Onika L. Dainty

I remember the exact moment my caseworker told me I had 30 days left in my first transitional home. My stomach dropped. Words failed me. I’d only been there six months—though four of those were spent recovering from multiple bipolar episodes, trying to claw my way back to stability.

Questions flooded in:
Was my instability the reason? Did my mental health mean I no longer qualified? Was I headed back to the shelter system?

She explained the whole house was being evicted due to the property’s sale. They were looking for a new space, but with limited options, nothing was guaranteed. I left that conversation with no plan, no income, and no idea where I would be in a month.

Transitional housing is meant to be a bridge—but sometimes that bridge ends before you’ve reached solid ground. For those living with bipolar disorder, the timing can feel especially cruel.

The Illusion of Time: When Transitional Becomes Temporary

Many unhoused individuals hear “you have a place” and think the chaos is over. Relief floods in: no more streets, no more shelter, just rest and recovery.

But transitional housing is always temporary—three months, six months, maybe a year. You trade one uncertainty for another. For me, stability—however fleeting—was still better than the nightmare of being unhoused. I convinced myself the time wouldn’t run out.

But mental health recovery doesn’t fit neatly into housing deadlines. Healing from trauma, bipolar episodes, and instability can take years. The countdown clock only adds pressure, forcing you to “be ready” before you truly are.

The Emotional Fallout of Another Ending

Housing loss has an emotional cost—panic, shame, insecurity, and grief, much like a breakup or death. You wonder if you’re “too slow” or “not good enough,” wishing recovery could happen faster.

I thought paying rent and healing was enough. It wasn’t. I had no control over the sale, no say in my eviction, and no certainty about my future.

Being forced to leave without a plan can reignite old trauma. For those with a recent history of homelessness, like me, the fear is sharper—you know too well what chaos lies beyond that deadline.

In the unknown, hope is replaced by anxiety and darkness. Your future feels hidden, unsettled, and unsafe.

The Search: Scrambling for Stability Before the Exit

After my eviction notice, I scrambled—adding my name to waitlists, contacting rentals I couldn’t afford, facing rejection after rejection. I wasn’t well enough to work, keep up with appointments, search for low-income housing, and manage my bipolar disorder all at once.

In desperation, I even messaged the landlord, pleading to stay. His refusal—steeped in stigma—left me crushed.

The last two weeks were spent in bed, consumed by depression and fear. Would I end up back in the shelter? Hospitalized? On the street?

Days before eviction, my caseworker found another transitional space. Relief came, but so did resentment—being placed last minute made me feel more like a file than a human being.

What Support Should Look Like—And Often Doesn’t

Housing support for mental health recovery should be holistic. Transitional housing should come with wraparound services—therapy, counseling, peer mentorship, and case management.

Too often, systems are disjointed. A shelter case manager may not connect with a transitional housing case manager. Without coordinated care, healing becomes temporary, not transformative.

Trauma from mental illness, addiction, or abuse needs more than a bed. Without the right support, reintegration into the community—the very goal of transitional housing—is rarely achieved.

My success now is due to self-advocacy. Once I realized my healing depended on me, I secured the services I needed during my stay.

Final Thought: Housing Is a Human Right—Not a Privilege

In my new transitional home, I learned that housing stability isn’t simply given—it’s fought for daily. The clock always runs out, and if you’re not prepared, you can fall back into uncertainty.

For months, I lived out of boxes, afraid to unpack. Eventually, I let go of fear, embraced my temporary space, and made it my own—painting walls pink, filling shelves with books, creating comfort where I could.

Housing is a human right. In our current system, it’s too often treated as a privilege, especially for those with mental health challenges. Without safe, stable housing, it’s nearly impossible to achieve emotional stability, financial security, or lasting wellness.

To my readers: Have you ever had to leave before you were ready? What would safety and support look like if it truly supported healing?

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.