I Didn’t Know If I Was Being Saved or Discarded
It was the summer of 2006 when my mother received a call from my then-partner. He described my strange behaviour, my loss of control, and the chaos he could no longer manage. He told her something was terribly wrong with Onika.
My mother was minutes away from leaving for a 12-hour nursing shift, four hours away from her child, yet she knew she had no choice. She made the trip to Quebec with my father and aunt to assess the situation herself.
When she arrived, she didn’t recognize me. I was deep in mania, consumed by psychosis, experiencing visual and auditory hallucinations, delusions of grandeur, violent outbursts, disorganized thinking, and a complete break from reality. I was unreachable. So my parents made the painful decision to take me to a Toronto hospital for psychiatric evaluation and treatment.
I remember arriving at the Emergency Room, completely naked, confused, and terrified. My mother tried to put shoes on my feet as she cried. Everything happened quickly after that. A nurse and security guards restrained me and wheeled me inside. The last thing I saw was my mother screaming my name in the driveway.
In a brief moment of clarity, I realized something was terribly wrong. I fought against the restraints, feeling trapped in my own body. I don’t remember consenting to any of it. I was no longer in control.
I don’t know if I passed out from exhaustion or from the injection administered to me. When I came to, I was alone in a brightly lit isolation room. My family was gone. I felt discarded, powerless, and afraid.
Later, I would learn this was the beginning of a psychiatric 72-hour hold. But in that moment, I only knew fear, confusion, and anxiety. I didn’t understand how I had gone from being myself to being inside a system that now controlled every part of me.
Hospitalization, while necessary for mental health stabilization, can feel both like rescue and removal, saving you while stripping you of autonomy.
When Crisis Becomes Clinical (The Shift Into the System)
That first crisis felt endless. My parents stayed with me for two days, completing admission forms and trying to understand what had happened.
By day three, I hadn’t slept in 56 hours. Doctors made the decision to sedate me heavily to prevent permanent psychosis. I was placed into a medically induced state so my mind could recover. I slept for four days.
When I woke, I was disoriented. The first thing I noticed was the scratches on the wall, marks left behind by previous patients. I tried to open the door, but it was locked. That was the moment I realized my autonomy was gone.
In this mental health system, nothing was yours, not your schedule, your movements, or even your basic needs. Everything required permission.
I called for help to use the washroom, but no one came in time. I wet myself and lay there, overwhelmed with shame, exhaustion, and emotional defeat. Sleep became my escape.
In those moments, I didn’t think about healing or recovery. I simply wanted to disappear from the reality of my situation.
Inside the Ward: Routine, Rules, and Emotional Reality
After isolation, I was moved to a room with a bathroom. I could wear my own clothes again. My mother began visiting daily, bringing food and comfort. We spent evenings quietly together, sometimes talking, often just holding each other as I cried.
The psychiatric ward operated on strict structure and routine. Days began at 7:30 AM and ended at 10:30 PM. That structure, though restrictive, became a foundation for emotional stability.
Each morning, nurses asked the same questions:
How did you sleep? How is your mood? Did you complete basic hygiene?
The focus was always on routine, behaviour, and medication.
Daily group sessions included mental health education, creativity, mindfulness, and interpersonal skills. Some were mandatory, reinforcing structure and engagement.
Over time, I learned that following the system helped you move forward. Structure, routine, and compliance often led to discharge. Disruption could send you back into isolation.
The ward felt like a controlled environment where stability was slowly rebuilt. While it could feel dehumanizing at times, it also provided a framework for healing and recovery.
Repetition, though monotonous, became grounding. For someone living with Bipolar disorder and psychosis, structure is not just helpful, it is essential.
The Shame, the Silence, and the Stigma
In the early stages of my mental health journey, I didn’t understand my anxiety or emotional responses. When friends called to check on me, I felt fear instead of comfort.
What if they saw me differently?
What if I never recovered?
The stigma surrounding mental illness weighed heavily on me. I internalized it, turning my diagnosis into my identity.
I withdrew from people, isolating myself emotionally. I carried the shame silently, believing I had failed in life despite doing everything “right.”
Instead of learning how to manage my mental health, I avoided it. I rejected the idea that hospitalization could be a place of healing. Instead, I saw it as proof of failure.
Looking back, I realize that stigma, both external and internal was one of the most damaging aspects of my experience.
What Hospitalization Taught Me About Myself
Over 20+ years and 13 hospitalizations, I have learned that while the system is imperfect, it plays a critical role in managing severe mental illness.
Hospitalization acts as a forced pause, a reset when emotional stability is lost. It provides structure, routine, and support during moments of crisis.
It teaches boundaries, stress management, and the importance of consistency. These are essential tools for long-term mental health and women’s wellness.
I have also learned the value of a strong support system. My personal and professional networks understand my journey and help me navigate both crisis and recovery.
Most importantly, I have learned to advocate for myself. My experiences both positive and traumatic have given me a deeper understanding of the mental health system and my place within it.
Hospitalization is not something I welcome, but I respect its role in my healing journey.
Final Thoughts
Hospitalization: A Chapter, Not an Ending
Hospitalization is not the end of my story, it is a chapter in my ongoing journey toward healing and emotional stability.
It is often the hardest part, but also the most necessary when psychosis returns. It provides the tools and structure needed to rebuild and reintegrate into everyday life.
That said, the system must evolve. Practices like restraints and prolonged isolation need to be re-examined, as they can hinder recovery rather than support it.
When my dignity remains intact through these experiences, that is progress worth celebrating.
Hospitalization is part of my recovery process not the definition of it. It is a turning point, not a conclusion.
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