Onika L. Dainty

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.