Onika L. Dainty

From my first manic-psychotic episode to my most recent, life often felt as though it had flipped upside-down—and I had no idea how to right myself. For nearly 20 years, I let life happen to me. My responses—both uplifting and self-destructive—set in motion a series of events I didn’t recognize then as tests of my strength and emotional stability. Looking back now, I understand: it's not what happens to you, but how you react that defines your healing and growth.

Diagnosis, Grief, and Emotional Extremes

When I was diagnosed with Bipolar I disorder in 2006, I was an Honours graduate from Carleton University mourning the death of my grandmother—my soulmate—who passed away on my 22nd birthday. My life became a complex mix of achievement and sorrow, dreams and heartbreak. Caught between extremes, I turned to substances to dull the weight of my emotions. It was a way to escape the reality of bipolar disorder—a way to exist in the numb void between joy and grief.

This emotional polarity became a recurring pattern. Yet even in moments of despair, I made positive choices and showed resilience. Still, adversity never strayed far.

Recovery, Remission, Relapse, and Resilience

After four years of remission, I was accepted into a graduate diploma program at Humber College. Life felt balanced again. I was proud and optimistic.

Then, just three months into the program, my six-year relationship ended—followed the next day by my nomination as Event Management Chair, overseeing one of the college’s most important events. Once again, I found myself in a bittersweet place: standing in success while mourning loss.

Instead of confronting the pain, I returned to self-medicating. I sought the numbing void between overwhelmed and empty. By the end of the term, I suffered my first manic-psychotic episode in four years and was hospitalized.

Recovery came slowly. Through structure, routine, and healthy habits, I found stability and space to reflect:
How did I fall so far, so fast? Why hadn’t I learned from the past? Why was my instinct to run from pain rather than grow through it?

I no longer trusted myself. My self-worth was low. Doing what was easy—what was wrong—was easier than doing what was right. That’s when I knew I needed to begin the hard work of self-awareness, self-love, and emotional healing.

It took three years, two internships, another hospitalization, summer school, night school, and a relentless inner fire—but I graduated from my PR and Communications program. One teacher described me as “a tenacious student who would find success in her future.” I’ve come to believe that when life happens to you, your reaction—your resilience—is what shapes your future.

Then There Was COVID-19

By 2020, I was in my longest remission since being diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I had spent seven years in Toronto, supported by an incredible social worker and a 23-member outpatient care team. I was thriving, training as a Peer Support Specialist at a hospital’s Recovery College, and immersed in psychoeducation, trauma therapy, and self-care practices. I created a Crisis Plan (WRAP) and medical directive, sharing it with friends, family, my medical team, and employer.

Then came March 2020. The world changed.

I remember walking to Recovery College that morning feeling healthy, happy, and whole. By evening, I was stockpiling supplies, preparing for an indefinite lockdown. The country was in crisis. Fear and uncertainty filled every space.

Soon after, I was redeployed by my hospital to support frontline efforts. I was assigned to the ER. While part of me was relieved to leave the isolation of my apartment, a larger part trembled with fear—of the virus, the unknown, and what the hospital would ask of me.

After two weeks, I was exhausted but useful. I was adjusting. Then an email invited the Recovery College team to a virtual meeting. There, we were all laid off. The entire program was being dissolved.

In that moment—unaware I was the one screaming until a colleague mentioned it—I unleashed years of fear, anxiety, betrayal, grief, and pain. My emotional response was immediate and overwhelming. Everything I had built began to unravel.

Peace turned to turmoil. Wellness to relapse. Stability to chaos. Hope to heartbreak.

It’s Not What Happens to You, But How You React

So, how do you face a mountain of disillusionment built from a global pandemic and a mood disorder triggered by stress, trauma, isolation, grief, instability, and loss?

How do you react when mental health, emotional wellness, and everything you’ve worked for feel like they’re slipping away?

I’ll continue this journey of reflection and healing in Part 2.

Join me Saturday, August 2, 2025, as I share what came next—how I chose to respond when tested in ways I never imagined.

I’m writing this today as a 41-year-old woman diagnosed with Bipolar I disorder, speaking to both my 16-year-old self who first began to struggle, and my 24-year-old self who smoked that last marijuana joint just before my life turned upside down. I want to share with you what I wish I’d known back then, when the warning signs were there, but I couldn’t yet see them for what they were.

The Beginning of Anxiety and Depression

At 16 years-old, I felt anxious all the time. There was this constant knot in my stomach that never seemed to go away. My mind would race at night, making it nearly impossible to sleep. During the day, I would try to appear fine—going to school, hanging out with friends—but deep down, there was a sadness I couldn’t shake. I didn’t know then that these were early signs of Bipolar I disorder. No one talks about mental health in a way that connects with you when you’re young, especially when you grow up in a family where the focus is on getting through the day.

I was living in a home where my mother worked as a registered nurse and my father was an Ontario government real estate manager, providing stability for the family. We had recently moved from Scarborough to the Durham Region. My parents, like many immigrant families, focused on hard work and survival rather than emotions. Mental health was never a topic we sat around and discussed at the dinner table. And because I didn’t understand what I was going through, I dismissed it as “normal teenage stuff.”

But now, looking back, I wish I had known it wasn’t normal. That it was more than just mood swings. Anxiety and Depression were the first signs of something deeper that would unravel my mind in the years ahead.

The Long Road Ahead: It's a Lifelong Illness

One of the hardest truths I had to learn is that Bipolar I disorder is lifelong. It doesn’t go away. There is no “cure” or a quick fix. As a young woman, I held onto the hope that maybe if I could just get through the tough days, the rest would somehow fall into place. But what I didn’t realize is that the highs and lows would continue, and often get worse, if left untreated.

To my 16-year-old self, I wish I could say this: You are not broken, but this is going to be part of your life forever. It's not your fault, you were born with this chemical imbalance and it’s something you’ll have to learn to manage. This disorder will touch every part of your life—your relationships, your career, your body, and your mind. The sooner you learn about it, the better. The earlier you start managing it, the better your life will be.

For anyone facing a Bipolar I diagnosis, I encourage you to read my post, How to Start Managing Bipolar Disorder: A Comprehensive Guide. It’s a resource I wish I had back then, offering practical first steps in taking control of your mental health.

The Reality of Hospitalization

I also wish I had known that hospitalization would become a regular part of my life. As a teenager, I never could have predicted that I’d be in and out of psychiatric hospitals during my twenties and thirties. No one prepares you for the moments when your mind completely betrays you, when the Mania becomes so intense that hospitalization becomes your only option, for your safety and the safety of those around you. 

The first time I was hospitalized, I was terrified. It felt like I had lost control of everything—my mind, my body, my future. Being in a psychiatric ward, restrained, treated like I was dangerous—it was dehumanizing. I felt more like a chained animal than a person. The recovery from each manic episode took months, sometimes longer. The weight of it all was unbearable at times, and I wish I had known earlier that this was part of the reality of living with Bipolar I disorder.

To my younger self: Hospitalization is not a failure. It’s a safety net when you can’t trust your own mind. It’s a place to heal, even though it feels like a prison. And to anyone reading this now who has been hospitalized for mental illness, know that you are not alone, and that it doesn’t define your worth.

Childhood Trauma and Its Impact

I wish someone had told me sooner that my Bipolar I disorder was rooted in childhood trauma. Growing up, I didn’t understand how much my early experiences had shaped the way my brain developed. Trauma has a way of weaving itself into the fabric of who you are, influencing everything—from how you respond to stress to how you manage emotions.

The highs and lows I experienced weren’t just random; they were the result of deep-seeded wounds that had never been addressed. It took me years to understand that my mental health was tied to the trauma I experienced as a child. Trauma isn’t something that just goes away because you grow up. It follows you, and for many people like me, it becomes the foundation for mental illness.

If I could go back, I would tell my younger self: Heal the wounds from your past. Get help to unpack the trauma. Doing that earlier might have changed the course of your life.

The Double-Edged Sword of Medication

Medication is both a blessing and a curse. To this day, I take mood stabilizers and antipsychotics to keep my Bipolar I disorder in check. They help, but they come with their own set of challenges. The side effects can be brutal—weight gain, tremors, constant fatigue. Some days, it feels like the medication that’s supposed to make me better is also making me worse. But without it, I wouldn’t be stable.

To my 24-year-old self, just before I smoked that last joint, I wish I could have told you that the marijuana you were using to cope was only making things worse. Drugs like marijuana and cocaine exacerbated my Bipolar I disorder, throwing me into deeper and more dangerous manic episodes.

I wish I had known that the road to stability would involve so many trade-offs. The medication would save my life, but it would also change my body in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

For those struggling with medication management, I also recommend reading my post, Best Tools and Resources for Managing Bipolar Disorder in 2024. It’s important to find the right balance between treatment and quality of life.

Dangerous Manic Behaviors

Mania is seductive. It makes you feel invincible. During my twenties, I chased that high, not fully understanding how dangerous it was. My manic episodes put me in constant danger, both physically and emotionally. I took risks with my body, my money, and my relationships that I now look back on with disbelief.

I became sexually irresponsible, engaging in behaviors that I later regretted. I was financially reckless, spending money I didn’t have. And through it all, I was completely out of control of my mind. Mania is not just about feeling good—it’s about losing touch with reality.

To my 24-year-old self: You’re not invincible. Mania will take you to places you never imagined—places you may never recover from. Protect yourself. Learn to recognize the signs before you spiral out of control.

The Devastation of Depression

On the other side of Mania is Depression. If Mania felt like flying too close to the sun, Depression felt like falling into a pit I couldn’t climb out of. The depressive episodes that followed were so debilitating, I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t care about anything. They felt endless.

Depression wasn’t just sadness; it was a complete shutdown of my mind and body. It stole months of my life at a time, leaving me in a fog of hopelessness. Recovery from these episodes took everything out of me.

To my younger self: The lows will be dark, but you will survive them. Even when it feels like you can’t keep going, you can. You will come out on the other side, even when it feels impossible.

The Strain on Relationships

One of the hardest parts of living with Bipolar I disorder has been the strain it’s placed on my relationships. My family loves me, but they don’t always understand me. I know that some of them fear me, even though they care. My manic episodes scared them, and my depressive episodes made me a stranger to them.

I’ve exhausted my friends and alienate people I care about because of my illness. When you live with Bipolar I disorder, you often feel like you’re dragging the people around you through the mud. The weight of that guilt is something I carry with me every day.

To my younger self: Some people will leave, and it will hurt. But the people who stay will love you in ways you never imagined. And you will learn to forgive yourself for the strain you put on others.

Final Thoughts

If there’s anything I wish I had known before my Bipolar I disorder diagnosis, it’s that this journey isn’t a solitary one. You will feel isolated at times, and you will feel misunderstood, but there are people who understand—people who have walked this path before you.

You are not alone. And though Bipolar I disorder will be a part of your life forever, it doesn’t have to define you. There is hope, there is healing, and there is life beyond the diagnosis.

To my 16-year-old self: Don’t be afraid to ask for help. To my 24-year-old self: You’re about to go through hell, but you will come out stronger. And to anyone reading this who is struggling with mental illness: Hold on. The journey is long, but you are not alone and you are more than your diagnosis.