When the Battle Ends, Baseline Begins

My Journey Back to Baseline Part 5

It has been a week since my follow-up appointment with Dr. A. Although I had convinced him to let me heal at home, I knew he had reservations about whether I could manage recovery on my own. He seemed pleasantly surprised when I walked into his office last week with Grama Judie by my side, calm and steady, ready to tell him I felt like myself again.

After a few questions about sleep hygiene and impulsivity, even he could see that his patient was on the mend. He told me how proud he was of my progress and recommended I stay on the new sleep medication a little longer until my circadian rhythm was stable. I agreed, admitting that sleep, more than impulsivity, had been my biggest challenge this time.

I was finally out of the woods. It had been a hard fought battle, but I was back to my baseline. For the first time in nearly twenty years of living with bipolar disorder, I felt like I was in control of my mental health, like I was in the driver's seat on my journey toward long term recovery.

Yet even when the battle ends and baseline begins, uncertainty lingers. Each episode, whether hypomania, mania, or psychosis, teaches me something new about who I am and what I am capable of. This most recent episode reminded me of my strength, resilience, and determination. I am a fighter. And with the support of my care team and family, I now know I can meet my mental health goals.

Choosing Healing on My Own Terms

It would have been easier to accept Dr. A's initial recommendation for hospitalization. But something in me knew I needed to try a different path. Healing at home was a risk, yes, but it was a risk worth taking for the sake of my autonomy, my future, and my dreams.

Since my diagnosis, I have often felt powerless, like I was living a life dictated by my illness rather than by choice. Every episode in the past left me feeling like I was slipping further away from myself. But this time, I fought to reclaim control. I chose to believe that recovery could look different, that healing could happen beyond hospital walls.

The Blessing of Baseline

Today, I carry a renewed sense of hope. The challenges that come with bipolar disorder, the highs, lows, impulsivity, and instability, are still part of my life, but they no longer define it. My approach has changed. I now face each cycle with wisdom, patience, and compassion. I have gained a deeper understanding of how this illness operates within me, and I am equipped with tools, structure, and support to face it head on.

I am not alone on this journey. My medical care team, my family, and my support network stand beside me, ready to help me weather whatever storms may come. When the next battle arrives, I will be ready, with faith, awareness, and the knowledge that every struggle brings growth.

Because with every battle comes a blessing, the blessing of baseline, the calm after the storm, and the start of something new.

Recovery, Remission and Redemption

My Journey Back To Baseline Part 4

I have learned a great deal in my two years of remission. I have continued outpatient treatment and I connect with Dr. A regularly for check-ins, medication management, and mental health emergencies. I built structure, routine, and healthy habits that support my emotional wellness. I have managed my medication collaboratively with Dr. A to ensure that I am on the therapeutic combination most likely to prevent bipolar relapse. I have been sober for almost two years, which has been one of the most important factors in stabilizing and protecting my baseline. I have also taken intentional steps to address trauma through psychotherapy. I am pursuing my passions through writing, blogging, and public speaking. I have secured stable housing with the help of my support team of family and friends.

For the first time since my Bipolar I disorder diagnosis in 2006, I was able to identify the trigger that set off this most recent hypomanic episode: excessive travel, exhaustion, and burnout. In the past, episodes escalated before I had any awareness. I would end up in the emergency room where the episode was often misdiagnosed as drug-induced psychosis. I would be admitted to the Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) as an involuntary patient, experience isolation and restraints, and spend no less than two months hospitalized. I would be medicated heavily and discharged quickly, with little understanding of how to maintain my mental health outside the hospital or prevent the same cycle from happening again.

Fast forward to today. Through psychoeducation, trauma work, accountability, and deep self-awareness, I can now recognize triggers for both the highs and the lows of my mood disorder. I knew what was happening in my mind, and I sought help before the episode escalated into mania or psychosis. Over the last three years, I earned Dr. A’s respect through transparency and honesty in our appointments.

So when I arrived with an unconventional request to heal at home rather than in a clinical setting, he took a risk. He trusted my insight and believed in the work I had done to understand my illness. Dr. A has been more than a psychiatrist. He has acted as a collaborator in my healing. We do not always agree, but our relationship is grounded in mutual respect. That respect allows me to have agency over my mental health, something many people living with severe mental illness do not experience.

During the first week of healing at home, I felt like a newborn. My days consisted of showering, eating, sleeping, and sitting outside on my porch for sun and fresh air. I checked in with my support team, especially Grama Judie. I listened to audiobooks, colored, and played music to soothe the noise in my mind. When the doubt became too loud, I turned the music up and danced until I remembered that my body, too, could be a place of healing. I sang loudly, breathed deeply, and held space for myself in ways that were both simple and sacred.

Sleep did not come easy. I feared that at any moment this healing-at-home path could shift, leading me back into hospitalization. I was grateful, but I was also afraid that three weeks would pass and I would still be hypomanic. Mania felt close, like something waiting behind a door. Psychosis felt like a possibility. The medication could only carry me part of the way. The rest required trust, discipline, and faith.

I was not only chasing baseline. I was chasing redemption. If I could return to baseline on my own terms, I would regain my autonomy. I would show the people in my life that my illness did not define me or diminish me. I would show myself that I was capable of self-correction and emotional regulation. I would challenge the belief that hospitalization was the only path to stabilization.

If I returned to baseline with the support of my healthcare team, medication, structure, routine, healthy habits, my family, my friends, and my own relentless commitment to choosing myself each day, then maybe the question would change. Maybe I would not have to chase baseline anymore. Maybe I could begin chasing my dreams.

I would not receive the answer to that question until my follow-up appointment with Dr. A, where he would determine whether hospitalization was still necessary or whether I had found my way back to stability, remission, and the possibility of redemption.

Recovery Challenges and Family Dynamics

My Journey Back to Baseline - Part 3

The weeks that followed my emergency appointment with Dr. A required patience, discipline, and a level of self-trust I had not fully practiced before. I began taking the new antipsychotic as prescribed, accepting that weight gain might be a side effect. I parked Betty White, my Toyota Camry, and committed to staying grounded. I replaced my 5 a.m. gym routine with quiet therapeutic walks. I slowed down. I focused on self-care. I practiced self-compassion, reminding myself that letting go of the rigid daily to-do lists was not failure but healing.

Staying out of "family business" was the most difficult term of my recovery. My mother was diagnosed with dementia in May 2024, and I became her primary caregiver. That role is not just practical but emotional. It means managing appointments, daily check-ins, and being her grounding presence. I also have two nieces who are used to having me close. My family loves me deeply, but even after twenty years of living with Bipolar I disorder, understanding the illness is not the same as living with it. The emotional toll of their worry has often pushed me to pretend I was okay before I was.

Dr. A made it clear that connection, concern, and caretaking could all serve as stress triggers during this stage. It was painful to accept that the people I love could also destabilize me. In the past, I rushed my recovery to reassure them that I was "back," placing their comfort above my wellness. This time, I chose differently. I chose to put my oxygen mask on first. I chose to heal at my own pace and in my own way.

Telling my family that I needed space was not easy. Some understood immediately and checked in gently through text. Others, guided by fear and memories of past episodes, urged me to go to the hospital and "let the doctors handle it." I knew I was taking the harder path. The unfamiliar path. The one that made everyone, including me, uncomfortable. I felt scared and hopeful at the same time. I felt relief.

And I was not alone.

My support team held steady. They believed in my ability to navigate this process at home. They saw my strength, resilience, and insight even on the days I struggled to see it myself. Their encouragement helped me stay grounded, stay committed, and stay open to healing.

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. I finally believed I could take that step without surrendering to the idea that hospitalization was the only road back to stability. I began to rewrite what recovery could look like for me.

Not rushed.
Not reactive.
Not shaped by fear.
But steady, intentional, and mine.

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.

Holding It All Together: Caregiving, Grief, and the Fight for Stability

My Journey Back to Baseline - Part 1

My journey back to baseline has never felt harder than it has in recent weeks. Over the past 20 years of living with this complex and unpredictable illness, I have experienced countless hypomanic, manic, and psychotic episodes. I have been hospitalized for extended periods while doctors worked to guide me through cycles of mood swings, insomnia, and emotional instability. I have always known that psychosis lurks somewhere between my present and my future, an inevitable part of my bipolar cycle on the road to recovery.

Life Lessons Series: The Three Things in Life That You Can’t Get Back Once They Are Gone - My Daddy

Life Lesson #2

Journaling for Bipolar Management: Personal Stories and Tips

By Onika Dainty

Journaling has been a transformative practice in my life, especially as I navigate the complexities of living with Bipolar I disorder. It all began when I was just six years old, after my older cousin gifted me a small pink diary with a heart lock and key. This little diary sparked my journey into storytelling and self-reflection. Writing became my sanctuary, a space where I could express feelings I was too afraid to voice aloud.