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.

But shortly after I turned 33-years-old I lost my voice. And I’m not talking about losing your voice because you have a sore throat. For three days this past January 2016, I lost the ability to speak and no one could explain why. I got up one morning and I felt physically weak, disoriented and dizzy. I lived alone so I had no opportunity to say a word until I left for work. I remember taking an Uber in because I felt so unbalanced I could barely stand. When the driver said ‘good morning’ I attempted to reply, and the words came out slow and slurred.

I immediately called my mother and when I couldn’t reach her, I called my Grama Judie. I told her my symptoms and she said I should head to the hospital. For many reasons I dislike hospitals and refused to go, instead choosing the nearest walk-in clinic. I was barely in the door before I lost consciousness and collapsed. I was taken into one of the exam rooms and the nurse had called an ambulance. She was trying to keep me alert by asking questions, questions that I tried to answer but I couldn’t. I was confused and terrified because when I opened my mouth the answers I formulated in my head just wouldn’t come out.

The ambulance arrived and transferred me to St Michael’s Hospital in Toronto. By the time I arrived at the emergency room I had managed to give them basic information about myself as well as my phone to contact my mother. The doctors ran every test they could think of, they feared I may have had a stress induced stroke. The MRI, EKG and blood work came back normal. Because I disclosed my history of mental illness, the next step was a psychiatric evaluation. This was what I had been dreading.

It has been my experience that when a person suffers with mental illness, doctors tend to overlook physical symptoms and label the problem a psychological one then pass you off to the ER’s Psychiatric Crisis Team for assessment. I was terrified of being admitted to the psychiatric unit. I knew that the likelihood was this was a reaction to a new antidepressant I was taking but to admit that would be to risk getting admitted. Though it was a struggle I managed to make my wishes clear: There’s something physically wrong, I am not crazy, I do not feel like harming myself or others and I want to go home.

After asking me a series of questions that I was all too used to answering, the ER psychiatrist advised that she feared this may be psychosomatic but not something to be admitted over. My mother finally arrived, and the doctors cleared me to go home and have her monitor me for the next few days. The relief I felt was overwhelming.

During those three days of silence, I really started to question how I had gotten to this point. Maybe there was another reason, hidden deep inside myself that I was failing to examine. Since the new year started, I have been taking on more, pushing myself harder mentally, physically and emotionally. I was beginning to feel pressure at work, I was lacking in sleep, my appetite was non-existent, and I was running from the depression that historically took over my mind every Winter since I was 17-years-old.

I was doing too much, and I was wrestling with the darkest parts of myself. I was overwhelmed and I knew it had everything to do with my mental health challenges. I was tired of running from it, I was tired of keeping the secret of my mental disability from my friends, colleagues and anyone I had any significant connection with. It was like a gaping sore that refused to heal, that was a constant source of pain as if trying to tell me: Until you deal with me, I am not going anywhere.

I had been thinking about telling my story, telling the truth for a while and during this experience my mind was in a constant state of remembering. Remembering the dark reality of my past, retracing my steps to see where I could have changed things, worrying that once the carefully constructed mask that I had relied on for so long was crumbling in the face of this truth. Even though my voice was lost, my thoughts were finding their way to the surface. All the lies I had told to protect myself, all the things that I could only remember pieces of from all the times I lost my mind to the overwhelming sense of failure I felt every day since I was a child. I knew it was time to face all that I had done, all that I had been through. My body’s betrayal at this critical juncture of my life was telling me that if I were truly going to move forward, I had to speak my truth.

I was ready and I was not ready. I was certain and I was not certain. I was terrified and calm because I knew it was time for the words to come out. I knew if my voice returned, I had to use it to tell the story of a woman who was abused in so many ways; a woman who lost her mind so many times only to find it again; a woman who has done things she was ashamed of; a woman who survived when the odds were stacked against her.

I knew my story could help people like me see that it is possible to go through things, terrible, life-changing, dark and destructive things and still come out on the other side fighting and hopeful and determined to achieve the impossible. To come through everything while still having faith that the next step, the next journey, the next dream will be the right one, the better one, the one that will finally make you whole.

It is possible to believe that you can survive your pain, only suffering as long as it takes you to learn your lessons. Then you take that newfound knowledge and change your life into something authentic. I want to be a force for this kind of change in people’s lives, giving them hope that happiness lies beyond the darkest waters.

I have always known this was my purpose, but I hid my light for reasons that seemed far away and inconsequential in the face of losing my voice. It was a new kind of pain to think that I had wasted so many years hiding from the world, hiding from myself that now, when I was on the precipice of taking my place and serving my purpose, there was this new obstacle that I was not sure I could overcome.

If all the world’s a stage like Shakespeare once wrote, then those three voiceless days were my version of stage fright. I learned that as much as I was afraid of the truth, if I continued to hold it in, I was in danger of losing the opportunity all together. The labour of having to force out every word, syllable by syllable, at a snail’s pace as if I had never spoken before was eye-opening.

I thought to myself, “What now Onika? You have all these words locked inside your mind, you have hoarded all your experiences, all that knowledge and wisdom never really sharing it with anyone and now you have finally found some courage to speak your truth, and you have lost your voice…you have lost your way.” When my voice did return slowly over the following days, the relief I felt was palpable. It was like being given a second chance to start my purpose-filled, passion-filled journey.

It’s time to embrace something that has always been difficult for me—change. I need to be fearless and learn to embrace change like a warm hug instead of running from the danger of the unknown. I have to embrace the journey I am on and pray to God that He will be there to catch me if I fall again and to keep me grounded when I finally rise.

Final Thought

In 2016 fear had a strangle hold on me. I was living a lie believing that if I told the truth about my Bipolar diagnosis to my new employer, colleagues and friends I feared rejection, I feared isolation and I feared I would lose my job. I believed my disability was a deficit and a detriment to the new life I was trying to build in a new city. After years of manic episodes, depressive episodes and hospitalizations I convinced myself running from the truth of my circumstances was the only way. I thought reinventing myself based on a lie would keep me safe and would lead to my ultimate success. 

But the opposite occurred, all the lying and deception and running away from my truth took a mental, spiritual and ultimately physical toll on my body. It was my mama that taught me the lesson “Speak the truth and speak it always cost it what it may.” and in 2016 not telling the truth about a significant part of my life cost me my voice. I became lost in a lie and I remember bargaining with God that if I got my voice back I would use it to share the truth about my lived experience with Bipolar disorder, the good, the bad and all the ugly bits in between. That experience taught me how dangerous fear can really be and I am so grateful my temporary paralysis lifted and I’m presently living in the light of my truth. 

A Bipolar Woman’s Self-Reflection on Fear is a series of entries that will allow you a window into my past and insight on my present and the lessons I’ve learned over the years that have put fear in my rearview mirror. 

In this post, I aim to share my journey, illustrating the extremes of a manic episode and the profound effects it had on my life. My hope is that by sharing my story, others might find understanding, connection, and perhaps the courage to seek help.

Understanding Manic Episodes

A manic episode can be described as an extreme and uncontrollable elevation of mood, often accompanied by feelings of excitement or euphoria. For me, the initial surge of energy felt like a spark igniting a fire. I was flooded with ideas, racing thoughts, and an inflated sense of self-esteem. I felt invincible, believing I could accomplish anything. However, as thrilling as it was, I was unaware of the shadows lurking just beneath the surface.

The symptoms of mania are multifaceted. They can manifest as:

• Rapid speech: I found myself talking a mile a minute, unable to slow down or catch my breath.

• Disorganized thoughts: My mind raced, bouncing from one idea to another, making it nearly impossible to focus on anything.

• Delusions of grandeur: I believed I had extraordinary abilities and a purpose that I was destined to fulfill.

• Impulsivity: Financial decisions became reckless, and relationships strained under my new-found bravado.

• Paranoia: I felt as though everyone was watching me, judging my every move.

As my episode progressed, these symptoms intensified, leading to hallucinations and even violent outbursts. It’s a stark reminder that, if left untreated, Mania can escalate into Manic-psychosis, where the boundaries of reality blur dangerously.

Men vs. Women: A Distinct Divide

Research shows that the onset of Mania typically occurs earlier for men, often in adolescence or around 4-5 years before women. Men may experience more intense and frequent manic episodes, while women often grapple with depressive episodes more frequently. For men, aggressive behaviors can surface during Mania, whereas women may experience rapid-cycling or seasonal episodes, leading to a different emotional landscape.

For me, this gendered experience of Bipolar disorder added layers to my understanding of my condition. I often felt caught between the heightened emotions of Mania and the stark reality of Depression, wondering how my experience compared to that of my male counterparts. After experiencing 13 episodes in my lifetime I can classify my Mania as rapid-cycling or seasonal episodes followed directly by severe depressive episodes.

The Triggering Events: A Perfect Storm

My manic episode was precipitated by a series of stressors that I couldn’t have anticipated. On my 22nd birthday, my grandmother passed away, a loss that shattered my emotional foundation. Just eight months later, I lost my other grandmother, compounding my grief and leaving me feeling adrift.

In an attempt to cope, I turned to substances like marijuana, seeking relief from the overwhelming sorrow. But rather than finding solace, I only intensified the storm brewing inside me. I struggled to focus on my final year in university, plagued by insomnia and a deteriorating relationship with my then-boyfriend. It was a perfect storm of emotional upheaval and loss that I didn’t see coming.

What the Episode Looked Like

As I spiraled into my first manic episode, I experienced a barrage of symptoms that became increasingly difficult to manage. Rapid speech turned into disorganized thoughts, and my once coherent conversations devolved into chaotic rants filled with delusions of grandeur. I believed I could change the world, that I had a mission that no one else could comprehend.

In the throes of Mania, my emotions felt like a pendulum swinging wildly. I laughed uncontrollably one moment, only to erupt into tears or anger the next. I remember feeling detached from reality, caught in a dissociative state where nothing felt tangible or grounded. My parents, concerned for my well-being, noticed the drastic changes in my behavior and knew they needed to intervene.

How My Parents Got Involved

My mother was just five minutes away from leaving for her 12-hour nursing shift when my boyfriend at the time reached out to her, desperately conveying how out of control I had become. That call prompted a frantic drive of four hours to Ottawa, where I was living at the time. I was hallucinating, lost in a world that felt all too real yet completely fabricated.

During the drive home, I tried several times to jump out of the moving vehicle, a clear indication of my disorientation and desperation. My mother, a nurse, assessed the gravity of the situation and recognized that I was experiencing a serious psychotic episode. She made the decision to take me to Scarborough General Hospital for psychiatric treatment.

The Hospital Experience

Arriving at the hospital was surreal. I was so far removed from reality that I couldn’t comprehend the seriousness of my condition. The staff deemed me a danger to myself and others, and I was restrained to a bed to prevent any further outbursts or attempts to escape. It was a terrifying experience to be chained to a bed, sedated into a haze of confusion due to the intense psychosis and my prolonged lack of sleep—I hadn’t slept for 52 hours.

When I finally regained consciousness, I found myself in an isolation room, disoriented and frightened. It was here that a psychiatrist diagnosed me with Bipolar I disorder, attributing my episode to substance use. He explained that I was essentially allergic to marijuana, and its use had triggered this manic episode.

Post-Episode: The Depths of Depression

After my manic episode, the reality of Bipolar disorder set in. I faced an extreme and prolonged Depression that left me feeling hollow and isolated. Sleep became my only refuge, and I would often stay in bed for hours, neglecting personal hygiene and losing interest in everything I once loved. I experienced a significant loss of appetite, leading to dramatic weight changes as I transitioned from manic energy to profound lethargy.

Social activities became daunting, and I withdrew from friends and family, fearing their judgment. Suicidal ideations crept in, an ever-present reminder of the darkness that enveloped me. This cycle of Mania followed by crushing Depression left me grappling with the reality of my condition.

The Stigma of Support

Navigating the stigma surrounding mental health proved to be one of the most challenging aspects of my experience. While I knew I was sick and needed help, the thought of entering the mental health system filled me with dread. I didn’t want to be labeled as someone with a mental disability, fearing the societal repercussions.

In the job market, having a mental health condition can feel like a scarlet letter, making it harder to find employment. Insurance applications often discriminate against those with invisible disabilities. When I was well, I felt invisible; but when I became unwell, it was as if my struggles were on display for all to see.

Many people choose to suffer in silence rather than risk the vulnerability that comes with seeking help. The fear of being treated as a second-class citizen in society can be paralyzing, and it often leads individuals to avoid the support they desperately need.

Managing Symptoms and Stressors

I learned that managing my symptoms equated to managing my stress. Self-awareness became crucial; I had to recognize what stressed me out and have the courage to walk away from toxic relationships or situations, whether they involved family, friendships, or even jobs.

I took small steps toward understanding my triggers and incorporating healthy coping mechanisms. Mindfulness practices, journaling, and regular exercise helped ground me. Surrounding myself with understanding friends who offered support without judgment was essential in my journey toward stability.

The Journey Toward Acceptance

Over time, I learned to accept my condition as part of my identity, rather than allowing it to define me. Seeking therapy and engaging in medication management became vital components of my routine. I learned to communicate openly with my loved ones about my struggles and sought to educate them about my condition.

Embracing my journey and sharing my experiences became therapeutic. I realized that breaking the stigma surrounding mental health starts with conversation. I found strength in vulnerability, and it empowered me to advocate for myself and others navigating similar paths.

Final Thoughts

Reflecting on my first manic episode, I realize it was a wake-up call—a moment that reshaped my understanding of myself and my mental health. The experience was both harrowing and enlightening, revealing the importance of community, understanding, and acceptance.

If you find yourself grappling with similar experiences, remember that you are not alone. It takes courage to seek help, to share your story, and to confront the stigma surrounding mental health. Together, we can foster a community of support and understanding, ensuring that no one has to navigate these turbulent waters alone.