Onika L. Dainty

 “You treat men like disposable objects, like trash, you hurt them, men like me who want love and relationships with your destructive behaviours. You made up this stupid word ‘situationships’ to exempt you from being responsible for how your actions affect the other person. You hate men, you use them and abuse them and I’m sorry you were raped so much but maybe you should deal with your problems before you engage in another relationship, maybe you should try being a worthwhile person who deserves love…” 

Michael, which is not actually his name but for the sake of confidentiality it’s what I am going to call him, had so much more to say and he said it with a certain and violent anger as if he and I had been engaged in one of these situationships and he was the man I had hurt, used and abuse instead of meeting in January 2025 online for the first time  at least that's how it came across to me. I have been in a Cognitive Processing Therapy group for the last 10 weeks attempting to understand how my past trauma has affected my present life and interpersonal relationships. I was told in my intake last December 2024, that an unusual occurrence had happened in this intake where there were more men wanting to address their trauma than the organization had seen in many years. My psychotherapist realized because of the nature of my trauma, Gender-Based Violence, I may experience some discomfort with their presence. I was determined to join however not 100% comfortable with the idea but willing to explore it.

For the first 5 or 6 weeks I barely said anything, I just sat in my big red  chair, well mannered and well groomed, listening to the other group members share some of the most horrific traumas outside of my own that I had ever heard. I empathized with all of them but I kept quiet only speaking when asked to share my weekly emotions during check-in and my group take-away during check-out. I realized around session seven that I was not only afraid to share my trauma with the men in the group I was terrified of their judgement and rejection. 

Every week a member of the group would go over our homework worksheet where the three facilitators would help us understand our “Stuck Points” (the elements of the trauma that was keeping us in the trauma rather than moving forward and healing). Every week I would try to do some of the homework and I would fail, not because I didn’t find it relevant or useful but because I had avoided and covered up my pain and trauma so long it was like it was never even there like a picture you hang over a giant hole in your wall instead of fixing the wall, you know there is damage there but the pretty picture covers it so well you forget. I feel with my lack of engagement in the group perhaps Michael could only see the pretty picture I presented and not the giant empty and hollow hole of trauma that lived inside me. 

By week eight I made up my mind to share my homework and thus share my story with the group. I can remember the day of group, March 17, 2025 and what my stuck point was: “When there are too many men in a room with me, especially if they are intoxicated, I can’t control the situation and I will be attacked and raped because all men are dangerous and capable of rape.” When my group facilitator asked me why I felt this way, a watershed of emotional blockage came unstuck and I told the group everything. I was molested as a child, I was gang-raped at 14-years old by five boys in highschool, I was raped at 18-years old by my boyfiend and I was drugged and raped at 27-years old by a stranger I met at a club. This is the trauma I carry inside of me and the narrative that goes with it is: 

“All men are dangerous and even if you are attracted to them, the minute you lose control of the situation aka situationship run far, run fast, do something destructive to push them away because they will destroy you anyway so don’t give them your power ever again.”  

I didn’t realize I felt this way until week eight when I shared my trauma with the group. I believed these feelings were in the past and I could explain all my self-destructive behaviours related to men by placing the label of Mania or Psychosis in Bipolar disorder on it. The truth is however, as angry, hurt and embarrassed as I was over what Michael screamed in my face during group last week there is also a sense of release and self-discovery because for the first time since therapy started I had a breakthrough. I don’t agree with most of what he said or how he said it but I must honour the mirror he put up to my face. 

When I look at myself in that mirror I see a woman with decades of unaddressed trauma who avoids relationships because she is afraid and does not feel worthy of love because she is damaged. I see a woman who doesn’t feel safe anywhere, not even in her own home; I see a woman that sexualizes herself so men will find her worthwhile; lastly I see a little girl who got dealt a bad hand but has grown into a strong person who is trying to release the lifetime of pain she's been carrying in her mind, body and spirit. I don’t know where my trauma healing journey will lead me and I don’t know if my fellow group member is correct in saying stay away from men until you heal (kinder way of rephrasing). I do know everyday I fall a little more in-love with myself, everyday I feel a little stronger, everyday I feel a little more worthy and at peace with myself and everyday I feel closer to the ultimate goal of self-love and forgiveness. I may never heal to the point of being in a loving partnership, it may be me and all my journals for the rest of my life (I have no animals yet) either way I’m excited to find out.

If this self-reflection was as hard for you to read as it was for me to write, reach out, leave kind comments as its been a hell of a week, let’s connect, let’s have a conversation that takes us beyond the stigma of trauma to a place of healing, forgiveness and self-love.  

I know you must be wondering where I disappeared to after my last post on January 9, 2025. The honest truth is I needed a mental health break. After my cousin’s passing in November 2024 and my travels to my home country of Guyana, South America I was mentally, physically and emotionally depleted. Although I had a wonderful time back home reconnecting with family and friends I was struggling with managing my mental health and maintaining my normal routine. The excitement of travel, being in a new environment, lack of sleep and mismanaging my medication (taking them at odd and inconsistent hours) threw me into a three-day manic episode. Historically, I have never had such a short period of Mania but the evidence was clear: excessive energy after a few hours sleep, racing thoughts, pressured speech, hyperspending and risky behaviour. After a few good nights of sleep and going back on my regular schedule for taking my medication I was able to manage the symptoms and fortunately I went back to baseline. 

When I returned home however, I was physically and mentally exhausted. My mood dipped into a depression and I had no energy or motivation to do the tasks I love like writing my blog. I also had to prepare myself mentally for what was upcoming, specifically starting my trauma treatment therapy. I didn’t stay down for long though, I got into gear by starting to rebuild my structure, routine and habits that are so important to my mental wellness. This included my daily to do lists, a new nutritional plan where I cook (yes I cook now) and eliminate processed foods (so no more DoorDash takeout) and I started going to the gym five days a week in the mornings and walking 3-5 miles on the treadmill. All of these habits–some new, some old, have helped me increase my energy, helped with my sleep hygiene and helped me find my motivation especially for writing to all the readers who have supported me through my journey.

So, I’m back! I can’t promise you I won’t need a break again because unfortunately Bipolar disorder can be unpredictable. What I can promise is that I will keep you updated with self-reflections on how I’m doing because I know you care, I know I’m not alone and we are on this journey together. Look out for my February 1 blog in recognition of the start of Black History Month.

Truly Yours,

Onika the Bipolar Butterfly.

It is well past midnight and right outside the bolted window all I can see is darkness. The lights from buildings and the flicker of headlights visible only through the rod iron mesh meant to keep me in, keep me safe from myself. The mesh makes the outside world look as if it is caught in a fisherman’s net, trapped, unable to escape. The truth is that I am the one trapped and unable to move. Still, I think of escaping into the darkness beyond my barricaded window.

Even in the darkness I can sense new life forming. Trees pushing through the black earth, rising above the green grass until their branches bloom and breathe. Even the branches know there is nowhere to go but up toward the sky, toward freedom. At this moment I envy those trees. I envy their path to the heaven of the sky. I envy the seeds they sow, that bloom into beautiful buds that grow fearlessly. I envy their right to exist when all my rights have been taken away, when my feet are strapped to a metal bed frame making freedom impossible.

I look to my left to see soundproof, bullet proof, unbreakable glass. Still, I hear the cries for help and the violent rattle of chains, and I am reminded— Although the sun is starting to rise over my right shoulder, insanity waits for me over my left. As night turns to day and the sky goes from black to morning’s indigo I remember I am not outside these four walls where freedom lives and my right to exist is unquestioned. Instead, I am in a dimly lit, locked room, strapped to a bed, on a 72-hour hold in the Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit of the hospital’s tenth floor.

Final Thought

The loss of my freedom is my biggest fear. While hospitalized I spend a majority of my stay strapped to hospital beds, shackled by my arms, chest and legs, unable to move, panicking and unable to catch my breath. There is no pretty picture I can paint of this barbaric experience. Whether it occurs because my sharp tongue has offended the staff or as an arbitrary solution to a non-existent problem it's wrong and inhuman and I have the right to feel fear. This is a fear that is born of past trauma that has gone unexamined by the individuals that wield the power to restrain me. I can’t find neutral words, or hope in a system that uses these tactics to subdue patients. There is no kindness in this process, there is no empathy, just cruelty and It is one of my greatest objectives to abolish this practice in Ontario hospitals. I feel fear recalling and reflecting on my experiences with restraints but I also feel a sense of determination and obligation to my fellow men and women who still have to endure this savage practice. 

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. 

Coming Soon