Mental illness is complex. I share my story in the hope that it may offer understanding, resonance, and support.
I was diagnosed with Bipolar I and institutionalized twenty years ago. The trauma of my sister’s illness and death intensified imbalances that were already present, sending me into extreme highs, lows, and hallucinations—some cycles more severe than others. I also sustained a head injury in a car accident, which may have contributed to the disorder. I chose not to take medication, and the path I walked with all its risks and lessons became one of my greatest teachers.
The first step was giving up drugs and alcohol. They promised relief but only carried me further from my authentic self. I used them to avoid feeling and to try to fit into a world I didn’t understand. They deeply affected my brain chemistry. Letting them go became my foundation—the stable ground where I finally found my feet.
I have always been highly sensitive to energy — moods, atmospheres, shifts in rooms. When I closed my eyes, colors moved through me like the ocean. Bliss and euphoria could engulf me. My body often felt unreal, as if I hovered beside it, never fully inside my earth suit. I would tap my toes on the floor just to be sure I was here.
As my sister’s death approached, everything amplified. My life became consumed with signs, symbols, and synchronicities, while ordinary life slipped further away.
From a young age, I learned to dissociate—disappearing became my coping mechanism. Whenever I didn’t feel safe, I left my body. I now understand that I felt less when I wasn’t in it, and when I wasn’t in my body, I was often lost in my mind. Once I became aware that I was a chronic overthinker, I began the work of quieting my mind.
I am deeply sensitive and empathetic, yet I had no map for boundaries or self-care. The world rarely made sense; what I was told didn’t match what I felt. I often thought I lived in the twilight zone. Distance became my protection.
My life was a roller coaster of emotion. I cried because everything felt exquisitely beautiful—or because nothing did. I absorbed outside energies like a sponge and became easily overwhelmed. People would say, “Go outside, get grounded.” Yet nature often lifted me higher—the colors, the smells, the sounds, the plants and animals, the gifts I would find. I went into sensory overload and returned home more open than before I left.
Seasons, planetary movement, caffeine, food, sleep, noise, screens, social interaction—everything affected me. I learned to be selective about what I took on knowing how quickly I could be thrown off balance. I did things early in the morning, giving myself time to come down. I still prefer quiet evenings, allowing my nervous system to settle before bed.
I learned to notice the early whispers of a cycle before it became a storm. I consciously created new habits, and over time my brain chemistry changed. I can still access the energy I once lived in, but in a completely different way. It’s no longer just there—I move inward with intention from a grounded space which translates differently. What went up no longer had to crash back down.
The unhealed pieces I had left behind didn’t disappear—they waited for me. They resurfaced in old patterns, fixed beliefs, choices, and relationships. Meeting those parts was often grueling. I sat with them again and again until I emerged changed, carrying deeper understanding and a wider perspective.
Eventually, I learned to welcome the process. The beautiful mosaic of my heart became its own kind of medicine, no matter how it arrived. Whether it challenged or comforted me, whether I walked in light or stumbled through the dark—every part was teaching me.
I learned to trust what each piece was offering. I was filling in the cracks with gold.
Writing became automatic—the necessary expression of my soul. Later, I learned it was helping to rewire my brain. It gave me a place to put everything, a way to release and integrate at the same time. With stillness, focus, and awareness, I unraveled myself year after year. I remembered who I was before the world told me who to be.
I discovered that I thrive in quiet spaces, soothing music, minimal stress, healing waters, and meaningful connection. Sharing and creating—through art and writing—fills me up. I am blessed with a kind, supportive partner who has walked beside me without judgment. Peace and calm are essential to my well-being and I have spent years cultivating it.
Self-care is non-negotiable. When I feel off, I turn inward and ask what needs adjusting. I continue refining how I care for myself so I can remain grounded, clear, connected, and centered. I recognize when I have given my power away—when I have allowed the noise of the outside world to pull me from my inner sanctuary.
Nature and Spirit walk with me, guiding me home. Belonging has settled deep into my bones. My connection to everything is something I sense, see, and feel always. To be an empath is a gift. To leave my body only with purpose and intention, rather than out of fear is an even greater one. It returns me to the Here and Now—the name of my late sister Mary’s clothing line, the present moment, the only place where I am free.
