National Shattering Silence Coalition - BLOG

Two Paths, One Truth: Why We Compiled 20 Stories to Light the Path Forward in SMI Care

Tue, 06 Oct 2026 17:31:15 GMT

For too long, the severe mental illness (SMI) movement has been fractured by a destructive false binary. We are told that family caregivers and individuals living with SMI must operate in opposition—that we must choose between civil liberties and high-acuity medical care, or between family authority and peer recovery.

At the National Shattering Silence Coalition (NSSC) and the Right to Care (R2C) Peer Alliance, we refuse that division.

Family caregivers and recovered peers are two sides of the exact same coin. A family’s relentless fight for accountability is what keeps a loved one alive through the dark fog of anosognosia. A recovered peer’s lived authority is the ultimate proof that timely medical intervention restores human potential.

When we unite family ground-truth with peer authority, we create an unbroken continuum of care that no broken system can ignore.

Today, NSSC is officially publishing our landmark qualitative and quantitative evidence synthesis: "Two Paths, One Truth."

We gathered 20 first-person, ground-truth accounts published across the NSSC Network: 10 Treatment Saves peer recovery journeys and 10 Neglect Costs family accounts. By mapping these lived experiences side-by-side, the evidence reveals a singular, undeniable truth: the difference between long-term recovery and catastrophic system failure is a choice in policy and care continuity.

Qualitative & Quantitative Evidence Synthesis

The national debate surrounding severe mental illness (SMI) care is too often divided between abstract policy arguments and isolated crisis responses. This master synthesis unites 20 ground-truth, first-person accounts published on the NSSC Blog Network, 10 Treatment Saves peer journeys and 10 Neglect Costs family accounts.

By mapping these lived experiences side-by-side, the evidence proves a singular reality: the difference between long-term recovery and catastrophic system failure is a choice in policy and care continuity. Timely medical intervention restores human potential and generates measurable public cost savings, while systemic neglect drives a revolving door of emergency visits, incarceration, and preventable death that costs taxpayers hundreds of thousands of dollars per individual.

Direct Side-by-side Comparison

Key Quantitative Data Comparison

Data & Methodology Note: Financial metrics in the Neglect Costs analysis are calculated using case-by-case empirical data documented across the 10 published NSSC family accounts, cross-referenced with official state and municipal fiscal reports. Public costs include localized daily incarceration rates (e.g., $140–$150/day in Maricopa County up to $1,500+/day in New York City), annualized state psychiatric hospital competency holds (e.g., Napa State Hospital rates exceeding $300,000/year per patient), and acute crisis medical expenses (ambulance transports, emergency department triage, and uncoordinated short-term hospitalizations averaging $55,000–$150,000+ per crisis cycle).

Core Systemic Commonalities & Key Findings

1. Anosognosia Requires External Accountability Before Choice Is Possible

Neglect Path: Severe brain crises impair illness recognition. Systems treat this symptom as "refusal of care," abandoning individuals until an arrest or tragedy occurs.
Treatment Path: Court-anchored Assisted Outpatient Treatment (AOT) and firm family boundaries provide an essential safety net, preserving physical safety until medical care restores cognitive clarity.

2. Incarceration Destroys Human Potential; Clinical Diversion Restores It

Neglect Path: Warehousing individuals in county jails while awaiting months or years for "competency restoration" inflicts profound medical trauma and permanently disrupts employment and education.
Treatment Path: Diverting individuals away from law enforcement intake directly into clinical psychiatric care stops the revolving door and enables long-term community rehabilitation.

3. Family Engagement Is a Public Safety Strategy

Neglect Path: Weaponizing HIPAA laws to shut out family caregivers leads directly to unmonitored discharges, homeless street cycles, and tragic outcomes.
Treatment Path: Recognizing families as essential partners in care ensures clinical history is utilized, discharge plans are maintained, and early warning signs are caught before crisis occurs.

Claim Your Seat at the Table

As R2C advocate Chandler Groce rightly noted: "Peer recovery is not an accident of willpower; it is the direct outcome of timely, specialized medical intervention, structured continuity of care, and multi-layered community support."

This synthesis serves as the foundation for our 2027 Policy Blueprint: The Human Dignity & Care Continuity Standard and our R2C Peer Audit Tool, which brings recovered peers into acute psychiatric units and AOT courts to enforce safety, dignity, and care continuity.

We invite you to read all 20 individual accounts written by the brave peers and families who shared their ground-truth to spare others the same heartbreak.

Together, we are turning ripples of hope into an unstoppable tide.

📥 Help Us Build the Definitive Case for Care: Submit Your Story

Our evidence base grows stronger with every story shared. Whether you are a family member navigating the high cost of systemic neglect or a peer whose life was reclaimed through timely medical care, your voice is essential to driving statutory reform.

Help us expand our Treatment Saves and Neglect Costs evidence library:

👉 SUBMIT YOUR GROUND-TRUTH STORY HERE

Together, your lived experience provides the proof policymakers cannot ignore.

AuthorS

By the NSSC Leadership & Right to Care (R2C) Peer Alliance Executive Team
Kerry Martin, SVP, Strategy & Impact, NSSC | Founder & Co-Chair, R2C Peer Alliance
Alana Grant, Head of Education & Research, R2C Peer Alliance
Sean Johnson, Head of Storytelling & Media, R2C Peer Alliance
Matt P., Head of Peer Engagement, R2C Peer Alliance

Treatment Saves: Finding Stability Beyond the Shadow of Untreated Bipolar

Tue, 15 Sep 2026 20:07:13 GMT

Fourteen years after my diagnosis, reflecting on the chaotic search for the right care, the tribe that held me up, and why I’m glad I stayed.

The Weight of Untreated Memories

It’s hard to wrap my mind around today, and my heart feels heavy. Facebook memories are an interesting thing. Sometimes they make you reflect on really happy moments, funny memories, or silly things you’ve posted in the past. Other times, they bring up the painful chapters.

This time around, I was reminded that I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder around this time 14 years ago. The memories of living untreated are intense. Hearing my diagnosis for the first time, wrestling with the feelings that followed, and speaking hard truths out loud for the very first time—it is a lot to process.

Behind the Happy Picture

The hardest memory that popped up yesterday widened my eyes and brought tears to my face. Looking at the photo, it looks like a happy family picture from a great concert. But the reality behind it is that I barely remember it because I was so intoxicated and high. I was trying so hard to live on the outside because I was dying on the inside—lost, alone, and drowning in deep depression. Before receiving proper medical care, turning to self-medication was a desperate attempt to cope with a brain that was wired and out of control.

During that season, I created the Warrior Boutique, an "upscale garage sale" to raise mental health awareness and donate funds to a local non-profit. My tribe helped me bring that vision to life. Little did I know that just two weeks after that event, I would be checking myself into a psychiatric hospital.

Searching for Anything to Stay Alive

Back then, I’d often ask my best friend Justin to take me flying in his four-seater plane. I craved the rush of adrenaline. It was my desperate, natural response to find anything to keep living—anything to avoid going to a behavioral health facility.

I stayed in constant contact with my family and my tribe, letting them know I was suicidal while trying to reassure them (and myself) that medication trial number 41 would finally be the one to pull me out of my personal hell.

That wasn’t the case. Trying over 41 different medication combinations within three chaotic years was not working for my depressive episode. Every single day, I told myself, "This next medication will be the one." I delayed hospital care as long as I could, clinging to my safety plan until I couldn't hold on any longer.

Generational Pain and Lifelines That Held Me

My dog, Abner, was my absolute lifeline. Day in and day out, he was there for me. Even when he couldn't understand what was happening, he kept saving my life. I kept thinking: If I leave this earth, he will search for me for the rest of his life. No one will ever love him the way I do.

Abner and my family kept me tethered here, even when my depression brain convinced me everyone would be better off without me.

Reflecting on my family, I think about the generations before me—like my maternal grandfather, who struggled with his own mental health and died by suicide. Receiving his journals years later, filled with raw reflections and quiet pleas for help, echoed my own moments of despair when words wouldn't form out loud and writing became my only voice. It reminded me how deep these genetic roots go, but also how critical it is to break the cycle through open conversation and proper medical treatment.

Eventually, I made a deal with my tribe: If I still feel like I can’t hang on, I will admit myself right after this concert. Music has saved my life countless times across my 35 years. I needed one more taste of feeling alive through music before walking into Adam’s Memorial Behavioral Health.

When Real Treatment Finally Saved My Life

The day after the concert, the darkness hadn't lifted. My brain was still in severe depression, and I knew it was time. I couldn't fight these dark thoughts alone anymore.
Admitting myself to the hospital directly saved my life because it led me to a medical provider who actually LISTENED to me.

In the middle of that stay, I learned that I actually had a voice to stand up for myself, my well-being, and my brain health. Treatment didn't just stabilize me—it taught me how to advocate for my own care.

The Multi-Layered Foundation of Recovery

Without my family, friends, and tribe, I know I would not be here today to tell this story. Saving a life from severe mental illness takes a comprehensive, multi-layered approach:

Targeted Medication & Medical Care (the tools that saved my life)
Compassionate Medical Professionals
Ongoing Psychotherapy & Self-Awareness
Creative Outlets (journaling, painting, and art as medicine to externalize inner chaos)
Faith & Hope
Unconditional Family & Friend Support
Education, Books, & Self-Knowledge

Equally important were the people who weren't afraid to ask real questions about my diagnosis—asking how my symptoms felt, how bipolar impacted my daily life, and how they could help. Those simple questions, asked from a place of genuine curiosity and love, allowed me to feel seen, accepted, and heard.

Choosing Medical Care Over Untreated Chaos

The truth about Bipolar Disorder is that just when you think you have complete control, you realize you don't. You can have all the therapy, knowledge, and medication in the world, and your brain chemistry can still attempt to override your hard work.

Maintaining stability is a lifelong commitment. Managing Bipolar Disorder is exhausting, but I would rather fight for stability with proper medical care than live my life in pure, untreated chaos. Treatment saves lives—it saved mine.

Life with severe mental illness isn't always lived day by day; sometimes we have to navigate it moment by moment. Bipolar is a challenging condition to battle, but by gaining self-awareness, communicating what bipolar looks like for us individually, and leaning on treatment, we can ride the waves and build a meaningful life.

I am here. My feet are grounded. I am living, learning, and managing this diagnosis every single day. My heart is endlessly grateful to those who continue to love me through the good and the bad. Your support changed my life, and I will always pay that love forward by transforming pain into purpose to help whoever I can.

Thank you for showing up for me. I’m so glad I stayed.

Note from Kerry Martin, Bipolar 1 Survivor, right to Care Alliance Co-Chair, SVP of Strategy and Impact

This post is a raw, unvarnished look at the grueling reality so many of our peers face when navigating severe mental illness: trial number 41 of medications over three torturous years, the exhaustion of fighting severe depression, and the desperate delay of hospital care out of fear and stigma.

It highlights the exact reason why our Treatment Saves campaign exists.

Too often, families and individuals are left to navigate a broken trial-and-error system alone, relying on sheer luck, dedicated loved ones, and personal lifelines just to stay alive until they find a provider who will truly listen. But survival should not be a matter of luck.
Proper psychiatric care, compassionate medical professionals, and early intervention are not luxuries. They are life-saving necessities. When we provide individuals living with SMI access to comprehensive medical treatment and wrap them in community support, recovery and long-term stability are possible.

To everyone currently fighting through trial #41, holding on for one more day, or advocating for a loved one in the dark: Please do not give up. Your story is not over, and you deserve a healthcare system that fights for your recovery just as hard as you do.

need help or resources?

Everyone’s story matters, and yours isn’t over yet. If you or someone you know is in need of support or suicide prevention resources:

📞 Dial 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline

🌐 Visit: Indiana State Suicide Prevention.

Author

Amanda | Right to Care Alliance Member | Lived Experience Advocate

Amanda has navigated Bipolar Disorder for over 16 years with honesty, creative expression, and unwavering resilience. A participant in McLean Hospital's national Deconstructing Stigma initiative, she founded a journaling organization to help others externalize inner chaos, process mental health struggles, and use creative expression as medicine.

As an active member of NSSC’s Right to Care Alliance, Amanda leverages her lived experience and family history to advocate for early intervention, proper medical care, and comprehensive support systems for individuals and families affected by severe mental illness. She resides in Indiana, where she continues to build community spaces that promote healing, self-awareness, and peer connection.

I Should Have Died Three Times. Instead, I Became a Lifesaver.

Sun, 06 Sep 2026 14:40:21 GMT

My truth about Bipolar I, alcohol, AND why society's refusal to treat co-occurring illness is throwing people away

For a long time, there was a part of my story I was terrified to tell: the alcohol.

When we talk about severe mental illness and suicide, we often stay silent about self-medication because the shame attached to it feels overwhelming. But silence around this reality comes at a fatal cost. I came to the edge of death three times and every single time, I was drinking.

I am choosing to share my unfiltered truth today for three reasons:

To highlight the desperate urgency of care reform: Having survived the system as a patient and worked the front lines on an ACT team, I have seen firsthand how treating mental illness and substance use as separate problems abandons people in their darkest hours.
To show how I actually saved my own life: Survival wasn't a miracle or a quick fix. It was a deliberate, agonizing choice to forge purpose out of pain, made possible only because my family refused to let go of me.
To offer a lifeline to other families: For every mom, dad, sibling, or loved one watching someone suffer in the dark, I want to share what is actually happening inside a mind consumed by psychosis and depression, and why your relentless support matters even when we cannot reach back.

This is my story of surviving Bipolar I, moving beyond the revolving door, and building a life worth staying alive for.

Three Lifelines Broken

The first time began with a phone call that shattered my last thread of hope. I had finally gotten up the courage to pour my heart out to a resident-in-training at Harvard. When I walked back into my apartment, the phone rang. She said something I will never forget: "Kerry, I am not going to be able to help you." I didn't try to end my life that moment, but I stopped trying to get help. I retreated deep inside myself and into a bottle, using alcohol to drown out the rejection as I spiraled downward until I lost all hope and attempted to end my life.

I remember waking up in the ER with a tube down my throat under glaring, bright white lights. The nurse looked down at me and said, "Lay still. You did this to yourself." When I was finally transported from the ICU to the psychiatric hospital, the doctor informed me he could hold me as long as he wanted after I told him I needed to get back to Harvard to finish my thesis. It was in that moment I realized the truth: I had to lie and do whatever it took just to get out. Lying was a skill I then perfected.

The second time was the brutal, unpredictable roller coaster of Bipolar I at its most deceptive. I had spent three straight months frozen in the deepest pit of bipolar depression. It was a state of paralyzed, agonizing numbness where I stared at a bookcase in my parents' house, fighting day in and day out just to stay alive and convinced my family would be better off without me. But then the pendulum swung. In typical bipolar fashion, I finally broke out of the dark and surged into a giddy, euphoric high. Desperate to celebrate putting that hell in the rearview mirror, I reached for a drink to match the intoxicating high of feeling alive again. I couldn't see the trap. In my giddy mania, alcohol once again reared its demonic head. It hijacked that rising momentum, stripped away my judgment, and brought me straight back to my knees at the very gates of hell.

The third time was a terrifying mixed-state psychosis. This is the most dangerous place a bipolar brain can go, where the explosive energy and racing thoughts of mania collide with the hopeless despair of severe depression, all while reality completely breaks apart. Desperate to quiet the chaotic noise in my head, I again turned to alcohol, believing it would act as a brake. Instead, it stripped away my remaining judgment and disinhibited the impulse to act. The police were called when I stood in my apartment building holding a knife, lost so deep in psychosis I barely remember it. They looked at a person in volatile, visible crisis and decided I wasn't "dangerous enough" to help, then walked away. As the mixed-mood madness continued to spiral, it was my sister who eventually found me outside in the sprinklers in time that night, not the state. Most people don't get someone who finds them in time.

False Refuge of Self-Medication

Three times, I should have died. Three times, I didn't.

I'm gay. I'm bipolar. I'm a three-time survivor. And I'm done being quiet about any of it, especially the alcohol.

For a long time, shame kept me silent about that part of my story. But I know so many people living with Bipolar I carry that exact same burden. We don't abuse substances because we want to; we reach for them when we are drowning in emotional agony and feel like there is simply no other alternative to tame an unruly brain.

Substances don't cause the underlying disease, but they take away the one thing standing between a desperate thought and a fatal action: the ability to pause, regulate, and reach for help. Alcohol lowers inhibition, heightens impulsivity, and turns an active brain crisis into a catastrophic one.

When I worked as a Certified Peer Support Specialist on an ACT team, I saw this exact nightmare play out every single day. The psych hospital takes you in just long enough to perform a quick medical detox, only to discharge you far too early right back into the same environment where you end up using all over again. When you try to break the cycle and find real long-term care, the system shuts down. Specialized addiction facilities routinely refuse people simply because they have a severe mental illness diagnosis, and the rare dual-diagnosis programs that do exist have waitlists months long because there are nowhere near enough beds.

We leave our most vulnerable citizens trapped in a revolving door because society deems whole-person care "too complicated" or "too expensive."

The shame of self-medication does not belong to the person drowning in pain. The shame belongs to a healthcare system that detoxes and dumps vulnerable human beings, a treatment landscape that rejects SMI patients, and a legal system that sees a human in psychosis holding a weapon and calls them "not dangerous enough." Treating severe mental illness and addiction as two separate, disconnected problems fails people every single day. Real care reform must provide whole-person, people-centered, holistic care for ALL.

Forging Pain into Purpose

But those dark moments aren't the story that matters. What I did after is.

I made a decision: if I was still breathing, it had to mean something. I needed a reason good enough to justify staying alive; so, I built one. I decided to spend the rest of my life making sure other people didn't have to survive what I survived. I don't believe in fate. I believe in something closer to karma. Pain, if you refuse to waste it, can be forged into purpose.

That purpose became Hope Xchange, a nonprofit I built for the bipolar community. Our first program, Hope for Bipolars, was an innovative virtual mentoring model, launched well before peer support became commonplace and when local support was strictly in-person. I knew that if I'd had someone who'd survived what I was surviving, further down the road than me, it would have saved me years of hell. We proved it. Our mentors saved lives. Hope Xchange has since closed its doors, but it proved something that can't be undone.

I went on to work for two years as a Certified Peer Support Specialist, until compassion fatigue and a broken mental health care system wore me down. I realized I had to fight this battle on a national scale. So I moved to national policy work. It felt like coming full circle, since I've been connected to this fight in one form or another from the day I first started Hope Xchange.

Lived Experience at the Policy Table

Living through that kind of pain gives you an empathy nobody can teach you. Only survival teaches it. If you've walked in these shoes, you already know exactly why I do this work.

It's why I believe so completely in the R2C Alliance, and why peer voices have to be in the room when suicide prevention policy gets written, not consulted after the fact, but actively shaping the law from the inside. We know what actually works, because we lived what doesn't.

I am honored every day to stand with NSSC shaping policy for my brothers and sisters living with severe mental illness. Too many remain buried under a stigma that treats a brain disease like it's somehow less real, or less worthy of care, than a broken bone. It is a long, uphill fight. Arm in arm, our coalition — and now our R2C Alliance — will climb it together.

A Message to Families: Don't Give Up

To those who love someone like me, watching them struggle: please understand that sometimes we cannot see you. We are so lost in the dark, so consumed by our own pain, that we can't find the energy to reach back. Sometimes, lost inside our own psychosis and lack of insight, we don't even know we need help. I genuinely believed my family would be better off without me. I thought I was doing them a favor, not hurting them. We are doing the best we can, even when it looks nothing like it.

Please don't give up on us especially while we're still surviving. It is a terrifying, isolating place to be. We need you more than we can say. Please forgive us while we find our way back to the light.

Today, I'm "Kewi" to my two-year-old granddaughter, Noelle who is my light, my joy, my reason. I think, often, about everything I would have missed.

We cannot afford to lose one more soul. We have value. We have worth. And every one of us deserves to still be here.

***

If you or someone you know is struggling or in crisis, help is available. Please do not hesitate to reach out. Call or text 988 or chat at 988lifeline.org. Free & confidential.

Author

By Kerry Martin, Bipolar I Survivor | Co-Chair, R2C Alliance | SVP of Strategy & Impact, National Shattering Silence Coalition.

Beyond the Verdict: What the Lindsay Clancy Case Teaches Us About Severe Mental Illness

Fri, 04 Sep 2026 20:50:27 GMT

In this piece, Ann Corcoran, RN, MSN, President and Chief Executive Officer of the National Shattering Silence Coalition, discusses how the tragedy of the Lindsay Clancy case has brought renewed attention and hope to families caring for a loved one living with severe mental illness by shining a light on psychosis and the urgent need to recognize it as the medical emergency it is.

As a nurse and mental health advocate who helps families navigate our fragmented mental health system, I have seen too many individuals experiencing psychosis and their families, failed by the system in Massachusetts and throughout the country. I am grateful that the Lindsay Clancy case has brought an important conversation about psychosis to the forefront.

Whatever one believes about the verdict, there is something we should not lose sight of: psychosis is a medical emergency.

What has struck me throughout this case is how both maternal mental health professionals and maternal health professionals have spoken openly about the seriousness of postpartum psychosis and the need to recognize it as a medical emergency. Yet many mental health professionals in our state remain poorly trained in recognizing and responding to psychosis.

Families like ours, who care for loved ones living with psychotic illnesses, know firsthand what psychosis can look like. We know that someone can appear completely fine one minute and experience profound delusions or hallucinations the next. A person can carry on a conversation, go to work, and appear rational while simultaneously experiencing delusions or hallucinations that are completely disconnected from reality. Psychosis is not always visible from the outside. Someone may look calm and coherent while their internal experience of reality has become profoundly distorted. They may hear voices others cannot hear, believe things that are demonstrably untrue, or interpret ordinary events in ways that make sense only within the context of their illness. And because they may not recognize that they are ill, their decisions and actions can be driven by a reality that others cannot see.

We have seen this play out in our own lives.

We repeatedly beg for medical care when a loved one is clearly becoming seriously ill. We make calls, send emails, contact clinicians, emergency departments, and crisis services, and often plead for someone to intervene.

But, too often, we are told there is nothing that can be done until a loved one becomes a danger to themselves or others.

That is not an adequate standard of care.

Our laws and systems in Massachusetts fail to recognize a fundamental reality of psychosis: we cannot predict when hallucinations or delusions will occur or where they will lead.

Waiting for someone to become dangerous before we take their illness seriously is not prevention; it’s tragedy.

For the Massachusetts families, and families across the country, I have worked with whose loved ones have experienced psychosis and, in some cases, committed devastating acts while seriously ill, I want you to know this:

You are not alone. You are not to blame. And I hope this case has helped you feel seen.

We know you tried. We know your son, daughter, brother, sister, or spouse may never have been a violent person. We know you watched someone you love deteriorate while you begged for help.

And we know what it feels like when the system finally responds only after tragedy has occurred, when your loved one suddenly meets the criteria for treatment that you had been asking for all along, and now it’s too late.

This is not your fault; it's a failure of the system to respond.

I am grateful to Kevin Reddington for bringing his perspective and expertise to this case and to Lindsay Clancy for, through the tragic circumstances surrounding her illness, helping bring the reality of psychosis and its potentially devastating consequences into the national conversation.

Their story has forced us to confront something families living with severe mental illness have been saying for years:

Psychosis is not a character flaw or a moral failure. It is a serious medical condition that deserves recognition and treatment.

I urge our policymakers and healthcare leaders to initiate earlier intervention, better training for mental health professionals, emergency systems that recognize psychiatric deterioration as a medical emergency, and laws that allow intervention when someone has a high clinical need for treatment, not only after tragedy occurs.

Most importantly, I urge them to listen to families.

Families are often the first to recognize that something is profoundly wrong. They see the deterioration, the paranoia, the disorganization, and the changes that may not be apparent during a brief clinical encounter.

The Clancy case should not simply be remembered for its verdict. It should be remembered as a moment when the country was forced to confront the reality of severe mental illness and psychosis, and the consequences of failing to recognize it as the medical emergency it can be.

For families like ours, that matters.

We finally feel heard. We finally feel seen.

Now is the moment for change.

We must stop asking, “Why didn’t the family do more?” and instead start asking the question that matters:

Why wasn’t medical care available when they asked for it?

That is the question we owe to families—to Lindsay, Cora, Dawson, and Callan. And it is the question we must be brave enough to answer if we are truly serious about preventing the next tragedy.

What Severe Mental Illness Stole From Me—and What Treatment Gave Back

Tue, 01 Sep 2026 16:00:18 GMT

Let me begin by mentioning that I was in and out of hospitals over 20 times over a period of 16 years, from 2005 to 2021.

My first hospitalization occurred when I was 16 years old while I was in high school. To be honest, I mostly believed that what I was going through was normal. After all, the abuse and neglect I was dealing with for most of my childhood and teen years was all I knew. It was really until I was about 16 that I realized it was not normal, when a trusted adult told me it was not normal.

I feel like that is the first thing that SMI robbed me of --- a normal adolescence.

When I was 17, I lost my oldest brother to suicide, and my family became homeless. However, I worked extremely hard in high school. I was waitlisted from Columbia University and Johns Hopkins University and deferred from MIT. I was accepted to 9 universities, and I chose Syracuse University to study Bioengineering.

I was getting straight A’s for the first two years of college, with a GPA of 3.986. However, I struggled tremendously while in a summer internship. The beginning of severe mental illness was starting to really get bad, added to the PTSD of the trauma I experienced throughout my life.

When I was in my third year at Syracuse University, I jumped off a building. I continue to thank God that I did not suffer a spinal cord injury.

I was forced to take 10 months off of college. During that time, I attended an Intensive Outpatient Program in order to work through everything that I had and continued to deal with, especially the trauma.

This suicidal attempt robbed me of a few things. First, someone close to me did not ever want to talk to me again and to this day, I have not talked to them. Second, when I went back to Syracuse University, I knew that most of the students knew about what happened. I remember distinctly on my first day back, I heard a few people whisper, “That’s her!” My attempt was very public and I have had to deal with that.

I ended up graduating from Syracuse University with honors in the Honors Program. I received a full ride to University of Florida to get a PhD in Biomedical Engineering. While I was at University of Florida, my psychosis and paranoia worsened and kept worsening. I was hospitalized quite a few times in the year and a half I was there. I was unable to complete the PhD program but I received a Masters degree.

After graduating, I went home to New Jersey. My mental health was not done worsening. I continued to be in and out of hospitals. I attended a few outpatient programs in Morris County and Sussex County. I ended up being hospitalized for 2 years in a state mental institution.

I tried at least 15 antipsychotics, 3 long acting injections, multiple antidepressants and multiple mood stabilizers. Nothing worked until in 2020, when I was FINALLY placed on Clozapine.

About a month after being placed on Clozapine and my dosages were properly titrated up, I noticed that a few very strong delusions that I had held for years were going away. I was finally questioning the validity of those delusions. Not only did the delusions and the hallucinations lessen dramatically but they kept lessening. My suicidal ideation slowly lessened too, until they completely went away.

It’s difficult for me, because I want to be angry that my doctors did not try Clozapine earlier but at the same time, I believe that God may have a reason that it happened the way it did. However, I feel like a lot of time was stolen from me, especially all the time I was stuck in the hospitals. I feel that, if I had been placed on the correct medications earlier, I may have received a PhD.

Now what I want to talk about is what I have gained by living with severe mental illness.

I have gained a lot of friendships with people who I may never have met. My struggles in life have given me a unique perspective and helped me to be empathetic towards everyone. I feel like I am a much stronger person than I would have been if I had not dealt with severe mental illness. I have had multiple opportunities to tell my story all across the country. I have been invited to conferences to speak as well. I currently also volunteer as a peer specialist and a recovery coach. I have facilitated hundreds of groups for people with mental illnesses and substance use disorders.

Chelsea’s story is a powerful reminder of why Treatment Saves. Neglect Costs. is more than a campaign—it is a call to action. Chelsea lost years of her life to severe mental illness, repeated hospitalizations, and treatment that did not adequately control her symptoms. Yet when she finally received a treatment that worked, her life began to change. Her story forces us to ask how much more might have been possible if effective treatment had come sooner. We cannot give Chelsea those years back, but we can learn from her experience. People living with severe mental illness deserve timely access to effective, evidence-based treatment and the opportunity to reclaim their lives—not years spent cycling through hospitals and systems that fail to meet their needs.

This essay is the original work of the author with no outside edits.

From a "Broken Mind" to Miss Washington: How True Medical Care Reclaims a Future

Tue, 11 Aug 2026 18:24:07 GMT

"When I was 17 they told me my mind was broken."

This is how I started my monologue as part of the talent portion of competition at Miss Volunteer America, one of the most prestigious stages in pageantry.

The Silent Beginning of Psychosis

My dance with schizophrenia began at 15 when I had a visual hallucination in my loft bedroom in rural North Carolina. I saw a deer who spoke to me, telling me I was God and instructing me to post on Twitter. I obliged. Most of the tweets were gibberish, but I found them helpful later on because they provided an exact timestamp documenting my first break from reality.

I didn't know what had happened. I had never received a formal mental health education, I didn't know what psychosis was, and I certainly didn't think I had schizophrenia based on the extreme portrayals I had seen in movies and headlines. I just knew something about me was not normal.

I hid my episodes from my parents. I grew up with the most supportive and unconditionally loving parents you can imagine, but because of media portrayals of mental institutions, I was terrified of being hospitalized involuntarily. I spent the next two years isolating myself when I felt episodes coming on, or blaming them on severe anxiety if they happened in front of my family.

By the time I was 17, the boundaries of my reality were dissolving. During a beach trip with friends, I spent the night locked on a balcony, crying and hallucinating a man trying to take photos of me. One of my friends told me I had "ruined the vibe" of the night. They blacklisted me after that. When I returned home, the detachment from reality, confusion, delusions, and auditory hallucinations grew severe enough that my worried parents encouraged me to see a psychiatrist.

The Standard of Clinical Neglect

The first psychiatrist I saw promised confidentiality, so I bared my soul in the most raw, vulnerable way I ever had in my life.

Her response was chilling. She confirmed I had schizophrenia, and then proceeded to list all of the negative things that would now accompany my life: limited job opportunities, worsening symptoms, and even a shortened lifespan. I was released without a prescription, without a treatment plan, and without any accurate educational materials. I left in complete disbelief.

Over the next few years, I sought help two more times, receiving the exact same bleak prognosis with zero medical guidance.

I continued on for years untreated and unmedicated, dragging my severe mental illness into my college career until I hit a breaking point. Paralyzed by frequent derealization and suicidal ideation, I was eventually mandated to meet with the university's office of well-being. But the therapist-run group quickly passed the buck, telling me my symptoms were simply "out of their range of knowledge."

Desperate for localized help, I looked for standalone outpatient programs or psychiatric facilities, but found only substance abuse rehab centers whose programming didn't apply to my condition. The system was entirely unequipped to handle a complex brain disease.

Crossing the Country for a Standard of Care

The turning point came from my boyfriend, a Washington state native. Knowing the severity of my illness, he noted that Washington possessed reputable, standalone mental health facilities known for their quality of care. With my parents' support, we packed our lives into boxes and moved across the country to Redmond.

For four months, I commuted to an intensive outpatient treatment program in Seattle. The number one takeaway from that program was that I had to love and honor my condition rather than suppressing and hating it. Instead of constantly thinking, “I wish I weren’t like this,” I began accepting, “This is part of my story, and I can still have a meaningful life.”

The Path to the Crown

On my very last day of outpatient treatment, I turned on the TV and happened to watch a pageant. I was in such a vulnerable state of "now what?"

Seeing accomplished, educated, and beautiful women stand on a national stage to advocate for a movement was life-changing. It clicked for me that a pageant title is a megaphone for a platform. I immediately googled how to join my local system and submitted a late application to the Miss Auburn competition.

Because I was the last girl to sign up, I was the last in line. I watched the girls in front of me do their pageant walks before attempting my own. When the runners-up were called, I assumed I hadn't placed at all. As the mayor prepared to crown the winner, I scanned the crowd for my mom—the only person who had come to see me.

Then, my name was called.

I nearly collapsed. I finally felt seen and appreciated for who I was, for the hard work I put into staying alive, and for my efforts to change the perception of schizophrenia. Only one person was in the theater for me, but the entire audience stood when I was crowned Miss Auburn 2025.

Wearing the Mega-Phone

Fast forward through a year of intense advocacy, community events, and hosting an immersive schizophrenia simulation called Step Into the Mind, I was crowned Miss Washington Volunteer 2026.

Representing my state nationally allowed me to bring my diagnosis completely out of the dark. Every conversation, interview, and appearance became an opportunity to challenge stereotypes and show that a medical diagnosis does not define a person’s potential. Wearing the crown wasn’t about perfection; it was about representing the millions of people living with serious mental illness who deserve to be seen with dignity and possibility.

When I stood on the national stage at Miss Volunteer America and opened with the words, “When I was 17 they told me my mind was broken,” I was showing the world how wrong that conclusion had been. My mind was never broken. It was experiencing an illness that I did not yet understand, and like any other medical illness, it deserved treatment, compassion, and hope instead of fear and shame.

One of the most meaningful parts of that national pageant wasn’t the stage, it was the environment behind it. Throughout the week, there was a psychiatrist on call, alongside hostesses who were nurses and social workers. When I began to experience light symptoms during a rehearsal, I wasn't rushed or dismissed. Instead, a staff member simply sat with me for hours until I felt grounded enough to return. In a space known for flawless perfection, I was given permission to be human.

Treatment Saves, Neglect Costs

For years, the standard of neglect nearly cost me my life. My mind was never broken—the system was. I had to leave my home state and cross the country just to find a community that treated severe mental illness with medical accountability instead of clinical abandonment.
Treatment didn’t just save my life; it gave me my future back.

If there is one thing I hope legislators and families take away from my story, it is this: a schizophrenia diagnosis is not a death sentence, but untreated neglect is. When we invest in a true Standard of Care, we aren't just managing an illness—we are unlocking the human potential of millions of people who deserve to be seen, supported, and heard.

When I was 17, they told me my mind was broken. The rest of my life is proof of what happens when we choose to fix the system instead.

Note from Kerry Martin, Senior VP of Strategy & Impact, Bipolar 1 Survivor

My friend Chandler is only 23 years old. Let that sink in. The poise, courage, and sheer grace she possesses while standing on national stages to humanize schizophrenia is nothing short of awe-inspiring. It is an absolute honor to have her co-chairing our Right to Care Alliance alongside me, leading a unified force of peers who are lobbying for the medical rights of our SMI brothers and sisters across the country.

But as we celebrate Chandler’s remarkable triumph, we must also confront a chilling reality: Access to life-saving medical care in America should never depend on your zip code.

Chandler survived because she had an extraordinary, unconditionally loving family and a support system with the financial resources to pack up her life and flee across the state lines of North Carolina and Georgia just to find a standard of care in Washington. But what about the millions of young people who don't have the means to cross state lines? What happens to the ones left behind in states where clinical abandonment remains the status quo?

We cannot build a healthcare system that requires families to become geographic refugees just to keep their children alive.

As Chandler so powerfully reminds us: "A schizophrenia diagnosis is not a death sentence, but untreated neglect is." We are going to keep shattering the silence until a true, federally protected Standard of Care exists in all 50 states, ensuring that every individual living with SMI is seen with the dignity, treatment, and infinite possibility they deserve.

— Kerry

Author

By Chandler Groce | Right to Care Alliance Co-Chair & National Youth Peer Ambassador, NSSC

Remembering Salvatore: A Family’s Fight for Care, Hope, and Change

Mon, 27 Jul 2026 21:11:58 GMT

Honoring the Life of Salvatore Colella --- As Told by His Sister, Caprice Palumbo

My brother Salvatore was so much more than the crisis that took his life. He was a son, a brother, and a person who was deeply loved by his family. He had a life, a future, and people who wanted nothing more than to see him get the help he needed.

In the months before his death, our family watched Salvatore experience a severe psychiatric and substance use crisis. We saw the warning signs. We saw the hallucinations, the significant changes in his behavior, his substance use, and the way he was losing the ability to recognize the severity of what was happening to him.

We tried to get him help.

We called. We advocated. We showed up. We repeatedly shared what we were seeing with healthcare providers because we knew Salvatore. We knew who he was before the illness took hold, and we knew that something was seriously wrong.

But despite our efforts, we felt our concerns were not fully heard or incorporated into decisions about his care and discharge planning.

Salvatore’s journey through the healthcare system was not one isolated event. It was a series of moments where our family hoped the next encounter would finally lead to the care and support he needed.

In June 2024, Salvatore went to the Emergency Department and was treated and discharged.

In September 2025, our family brought him back for a behavioral health and substance use evaluation because we were deeply concerned. We shared what we were seeing. Records documented reports of little sleep and substance use involving crack cocaine, fentanyl, and methamphetamine. Detox resources were offered.

In October 2025, Salvatore experienced an overdose. He was found lethargic in a parking lot and required Narcan. He was hospitalized for approximately three days and treated for serious medical complications, including opioid intoxication, fentanyl and cocaine use, metabolic encephalopathy, aspiration pneumonia, intravenous drug use, and acute kidney injury.

Still, the cycle continued.

On December 19, 2025, Salvatore experienced a severe mental health crisis. His behavior had become increasingly concerning. Medical records described agitation, bizarre behavior, yelling, contorting movements, diaphoresis (excessive sweating), and significant changes in his mental state. He had lost touch with reality and believed that flying squirrels were attacking him.
After initially leaving one emergency department before being transferred, Salvatore was later transported to CHA Everett, where he was hospitalized under a Section 12 psychiatric hold for further psychiatric evaluation and treatment.
We hoped this would finally be the turning point.

But after discharge, our family continued to see that Salvatore was struggling. We continued trying to get help. We continued advocating. We believed he needed more support and that he was still unable to recognize the severity of what he was experiencing.

On January 7, 2026, less than two weeks after his psychiatric hospitalization, my brother Salvatore died from an overdose.

He was 36 years old.

His death changed our family forever. But it also exposed the urgent need to change how Massachusetts responds to individuals experiencing severe mental illness and substance use disorders.

We knew Salvatore. We knew the changes we were seeing. We knew this was not simply a matter of choices—we knew he was struggling with an illness that was impacting his ability to understand what was happening to him.

We tried everything we could to save him.

That is why I founded FACT (Family Informed Care Act) advocacy efforts in Massachusetts. No family should have to fight this hard to be heard while trying to save the life of someone they love.

Families must be recognized as essential partners in care. The information families provide matters. Their concerns should be heard, documented, and considered. Crisis response and discharge planning must improve.

People experiencing severe mental illness and substance use disorders deserve a system designed around treatment, continuity, and compassion—not one that waits until a crisis becomes a tragedy.

Salvatore’s story also demonstrates the cost of a system built around crisis response rather than prevention and treatment.

Based on the documented emergency department visits, ambulance transport, overdose hospitalization, substance use treatment needs, and psychiatric hospitalization, the cost of Salvatore’s care is conservatively estimated to have exceeded $75,000–$150,000. This estimate does not include all emergency responses, Section 35 attempts, outside hospital encounters, detox efforts, or the full cost of his final hospitalization.

Yet despite this significant investment of healthcare resources, Salvatore and his family did not receive the coordinated continuum of care needed to help him stabilize and survive.

This is the reality of the current system: Massachusetts continues to spend substantial resources responding to emergencies after someone reaches crisis, while failing to consistently provide the ongoing treatment and supports that can prevent those crises.
The cost is financial. It impacts healthcare systems, taxpayers, communities, and families.

But the greatest cost is human.

It is measured in lives lost, families forever changed, and opportunities for recovery that were never realized.

Treatment saves lives.

Neglect costs.

The question is not whether Massachusetts can afford to provide timely, compassionate, evidence-based care for people living with severe mental illnesses. The question is how much more we can afford to lose by continuing to delay it.

Every person living with a severe brain disease deserves access to care, dignity, hope, and the opportunity to be well.

From Classroom To Courtroom

Tue, 14 Jul 2026 13:18:40 GMT

My son was two years old when I began having concerns about his unusual behaviors. As a young mother, I reassured myself by thinking, “It’s okay, he is just being himself.” However, by the age of four, significant behavioral outbursts began to emerge. By five, when he started school, I was told he “had to be medicated for his own good,” rather than having his mental, emotional, or intellectual needs properly addressed. That marked the beginning of what felt like a never-ending cycle of appointments, negative behaviors, and school visits.

From the start, he was given the common diagnosis of ADHD and prescribed Adderall. Instead of improving, he spiraled further out of control. I attended IEP meeting after IEP meeting, pleading for meaningful support for my child. He was referred to therapists and psychiatrists for testing, and the list of diagnoses continued to grow while his medications were repeatedly changed. Eventually, he was diagnosed with severe dysphonetic dyslexia. Despite this, the IEP meetings only became more difficult, as the school continually failed to provide the services he truly needed. The focus always returned to his behavior — that he could not sit still or follow directions.

The school board eventually became involved in one of the IEP meetings, resulting in arrangements that were promised but never accomplished. An IQ test later revealed that, at only five years old, he had the auditory comprehension of a child twice his age and a verbal vocabulary stronger than that of many adults. I ultimately enrolled him in an outside dyslexia program so he could learn to read, write, and spell, while the school appeared more focused on containing his behavior. At that time, his behavior primarily consisted of being loud and making noises, likely stemming from boredom and inadequate academic stimulation.

This pattern continued throughout elementary school and into middle school. Eventually, he was removed from his school and placed in a special education classroom in another city. This led to his first psychiatric hospitalization. By the age of twelve, he was effectively “sentenced” to an alternative school, which became a major turning point in his life.

Because of his social anxiety and poor emotional regulation, he had never truly formed friendships outside of sports. At the alternative school, he began associating with other boys. One day, they walked to a nearby chain store where he stole an item costing less than twenty dollars. Feeling guilty, my son turned the item over to the school resource officer at the alternative school. Without my permission, the officer contacted the store and arranged for my son to apologize. As a result, he was placed on probation because the store enforced a zero-tolerance theft policy.

I believe it is important to note that this same “alternative” and supposedly rehabilitative school would frequently call me regarding his behavior and then leave both of us alone in the principal’s office so that I could physically discipline him. I never did. Instead, I would plead with my son to choose better ways to cope with his anger. At twelve, my son already had a juvenile record, a probation officer, court involvement, community intervention programs, therapists, psychiatrists, continual medication changes, and an ever-growing list of diagnoses. He had officially entered the justice system.

At nearly every behavioral incident, he was placed in juvenile detention — shackled and chained — for being a child who could not “sit still” in a classroom and who acted out because of inadequate interventions and support. This led to placements ranging from a wilderness program to two separate detention centers across the state. The state officials stepped in and suggested he be removed from my custody and placed in a group home. Due to no negligence of my parenting, but to the inadequacy of the system built to “help” him. I denied this request, stating that my child would remain with me. No matter how my son behaved, the hours I missed from work, or how many times I cried in the shower so nobody could hear, he was my little boy who I would always love and fight for.

By fifteen, he stopped taking his medications and refused to attend school. He agreed to move in with his biological father to start high school, hoping that a change in environment might help. It did not. Within a few months, he was placed on probation again for allegedly “bullying” a girl after making an inappropriate but nonsexual comment. After another incident, he was once again placed in a detention home.

This particular facility, however, provided exceptional care. During his time there, he fully committed himself to his education and excelled academically. With accommodations that addressed his dyslexia, he caught up on assignments and earned credits at an impressive pace. Upon release, he was stable, hopeful, excited to attend a traditional school, and eager to play sports again. He returned to live with me in another part of the state.

However, when I attempted to enroll him in school, we learned that because the detention center was not contracted with the local school district, he was given only two options: either take an unassisted standardized exam or start over in the ninth grade. Despite all the hard work he had done, he should have been entering the eleventh grade. Faced with those choices, he decided to quit school entirely. That was when everything truly fell apart.

At sixteen, he was left without the skills necessary to enter the workforce, unable to pass a standardized test, and deeply angry that his academic achievements had effectively been disregarded. Like so many tragic and familiar stories, he fell in with the wrong crowd — older adolescents who influenced him negatively. He began smoking marijuana, staying out late, and living without direction or purpose. He was defeated.

During this time, he committed his first serious crime. He was persuaded by two others to rob a local convenience store using an airsoft gun. He walked away with only thirty-three dollars. At seventeen, he was placed in county jail, where he remained until he turned eighteen and received a sentence of twenty years, split to serve two. He was then sent to prison, where he endured experiences I cannot even begin to imagine.

He will turn twenty-seven this year. For the past decade, his life has been consumed by the vicious cycle of addiction, incarceration, homelessness, and despair. He is a devastating example of the school-to-prison pipeline.

Although my son never received a formal diagnosis, Bipolar disorder was considered because of his episodes of mania. At the time, we were told he was "too young" for a definitive diagnosis. He entered the prison system at seventeen and has not received an updated psychiatric diagnosis since he was fifteen, despite continuing to display symptoms consistent with schizoaffective disorder.

Throughout all of this, some may ask: where was I, his mother? I was there from the very beginning, fighting and begging for help for the two-year-old child who first showed signs that he needed additional support. Yet in a society where behavior, socioeconomic status, and race often determine who receives compassion and assistance, real help never came — unless it arrived in the form of shackles or another diagnosis.

My son is truly a good man. Although he is currently sitting in a jail cell, he is working hard to overcome the difficult circumstances life handed him. His road may never be easy, but I will continue to stand beside him when every other system has failed him.
No mother should have to spend decades fighting for help while watching every system around her respond with handcuffs instead of hope.

At the National Shattering Silence Coalition, we believe this story is not simply about one young man. It is about what happens when warning signs are repeatedly recognized but meaningful intervention never follows. It is about a system that responded to unmet needs with punishment, to struggles with labels, and to crisis with confinement. Every missed opportunity carried a cost until the consequences became life-altering.

His story reminds us that treatment, educational support, family engagement, and early intervention are not just compassionate choices—they are public safety strategies. No child should be routed from classroom to courtroom because the systems responsible for helping them failed to meet their needs. Treatment saves lives. Neglect costs lives. And far too often, it costs futures.

From Psychosis to Purpose: A Story of Recovery

Sun, 28 Jun 2026 16:18:17 GMT

Much of my life has felt like a rollercoaster—not the kind you ride over and over with friends because it's fun, but the old, rickety one-seater that rattles with every turn while you close your eyes and pray the ride will end soon. Mental illness was the driving force of this ride. And it could have ended very badly. ‘Could have’ is key here. I overcame fears. I had the support of others around me. And I made it through the days I hope I’ll never have to relive. Here is my story.

Like many, I experienced the typical trauma of being picked on at a young age. From other kids throwing remarks because I was the chubby kid, to the not so funny videos my brother’s friends made of me during their drunken skip day. The events contributed to my early-aged episodes of depression. Throw in the fact that I had open heart surgery at the age of five, and my childhood was already far from ideal. Some might call me a momma’s boy, but I won’t apologize for being pampered as the baby of the family. It definitely helped me get through the early years.

Heart surgery was just the beginning of my hospital days. When I was in the second grade, I broke my wrist on the growth plate. Five years later, I had to have three inches removed from another part of my arm, in hopes of balancing out the stunted growth in my wrist. This two-week stay in the hospital was not exactly a vacation.

Again, I pressed on. I worked up the courage to run for eighth grade student council president the next year, and I won–a victory, at last! My high school years didn’t have a bad start, either. I was a decent soccer player, and I wasn’t the worst in academics. Then, as a freshman, I tried alcohol for the first time.

I remember the thrills alcohol brought, like the added enjoyment of my cousin’s wedding with all the girls dancing with me. And it didn’t take me long to have my first try at marijuana. By my junior year, drinking and smoking had become an added recreation. It was every weekend. Somewhere along the way by my senior year, I experienced my first, unwelcomed signs of mental illness.

I did risky, reckless, and dangerous things. Driving under the influence. Throwing a brick through a car window. The things parents hope they only see in movies and stay up at night praying, “that’s not my kid.” That was me. Maybe these were signs of mental illness. Maybe I was just an asshole. Neither answer was probably wrong.

I remember my mom saying, if not for the heart surgery as a kid, I wouldn’t have lived past eighteen. I started worrying that my final destination would soon be catching up with me. Paranoid about my heart, along with the internet telling me I may still die young, I went to a cardiologist. Turns out, I was fine and had an athlete’s heart. I graduated high school as a valedictorian and was stoked about college. I got into my state’s flagship campus and was ready for this next adventure.

College was a lot harder than high school. Classes didn’t go so well for me, and I struggled socially. My brother was in a fraternity, so I thought I would have a good chance of getting in as a legacy. I got drunk the final night of rush, acted bizarre, and was blackballed. I got depressed and overwhelmed. I contemplated suicide. I spent most of my days in bed. But I didn’t want to give up. Before long, my brother pulled me out of bed, and out of school, but not quite out of my funk.

Thankfully, my parents took me in. My dad helped me get a job on the military base near our home. It was during the Iraq war, and every day there was a headline about another market being attacked by a suicide bomber and many people being killed and injured. It got to my psyche. I stayed up late drinking beer and smoking weed, along with journaling every night. I would barely make it to work on time each morning.

I was in a precarious situation. I wanted to go back to school, but work was the only thing holding me together. After eight months, I took the risk, and went back to school–this time at a different university. Just before the semester began, I took a family trip to Hawaii. It was then I started having delusional thoughts that would make no sense to others.

The day before we flew back home to Louisiana, Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. Weeks later, Hurricane Rita hit my side of the state. Without the structure of work, and having the new stress of school, I began decompensating. My parents came to stay with me to help me with the transition. They didn’t have power in their town anyway.
Here comes an official, mental breakdown.

I had a biology teacher who was in the pits of despair because his daughter was in school in New Orleans. And people were saying New Orleans deserved what it got because of it being Sin City. Something snapped in me, the normally shy guy in the back. In front of a class of at least a hundred students, I yelled out, “think positive!” Class was dismissed.
I left class and thought I was going to do something big, but I didn't know what it was. I drove to a gas station, where I gave the lady working there a Ben Harper CD rather than money for a pack of cigarettes. She told me she had to call the police as I left. I was arrested, taken to jail, and I was fully delusional.

How delusional?

I thought a guy in my jail cell was the author of Fight Club, and I started rhyming to him. I was punching walls as if I was working out, along with random pushups. I also had developed thoughts about how to solve global warming.

I was in a crisis, and my mom bailed me out. My parents didn’t know what to do with me, other than take me back home. One evening after dinner, I took an unannounced walk. My mom quickly became fearful, not knowing where I was, and she worried I was on drugs. So, she called the police.

The cops found me. I was psychotic, and I couldn’t see them because they were shining a bright light in my eyes. They tackled me, maced me, and I thought they shot me. I thought surely, I was on my way to hell. They threw me in a jail cell, and I didn’t know what was going on. After not eating or drinking anything for four days. I was on the edge of death.

Then, my jail cell opened. It was my dad. I couldn’t recognize him. And as you can imagine, that shook him.

I was taken to a military hospital, then sent to a psychiatric hospital out of state. I was medicated and sent home after two weeks. I got a diagnosis of atypical psychosis. I was medicated for six months, and my psychiatrist wanted to see if I could function without medicine.

I managed for a while but became psychotic again. For the next four years, I went through fifteen-month cycles on and off medication. After an actual suicide attempt, another hospitalization, and a diagnosis of manic depression with psychotic symptoms, I realized I needed to stay on medication. My only other option was the grave.

Somehow along the way, I managed to finally graduate with an undergraduate degree. The military base I used to work at had a new contractor that hired people with disabilities. It was supportive work, which I needed. It got me outside with fresh air. The daily labor gave me exercise, which had its own healing effects. It gave me time to build up a work ethic and a routine. I’ve now worked there for almost fifteen years.

Medicated, I’m free of positive symptoms, and my psychiatrist thinks I am in remission from schizophrenia. After six stable years, I met my soulmate. I shared my entire history with her on date number two, and there was still date number three. We were married in 2017, bought a home in the country, and have a life filled with love. In 2021, we welcomed a daughter, and she has brought us so much joy.

Not every story is happy ever after. Or – not every rollercoaster ends with peace.

To my parents:

I couldn’t have recovered without them. My dad was always the calm to get me through the storm, and my mom always helped me build things back up and kept me focused on moving forward.

To those facing mental illness:

There can be better days. Don’t be afraid to reach out. Whether it is leaning on a friend or family member to overcome the feeling of loneliness or seeking medical help if things don’t seem right. Early intervention can save a lot of pain and heartache and can lead to better outcomes.

To those with loved ones facing mental illness:

We need you. And we know our struggles can make your life hard and uncomfortable. But the patience and support you show to us can literally be the difference in whether we have the courage to make it through and the resources to seek professional help when needed.

To those who are fortunate not to personally encounter mental illness:

I challenge you to join me as an advocate to break through the stigma and form acceptance. Our country needs more supported employment and structure for those with mental illness. And a little bit of simple kindness can go a long way when encountering those who are struggling.

I experienced many dreadful years, I did things I’m far from proud of, and I’ll forever fall into the classification of “treated for mental illness.” But I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I had the support system to get me through some of my toughest days. I got medical help at the right time. And I carry out a positive and productive life.

My story may sound shocking to those who know me, but never knew these details. Parts of my story may sound like just a “normal case” to someone dealing with mental illness. And to some, it may make you feel uncomfortable. But my hope is that my story may bring just a glimmer of light to those living in the darkest days.

This story is a powerful reminder that treatment saves lives, while delayed intervention and lack of understanding can have devastating consequences. With family support, medical care, structure, and perseverance, recovery and stability became possible. Too often, individuals living with severe mental illness encounter the criminal justice system before they encounter meaningful treatment. No family should have to navigate psychosis, incarceration, or suicide attempts alone. Stories like this remind us why early intervention, continuity of care, supported employment, and compassionate treatment matter. Recovery is possible, but only when people are given the support, treatment, and dignity they deserve.

The Human Count: Surf, Psychosis, and the Ultimatum That Saved My Life

Wed, 17 Jun 2026 21:11:43 GMT

Life doesn’t always happen the way you expect. At 18, I had the world ahead of me. I told myself that by 21 I’d have a career, a degree, and a girlfriend. I thought about travel, kids, and a bright future.

But life had other plans. About a month after my 21st birthday, I found myself locked inside a psychiatric hospital for 17 days on a 51/50 hold. I had no idea what a "psychotic break" actually meant, because in my eyes, I was fine. Everyone else had the problem. Not me.

Part 1: Surf, School, Sleep & Repeat

Before my mind fractured, life was simple. Aside from classic teenage angst, my daily loop was surf, school, sleep, and repeat. I had friends I loved, a good life, and a general sense of whatever happens, I’ll figure it out. Up until then, I’d been able to navigate life's obstacles and bounce back quickly. It was easy to assume things would just stay that way. There was nothing a good night with friends, a solid surf session, and maybe a little bit of bud couldn’t fix.

My brain had other plans.

Around the age of 19, after a camping trip and some psychedelics, reality started to get funny. Things weren't simple anymore. People acted differently, strange patterns emerged that I’d never noticed before, and my moods took on a terrifying, foreign intensity. "Depression" and "anxiety" were foreign words to me. "Schizophrenia" wasn't even in my personal vocabulary.

After that trip, a dark isolation settled in. My thoughts detached from the world’s logic. I remember my parents telling me they were worried, but I couldn't comprehend why. How could they be worried about me? I’m totally fine. When you are slipping into psychosis, it is incredibly hard to take a step back.

I did try once, very early on. I went to a doctor and was diagnosed with social anxiety. But the further I retreated into my own head, the less I was willing to listen to the advice of professionals or the people who loved me.

Part 2: The Myth of the Misunderstood Genius

By the time I turned 20, a dangerous delusion took root. I became convinced that I was simply a misunderstood genius. I told myself I hadn't reached my true potential yet, and that was the sole reason I was experiencing these psychological problems.

To a neurotypical mind, that idea doesn't hold water. But when you are dealing with budding psychosis, accepting that something is fundamentally wrong with your brain is a hard pill to swallow. My mind spun an intricate narrative about a cosmic battle between good and evil, and I was right at the forefront of it. It didn’t have to make sense to anyone else, because it made perfect sense to me.

They say there are five stages of grief, denial being the first. Living with untreated schizophrenia is a form of grief. Except, staying in that first phase of denial feels like you’ve been condemned to live in limbo for the rest of your life. You are constantly chasing a "shining alternative" just on the other side of your thoughts. Your brain tells you that if you can just clear one more obstacle, or do one more extraordinary thing, it won't be a mental illness anymore. Everyone will finally see you as the genius who changed the world.

Sounds odd, right? But I can almost guarantee that if someone reading this has survived a psychotic break, they are reading this thinking, oh yeah, that's totally normal.

Part 3: The Blur of the 51/50

Those delusions eventually led to total isolation. I was living at my parents' house, leaving my bedroom maybe once a week just to eat. Eventually, the tension grew too high. I was kicked out and ended up renting the cheapest room I could find on Craigslist.

Two months later, my reality shattered completely.

I found myself at work one day, completely paralyzed and unable to speak a single word. An all-consuming fear told me that if anything came out of my mouth, horrible things would happen to my family. Someone called an ambulance, and I spent hours strapped to an ER bed.

That entire day is a blur. I can't remember a single word anyone said to me. The only thing anchored in my memory is the worst case of racing thoughts I’ve ever experienced, and the desperate belief that if I just kept my eyes tightly closed, I wouldn't have to comprehend what was happening. I got to the ER in the morning; I didn't leave until after dark, loaded into a second ambulance with paramedics telling me they were taking me somewhere safe.

The hospital unit, despite the initial chaos, became an uneventful routine of containment. They loaded me up on heavy medications and yelled "SMOKE BREAK!" at the top of every hour. I wasn't even a smoker at the time, but when there is sunshine outdoors and nothing else in your life makes sense—screw it, why not take a free cigarette? We solved crossword puzzles and drank weak coffee all afternoon. Every once in a while, you’d hear someone screaming down the hallway, but with enough Seroquel and free cigarettes in your system, you couldn’t care less.

Part 4: The Ultimatum

When I was finally discharged, I immediately fell into the classic trap: “Hey, I’m feeling better now, why the hell do I need these meds?” It didn't register that the meds were the exact reason I felt stable.

I abandoned my treatment and spent the next two years down a dark, stressful rabbit hole. My family and I fell into a toxic routine: they would yell at me to see a doctor, I would pretend to agree, ditch the appointment, and we’d go right back to yelling. Looking back, I can't imagine how frantic and exhausting I must have been to live around.

Finally, my dad drew a hard line in the sand. He gave me a choice: take the medication, or get out on the streets.

Naturally, I thought it was a bluff. I called it.

Turns out, my dad wasn’t bluffing. It was sleep on the concrete, or take the pills. Faced with the reality of homelessness, I finally relented. I chose the meds.

Progress was slow. It took multiple trial-and-error adjustments and a few different psychiatrists before we saw real stability. Because of the threat of the streets, I kept showing up to those appointments. Finally, we found a doctor who clicked, and an antipsychotic regimen that took effect. Slowly, the cloud began to lift.

My own mind would have never noticed the difference, but the changing reactions of the people around me gave me insight. I received my formal diagnosis of schizophrenia around that time. It was another profound wave of grief. The diagnosis was the final nail in the coffin of my delusions; my days of assuming I was just a misunderstood genius were gone. I had a chronic brain disease instead.

Part 5: The Path Forward is a Little Pill at Night

Despite the grief, I started to dig myself out of the hole. I reached back out to old friends. My family and I stopped yelling and started healing. Still, an overarching feeling remained: I'm always going to be different. I didn't know a single soul who had schizophrenia. As far as I was concerned, anyone with my condition was either locked away in a hospital or struggling on the streets. I constantly feared I’d end up back there myself.
But I didn't.

I went back to school and finished my Associate’s Degree. Then I got accepted into a four-year university. I quit smoking weed. I felt a sense of clarity and success I hadn't known in years. There was finally a clear path forward, and all I had to do to keep it was something as simple as popping a little pill at night. If you had told me that a few years prior, I wouldn't have given you the time of day.

Life wasn't suddenly sunshine and rainbows, but I finally had control over my own mind. I joined a fraternity in college. One night, I stood up in front of a room of 50 guys and said out loud for the first time: "I have schizophrenia." That was massive for me. I laid bare my darkest secret to a room full of dudes. That community single-handedly helped cure the deep stigma I held against myself for being labeled with that word.

Part 6: Conquering the Corporate Office

Of course, recovery is rarely linear. While my social anxiety was gone, an alcohol problem took its place. I started drinking heavily enough to drop out of school. I went back to working as a surf instructor, constantly worrying, how the hell am I going to support myself doing this? Then COVID hit, and like many others dealing with mental health struggles, the isolation hit hard. I sat around drinking rum smoothies at 10:00 AM because "COVID rules" meant nothing mattered.

The turning point came when they finally opened the beaches back up. Despite the heavy drinking, surfing still sounded better than sitting on the porch knocking them back all day. I hit the waves every single day for nine months. Through that, I realized something vital about myself: if I am motivated by something, nothing can stand in my way.

When the unemployment funds ran out, a buddy hired me for a manufacturing job at a small company. He told me if I did well, he’d move me into the sales office. That was my golden ticket. I had conquered psychosis; now it was time to conquer self-sufficiency. At that point, the thought of having schizophrenia was no longer a voice telling me, "You can't do this." So I did it. I outworked everyone, made it into the sales office, and finally had something concrete to put on a resume other than "surf instructor." I was legitimate. I ran with that opportunity faster than anything before.

Eventually, I transitioned into a corporate sales role. I’d never worked in an environment like that in my life. But I thrived. I won sales competitions, brought home awards, and became a highly valued contributor to a team. After years of believing my life could never be normal, I had built something unassailable.

June 2026: Empathy as a Leadership Quality

Today, it is June of 2026. I am almost six months completely sober. I have an amazing girlfriend, a successful corporate tech job I once thought was impossible, independent housing, and—hell—I even got a cat. These are milestones that felt completely out of reach the day I heard a doctor say the word "schizophrenia."

Living with this diagnosis also makes you a strange magnet for other survivors. It isn't always something that comes up naturally, but whenever it does, I get an instant, visceral, "Dude, me too." From there, it's an immediate friendship built on complete solidarity.

My brother and I had a conversation recently, and he mentioned that research shows people who survive serious psychiatric conditions often possess deep leadership qualities because of the profound empathy they naturally develop. That completely flipped my perspective.
Was that a horrific, agonizing window of years? Yes. But I learned exactly what I am made of. I made it through a condition that society stigmatizes as a hopeless dead end, and I came out the other side as a success story.

I am damn proud of myself, incredibly grateful for my support system, and I know exactly what it means to bounce back. Treatment didn't change who I was—it gave me my life back.

Author

Patrick Sichel, Senior Business Development Representative, Buzz Solutions

Patrick’s journey reminds us of the profound human potential that lies just on the other side of a severe mental illness diagnosis. His transition from the deep isolation of untreated psychosis to a thriving, independent career in technology is a powerful testament to what is possible when the right treatment clicks. While every family’s path through a psychiatric crisis is unique—and many must navigate barriers that lack easy answers—Patrick’s story offers a beacon of hard-won hope. It proves that a diagnosis of schizophrenia does not define a person's future. With sustained clinical care, a dedicated support system, and the solidarity of peers who truly understand the struggle, recovery is achievable.

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