I haven’t acted on it. My appetite is gone. I have endless energy, and I can’t regulate my emotions. I keep crying without knowing why.”

I told him everything.

He listened, then spoke with honesty and care. He reminded me that he had warned me about overextending myself. The constant travel, the time zone changes, the lack of rest—all of it had pushed me past my limit. He had hoped I would slow down after my trip to Guyana last December, but instead, I took on more. A vacation in the Bahamas, followed by a 12-hour family road trip to New York City, then another flight soon after. He explained that for someone living with bipolar disorder, these disruptions can be dangerous. I had burned out my brain, and now it was no longer a question of if hypomania would escalate to mania, but when. His recommendation was voluntary hospitalization for two to three weeks to regulate my sleep.

In that moment, a lyric from Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi came to mind: “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” My baseline was gone, and with it, my freedom felt threatened. I knew what hospitalization meant. They would take my clothes, my jewelry, and my phone. I might end up in the Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit, where nurses could strap me to a bed or place me in isolation. I wouldn’t eat what or when I wanted. I couldn’t call my loved ones or return home when I wished. I would become a name on a whiteboard, a patient with no autonomy.

The weight of his recommendation hit me hard, and I made a decision in that moment: I was not going to be hospitalized. I believed there was another way to recover, another path to remission, and I was determined to prove it.

I made my pitch. I told Dr. A that being admitted to a psychiatric ward would set back my progress. The environment there was not conducive to healing. There was little trust, little communication, and too much control. I proposed an alternative, to heal at home. I promised to take the prescribed medications despite the side effects, to rest, to avoid driving, to reduce family involvement, and to listen to my body’s signals.

Healing on my own terms had helped me maintain stability for nearly two years, and I was desperate to try again. Something in my plea must have resonated because I noticed his expression soften. His eyes, behind his bright blue glasses, seemed to smile. Victory.

Dr. A agreed. He said I had shown great insight and accountability by coming to him before things worsened. He told me he was proud of my honesty and my commitment to wellness. Because our relationship was built on mutual trust, he would allow me to try recovery at home, under strict conditions: 

• Take the new medications exactly as prescribed and prioritize sleep

• No driving for three weeks

• Skip the 5 a.m. gym workouts and stick to light walks in the neighbourhood

• Complete all required blood work

• Most importantly: stay out of family business

I left the office with Grama Judie by my side, clutching a new prescription and a fragile sense of relief. I had convinced my doctor to believe in me, to trust that I could find my way back to baseline outside hospital walls. His faith felt like a gift, and I was determined not to waste it.

As we walked toward my car, Grama turned to me and said with a grin, “If I think this isn’t working, I’m calling Dr. A and forming the hell out of you!”

I kissed her cheek, laughing through tears. My eighty-year-old grandmother, my advocate, my friend, and my fiercest protector had once again saved me from myself. Together, we walked toward my uncertain future, one built on hope, faith, and the belief that I could find my way home to baseline once again.