Choosing Between Recovery and Rent

I lay strapped to a hospital bed in the Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU), cut off from the outside world. I didn’t know the day or time until meals arrived, each tray accompanied by a slip of paper telling me my name, location, and menu. Only then did I have any clue what might be happening beyond the cinder-block walls. When psychosis had me in its grip, nothing mattered beyond my next manic thought.

As my mind slowly cleared, I realized life outside had kept moving. Bills still needed paying. Rent was still due. Bipolar disorder demands consistency—structure, routine, and healthy habits can mean the difference between stability and relapse. But when a severe episode leads to long-term hospitalization, maintaining financial consistency becomes nearly impossible.

This is the reality for many living with chronic mental health conditions: the rising cost of housing compounds the struggle to recover. Financial stress and mental health are deeply intertwined.

The Unseen Price Tag of Stability

There’s an invisible cost to stability that many in mental health crises can’t afford. I’ve been fortunate to have the support of family, friends, my mental health mentor Grama Judie, and the income from work during periods of wellness. Others aren’t so lucky.

For many, the choice comes down to paying rent or buying medication. The cost of living—and managing bipolar disorder—rises each year. Private therapy, even on a sliding scale, can be out of reach. Virtual sessions still carry a fee. Add in the cost of transit, gas, and basic necessities, and the expenses pile up.

Living with bipolar disorder often means an inconsistent work history, making income unpredictable. Missed bills, partial payments, or skipped rent become common. The emotional toll—shame, guilt, anxiety—feeds a survivalist mindset where thriving feels impossible. Even when stability returns, another episode may be waiting to unravel it all.

Budgeting While Battling Bipolar

Budgeting with bipolar disorder isn’t just about money—it’s a mental health tool. Cognitive fog during depression can make bill-paying overwhelming. If possible, set up automated payments for essentials like rent, insurance, and utilities before a crisis hits.

For me, mania has led to impulsive spending followed by guilt and anxiety. To counter this, I automate bill payments at the start of the month and move a small “mania spending” budget into a separate account. My mentor acts as my financial accountability partner.

Living on a low income with bipolar disorder is challenging, but not impossible. Create a budget based on guaranteed income, manage supplemental income cautiously, and consider strategies like:

• Separate savings accounts not tied to debit cards
  
  

• “Cash life” budgeting for groceries, gas, and personal spending
  
  

• Early payment of recurring bills
  
  

Survival mode won’t last forever. Structure, routine, and healthy habits around money can lead to both personal and financial growth.

Traditional Homes, Unreachable Dreams

Transitional housing has become a lifeline for many with severe mental illness, especially when hospital discharge is delayed due to homelessness, lack of family support, or loss of income. But the dream of stable, traditional housing often fades in the face of gentrification, rising rents, and strict lease requirements.

Since age 24, I’ve relied briefly on family for housing stability, but have mostly lived in basement apartments, community housing, rent-geared-to-income units, Airbnbs, shelters, and now a transitional home. These weren’t the homes I imagined while working toward my degree in the early 2000s. After my diagnosis, I found myself chasing stability in places where mental health stigma made renting difficult, often trading safety for affordability.

Eventually, transitional housing became the goal—traditional housing, the dream. Even now, in a stable program with potential for permanency, I know the decision to keep me here isn’t mine. By definition, transitional programs are temporary. I could be moved at any time, forced to rebuild the stability I’ve worked years to create.

For many living with bipolar disorder, housing instability is not a temporary setback—it’s a recurring reality.

Final Thoughts — Health vs. Housing: Why Should We Have to Choose?

How do you choose between mental health stability and housing security? There’s no justice in that choice. As the World Health Organization reminds us, “mental health is health.” Without mental stability, even securing a roof over your head becomes nearly impossible.

Safe, stable housing is essential to recovery. It provides space for rest, healing, self-reflection, and planning. Without it, recovery from bipolar disorder, trauma, or addiction becomes far harder—and communities feel the ripple effects. It’s a domino effect of impossible choices and unnecessary sacrifices.

Recovery requires rest. Rest requires security. I’ve lived both realities—housing stability and housing insecurity. Remission isn’t a choice; it’s a necessity. Stability makes it possible, and for too many, it remains out of reach.

A Bipolar Woman’s Lived Experience with Transitional Housing

A House with No Peace

I moved into my first transitional home in March 2023 after two months in a shelter clouded by fear and hopelessness. I thought a new space would bring peace, a break from the chaos. But what I found was a shared basement apartment—split by a laundry room—and on the other side lived a mother and her two teenagers, all struggling with untreated mental illness.

Above me lived three women navigating drug addiction. Their late-night parties brought loud guests who knocked on my back door, yelling words I couldn’t understand—but feared deeply.

For someone living with Bipolar Disorder, home must be a place of calm. I began wedging chairs under my doors at night, trying to simulate safety. But I never truly felt safe. The noise, the footsteps above, the emotional tension—I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t heal.

This post explores the emotional toll of shared transitional housing—especially when your neighbors’ mental health struggles mirror or magnify your own.

Living in Limbo: When Shelter Doesn’t Feel Like Safety

For many, home is healing. It's where stress lifts and rest begins. But when your home is unstable—loud, chaotic, unpredictable—it becomes the opposite. Even with a roof over my head, I struggled with emotional and mental instability.

When home doesn’t feel safe, recovery becomes fragile. For those of us with Bipolar I Disorder, the ability to maintain sleep is crucial. Poor sleep disrupts brain function and triggers symptoms like paranoia, racing thoughts, appetite changes, medication mismanagement, or physical exhaustion. I experienced all of these.

Living in that first transitional home, I endured four hospitalizations between March and August 2023. I felt stuck—trapped between choosing homelessness or risking my mental stability.

Eventually, I was moved into a new triplex with a private entrance. It was beautiful, with real potential—but the chaos followed. Neighbours with untreated mental illness and substance use created a space filled with tension, volatility, and fear.

Still, this is where healing finally began. After a ninth hospitalization in late 2023, I started to reclaim myself. Trauma counselling, new medication, and deep rest gave me tools I didn’t have before. I returned to my transitional home with boundaries, support systems, and the strength to maintain wellness—despite my surroundings.

I no longer felt like I was living in limbo. I was finally present—and hopeful for the future.

Coping Strategies When You Can’t Change Your Environment

If you or someone you love is in transitional housing, here are strategies that helped me manage my mental health in unsafe or unpredictable environments:

• Focus on the Familiar - Surround yourself with comforting people and objects. Stay connected to your support team—therapists, doctors, friends, and family. Familiar voices can ground you.

• Build Structure & Routine - Create small rituals: daily walks, bedtime routines, mindfulness practices, or journaling. Healthy habits anchor you when everything else feels unstable.

• Set Boundaries - Learn to recognize who feels safe to be around. Not everyone in these environments will have your best interest in mind. Protect your time, energy, finances, and emotions.

• Seek Support - Reach out to professionals or peer support networks. You are not alone. Shared stories can inspire strength and offer new tools for growth.

Even when the outside world is uncontrollable, inner routines can give you power.

Seeking Autonomy: Planning for a True Sense of Home

Housing insecurity is a chapter—not your whole story.

Finding independence while living with Bipolar Disorder is hard, but not impossible. Before I left my shelter bed each morning, I’d repeat this mantra:
“You are peaceful, protected, loved, blessed, and highly favored. This is only for now, not forever. So get up, Onika, and get to work.”

That mantra became my compass. I gathered housing lists, connected with counselors, and accepted my reality. I stopped longing for the life I once had—family homes, comfort, material stability—and started building what I truly valued: peace, safety, and space to grow.

Today, home means something new. It’s a place I can breathe. It doesn’t need to be perfect—just mine. And when the time comes to transition into permanent housing, I’ll do so with clarity and a stronger sense of who I am and what I need.

Final Thought: Sometimes the Hardest Place to Heal Is Where You Sleep

In 42 years, I’ve lived in many places:
In Guyana, where I felt safe in my family’s arms.
In Toronto, where I shared joy with my parents.
In Ottawa, where laughter and heartbreak coexisted with friends.
In Ajax, where holidays brought warmth and love.

And now—here. In a small transitional space with a rainbow-hued living room and a red armchair where I write this very blog. It’s not permanent. But it’s mine.

Even in discomfort, clarity can grow—clarity about what you deserve, what you need, and how to name your truth.

It’s not just the walls that protect you. It’s your mindset. Your rituals. Your community. Your journey to mental wellness.

To my readers:

Reflect on how the people we live with can shape our sense of safety—more than the walls around us ever could.

The first night I spent in a shelter came after a 72-hour hold in a psychiatric unit. I was still mid-mania—hearing voices, paranoid, and overstimulated. The flickering fluorescent lights, the shuffle of strangers outside my door, and the clanging pipes in the walls felt threatening. At 11:00 p.m., the lights went out. But sleep didn’t come easily. I curled into a ball on the top bunk, silent tears running down my face. I realized: I no longer had a home. This shelter bed was it.

That was episode eight out of thirteen manic-psychotic episodes I’ve experienced so far. Mania is an emotionally explosive ordeal that can last weeks or months, leaving behind confusion, guilt, and exhaustion for both the person and their loved ones. Recovery typically takes 6–8 weeks—and requires peace and stability. Neither of those is easy to find in the chaos of a homeless shelter.

This blog explores what it means to reclaim mental clarity, dignity, and self-worth while navigating bipolar disorder recovery in short-term transitional housing. It’s my lived experience—and it may reflect the reality of many others still trying to find their way back from the in-between.

Navigating the Noise: Recovering from Mania in a Homeless Shelter

The one thing I remember most about shelter life was the noise—constant and unrelenting. Even at night, the old building echoed with sounds: pipes banging, doors slamming, conversations at all hours. Privacy was nonexistent. Healing felt impossible.

Every morning at 5:00 a.m., I would quietly climb down from my bunk, my body still aching from restraints and trauma. I’d stretch on a small patch of floor—my first attempt at creating routine. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Recovering from mania in a homeless shelter was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I was surrounded by women hardened by survival—many also dealing with mental illness, addiction, and housing insecurity. Trust was rare, softness even rarer. These were women who had spent years on the streets and only came to shelters when the cold became unbearable.

I’m someone who wants to help others. But in that moment, I had to focus on protecting myself—emotionally, physically, mentally. There’s a certain shame and hopelessness that comes with being mentally ill and unhoused. Still, I had people in my corner—my tribe—cheering me on from a distance. That helped me survive the noise.

Small Rituals, Big Impact: Coping Strategies for Bipolar Disorder in Transitional Housing

After a few weeks, the fog began to lift. My mornings started with deep breathing, stretching, and journaling at the kitchen table before the noise of the day took over. These grounding rituals helped me feel safe in a place that often wasn’t.

Shelter life had its own rhythm. I’d make coffee while a staff member cooked breakfast. Lunch followed at noon. After dinner, each resident was assigned a cleaning task—kitchen, bathroom, or living room duties.

I began to make small choices to support my healing: eating better, wearing clothes that made me feel like myself, getting my hair and nails done with help from Grama Judie, and going to church on Sundays to remember that God still had a plan for me.

During the day, I worked from the business office searching for housing, making calls to mental health programs, and putting myself on waitlists for case management. With two weeks left at the shelter, I secured both a transitional housing unit and a dedicated mental health worker.

Coping with bipolar disorder in transitional housing required structure, routine, and flexibility. It meant showing up daily, choosing peace over chaos, and creating new habits in a temporary space. It also meant believing that things could, and would, get better.

Support Looks Different Here: Mental Health in Shelter Communities

In shelters, support looks different—and sharing too much can put you at risk. Vulnerability is necessary for healing, but it can also open doors to exploitation. Material envy, emotional manipulation, or trauma bonding are real dangers in this environment.

Setting boundaries is key. Be mindful of what you share and with whom. Choose connections rooted in mutual respect and emotional safety. These relationships may not be lifelong, but they can serve as powerful reminders that you're not alone in your fight for recovery.

Not every person in a shelter is safe to trust. But some will surprise you with their kindness, their grit, and their capacity to understand. Build wisely.

Final Thought: Recovery Isn’t Linear—Especially in a Shelter

Recovery doesn’t follow a straight path. It’s messy, unpredictable, and often nothing like you imagined. Mine was public, painful, humbling—and ultimately, transformative.

My time in the shelter system wasn’t what I wanted. But it gave me something I needed: a new perspective, self-awareness, and undeniable proof that I could survive instability and build stability anyway.

To the women I met there—the ones who challenged me, supported me, and reminded me of who I am—thank you. You’re a part of my story now.