<![CDATA[National Shattering Silence Coalition

<![CDATA[National Shattering Silence Coalition - BLOG]]>Sat, 07 Mar 2026 09:38:45 -0800EditMySite<![CDATA[From Decompensating to Thriving]]>Sat, 07 Mar 2026 06:03:39 GMThttps://www.nationalshatteringsilencecoalition.org/blog/from-decompensating-to-thriving

I’m fifty-five years old and have lived with schizoaffective disorder for twenty-two years.

My first hospitalization for psychosis was barbaric. I left after two weeks with PTSD. I was denied proper clothing, referred to by staff as “Mandeville” instead of my name, forcibly taken down, injected with Haldol, and placed alone in a dark seclusion room. All I did was pray to the blessed Mother. When I was discharged, I tried to put the experience behind me.

Then Hurricane Katrina happened.

After I returned home, I became psychotic again—but this time, there were no psychiatric beds available. I went for a jog on a local highway, picking up beads from a parade the night before and throwing them at passing cars. Before I knew it, I was on the ground, handcuffed, surrounded by what felt like every police officer in town. I was taken to the ER, sedated, and sent home.

On the way to see my psychiatrist, I panicked, convinced I was about to be hospitalized again. I jumped out of the car and ran toward the woods. I didn’t see the barbed wire—my husband did. He tackled me to protect me, and a state trooper pulled up, joining the struggle. It took both men to restrain me. I was placed in an ambulance and lay there for hours, restrained at my hands and feet, completely alone.

Eventually, I made it to a psychiatric bed in New Orleans, where I was finally able to “pull myself together.”

What followed were the crushing lows, crippling anxiety, and years of instability.

My mother was my anchor. She was my caregiver when I needed her most. When she died of dementia in 2017, my world shattered. I experienced a psychotic episode every year for the next five years.

Today, my life looks very different.

I am a daughter, sister, mother, grandmother, fiancée, and occupational therapist. Despite everything, I’ve managed to hold on to my profession—sometimes working, sometimes not—but always supported by my family through the hardest times.

I live with negative symptoms and cognitive deficits. I take a lot of medication, and I am okay with that. I plan to request a neuropsychiatric evaluation because I believe I deserve the same standard of care as someone with Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s. I have a brain disorder. I deserve neurological care.

I consider myself a success story—not because the system worked, but because my support team did.

My community, my family, and my friends saved my life. I have a solid psychiatrist and therapist. I became an advocate through NAMI Southeast Louisiana, serving on the board, facilitating Peer-to-Peer groups, and participating in early CIT training—sharing my story with law enforcement so others might be treated differently.

Today, I am more than just functioning.
I am stable.
I am happy.
I have peace.
Is life perfect? No. But life never is.
I am grateful I am still here.

Tracey’s story makes one thing unmistakably clear: treatment saves—and neglect costs. When timely, compassionate, and appropriate care was unavailable, Tracey’s illness escalated into trauma, criminalization, and repeated crises. When treatment, support, and continuity of care were finally in place, recovery became possible. Her life today is not the result of luck—it is the result of treatment, support, and a system that worked when it showed up. Stories like Tracey’s remind us that early intervention and access to care are not optional—they are lifesaving.

]]><![CDATA[Undeserved Punishment]]>Mon, 02 Mar 2026 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.nationalshatteringsilencecoalition.org/blog/undeserved-punishment

My name is Evelyn Salas. My 36-year-old son, Jordan Salas, has lived with schizophrenia for seventeen years. In 2025, untreated psychosis pushed him into the criminal legal system—not because he was a criminal, but because the mental health system failed to intervene when treatment was urgently needed.

While Jordan was experiencing severe psychosis and delusions, I repeatedly tried to secure help through his psychiatrist and the New York State Office of Mental Health. Instead of support, I was repeatedly shut out and gaslit under the misuse of HIPAA consent laws, despite Jordan’s long history of illness and obvious decompensation.

Between February and July, Jordan was hospitalized approximately six times. Each time, he was released without any meaningful aftercare plan, coordination with his treating psychiatrist, or continuity of treatment. No stabilization. No follow-up. No protection.

In July, during a psychotic episode, Jordan attacked me. I was forced to obtain a restraining order—an act no mother should ever have to take against her child. In August, he violated that order by calling me for help.

For that call, Jordan was jailed.

On August 25, while incarcerated, my son was assaulted by three correctional officers. Jordan has no criminal history. One officer later claimed Jordan initiated the incident, and additional charges were filed—charges I believe were intended to conceal the excessive force used against him.

Jordan was pepper-sprayed directly in the face, beaten on his head, stomach, back, and chest, and punched in the face, resulting in a hemorrhagic eye. He was then restrained and handcuffed on the floor for over thirty minutes. He received no medical treatment for his injuries.

I learned of the beating only because another incarcerated person called my older son.
Jordan later told an attorney that the assault occurred off-camera, in a shower area. Reports from the officers conflict with each other and with documents I obtained through a FOIL (Freedom of Information Law) request. I have reported the incident to the U.S. Department of Justice Civil Rights Division and multiple policymakers in New York.

Before the assault, Jordan had spent twenty-five days in jail without receiving his prescribed medication or seeing a doctor. He was severely decompensated.

Initially, the District Attorney attempted to combine unproven charges to elevate his case to a felony, seeking prison rather than hospital treatment. After two competency evaluations, a judge ruled Jordan incompetent to stand trial on November 5, 2025, and ordered that he be transferred for psychiatric treatment and stabilization.

I requested that Jordan be treated at Capital District Psychiatric Center in Albany, a civil psychiatric hospital. I do not want him placed in a forensic facility, which is essentially another jail. His charges do not warrant incarceration, let alone placement in a prison-like psychiatric setting.

Jordan’s rights have been repeatedly violated. A public defender was assigned for an alleged assault on a guard despite Jordan already having private counsel. His attorney was never contacted during or after the incident. A restraining order—originally set to expire December 17, 2025—was extended by another court, further cutting him off from family support. I am his only support.

To this day, my son remains in jail, waiting for a hospital bed.

Given the documented abuse and dangerous conditions in New York’s jails and prisons, I fear for my son’s life. Jordan is a good person. He lives with anosognosia—a neurological condition that prevents him from recognizing his illness. He does not understand what is happening to him.

I am seeking rehabilitation and treatment, not punishment. My son does not deserve this.

Jordan’s story also reveals the staggering financial cost of systemic neglect. In just a few months, repeated short-term psychiatric hospitalizations—without coordinated aftercare—likely cost taxpayers an estimated $55,000–$80,000, yet failed to provide lasting stabilization. His subsequent incarceration while awaiting competency restoration has likely added $90,000 or more, as New York jail costs exceed $1,500 per day per person. Instead of receiving timely, medically necessary treatment in a hospital setting, public dollars have funded a revolving door of crisis care and incarceration—an approach that is both inhumane and fiscally irresponsible. Early intervention, coordinated treatment, and continuity of care would have saved money, preserved Jordan’s dignity, and most importantly, prevented further harm. This is the real cost of neglect—and it is paid in both lives and dollars.

]]><![CDATA[Trusting Myself Again after Psychosis]]>Sat, 21 Feb 2026 18:38:12 GMThttps://www.nationalshatteringsilencecoalition.org/blog/trusting-myself-again-after-psychosis

That night in November 2015, I barreled down I-75 at 100 miles per hour. The moon hung in the sky, a pale sickle. The black sky was spangled bright with stars.

I was on my way to meet the CIA.

As I neared the Michigan-Ohio border, my mom called: “Honey, where are you?”

Something about her voice, so filled with love, reached me. At that moment, I knew I could trust her. I began to cry. “Mom, I think I might be having a break with reality.”

It had been a long journey to this moment of crisis. I first became depressed as a teenager. I would come home from high school and lie in the long, late-afternoon light on the floor of my closet, sobbing. The depression accelerated as a college student. Though I had been accepted to an honors program at one of the top public universities in the country, I was struggling.

My hygiene deteriorated. My freshman roommate, worried and trying to help, would tell me when I was beginning to smell and to take a shower. My days and nights were reversing. I would sleep all day, curled up in an armchair in the basement of the student union, among people experiencing homelessness who had come in to get warm. Suddenly, I was no longer able to read, instead scanning a page repeatedly, desperately trying to take it in. I had no idea how in the world I was going to complete my English degree with its heavy reading load. Though I aced some classes, I also dropped out of others.

Now, I know I was experiencing prodromal schizophrenia, the early, pre-psychotic phase of the illness that appears in late adolescence and early adulthood. But at the time, I couldn’t understand my own behavior, what was happening to me, why I was transforming from a top-notch student athlete, a National Merit Finalist in high school, to this person I considered messed-up, a loser.

I hated this—and wanted only to destroy her.

In my sophomore year, I overdosed for the first time and was hospitalized in a psychiatric unit. This marked the true beginning of the skid: over and over, as the years passed, I overdosed. Prescription drugs and sedating over-the-counter medications were my method of choice. For weeks at a time as a sophomore, I would take tiny overdoses every night, unsure whether I would wake up the next morning. I found this Russian roulette exciting. It made me feel alive—and I felt so dead with sadness inside.

My diagnosis, as with many people with a psychotic disorder, changed over the years. First, major depression; then, bipolar II; and at age twenty-six, bipolar I. But it wasn’t until age thirty when I went cold turkey off of an antipsychotic, frustrated with the massive weight gain, that psychosis appeared.

At first, I recognized that my strange thoughts didn’t reflect reality. But as time passed, I spiraled deeper into an alternate reality—that my phone was tapped, that my computer had been hacked, that people were following me. I believed that the CIA was recruiting me.

That night in November 2015, days after my thirty-second birthday, I took off driving. At the time, I was working as a freelance reporter and desperately trying to hold my life together. A calendar reminder had appeared on my phone, a signal to make calls for an article on ACT testing. But I thought it was a message from the CIA, instructing me to drive to that center, hundreds of miles away, to meet agents. They would whisk me away to a faraway training center, deep under a mountain, where I would be transformed into the world-class spy I had always been destined to be.

But my mom’s voice on the other end of the phone reached me: “Meggie, I think you’re having a break with reality, too. Please come home.”

That night, she talked me home. The next day, she took me to a psychiatric emergency room.

Looking back, I’m not sure where my insight that night—that I was having a break with reality—came from. As my psychiatrist later told me, it’s highly unusual for a person with a psychotic disorder to be able to recognize that they are out of touch with reality. When we reflected on this moment in the years afterwards, my mom told me, “There was always some tiny part of you that remained sane, Meggie. A tiny, tiny part of you that wanted to be well. Your dad and I never lost you completely. You never lost yourself completely either.” My mom’s statement comforts me tremendously.

I have always been myself and never will be anything but myself, future bouts of psychosis notwithstanding. In college, falling deep into depression, I would tell myself that the true Meg was with God, that God held her with him in Heaven. God was keeping her safe and would give her back to me when I was able to keep her safe myself. Perhaps, that night in the car, God gave a tiny part of the real Meg back to me, just enough so I could recognize the danger in which I stood.

Still, it’s incredibly hard for me to confront this history of psychosis so traumatizing that I have difficulty even thinking about it a decade later. When my mind broke, I lost the ability to trust myself deeply and truly well. I still struggle with panic attacks on the highway, convinced I will take my hands off the wheel against my will. I don’t want to die now—but I might kill myself anyway. I’m a writer, but in the end, there are no words for the horror of psychosis, the reality of unreality beyond expression.

There is saving in the trying, however. As I try to communicate psychosis, I’m reaching peers, mental health professionals, and the public—and redeeming the experience by helping others. I’m also regaining power, even integrity of mind.

I’m stitching myself up with language.

Days after that night on the highway, in a Detroit-area women’s psychiatric hospital, I had an episode of what I know now was schizophasia, speaking in a “word salad,” a meaningless mixture of words characteristic of schizophrenia. I thought I was a master linguist, my first language, French; second, ASL; third, English; fourth, Latin. I believed I had been a ballerina as a child and that I was regaining this ability. I dreamed of breaking out of the hospital and pirouetting across the world stage, acclaimed, a master spy, a master dancer.

An emergency antipsychotic medication restored me. Overnight, the delusions disappeared.

Later, because of my parents’ concerns about medication compliance, I was transferred to a group home. There, I spiraled into profound depression. My wonderful psychiatrist recognized this as a call for help. She encouraged my parents to allow me to move home with them. At that point, I was determined to change.

In the months that followed, I began walking my parents’ neighborhood, even volunteering at a local food bank. After I designed its annual report, I was offered a job as a part-time communications coordinator.

Suddenly, I was building what therapists call “a life worth living.” I have never looked back from that early recovery. I haven’t attempted suicide since 2016. I’ve remained medication compliant and have had only one episode of psychosis, which my psychiatrist and I were able to manage at home.

Supported by the right medication regimen, I have thrived—a master’s in writing, a home of my own, jobs as a copywriter and marketing manager, both full-time and part-time. I even have a loving and successful marriage. My husband and I will celebrate our seventh anniversary this year. In the last ten years, I’ve published extensively, both in literary journals and major mainstream magazines. Today, I work as a community journalist and am writing a memoir that I hope to publish someday.

With proper health care and now medication adherence, I’ve been restored. I’m here to say a good life is possible for people with severe mental illness. This is what NSSC is fighting for—individuals like me who need psychiatric support to survive but, with it, are capable of happiness and success.

Meg LeDuc is a journalist, editor, and author of the memoir-in-progress Big Desire: Madness and the Quest for Motherhood. Honored with three Hopwood Awards and a Michigan Press Association Award, her work appears in Brevity, Cleaver, and HuffPost. Meg holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and is a lead contributor to the MI Mental Health Series.

Her work with the Treatment Saves. Neglect Costs. campaign is deeply personal; it was access to timely, appropriate, and intensive treatment that allowed Meg to move from the depths of psychosis to a thriving, stable recovery. Today, she lives a wonderful life in Detroit, Michigan, with her husband and their rescue cats. Meg is a living testament to the fact that when we prioritize clinical treatment over systemic neglect, individuals with serious mental illness can reclaim their futures.

You can learn more about Meg’s writing and advocacy at megleduc.com.

]]><![CDATA[Disturbing His Peace]]>Fri, 30 Jan 2026 16:02:29 GMThttps://www.nationalshatteringsilencecoalition.org/blog/disturbing-his-peace

Last year, my son, Michael, and I experienced profoundly inadequate and ineffective care while desperately trying to obtain proper medical treatment for his serious mental illness (SMI). Instead of receiving the care he needed, Michael has now spent six months in the DuPage County Jail due to repeated arrests. We live in Illinois, where families like ours are overwhelmed by red tape, insufficient services, and dangerous laws that make it nearly impossible to help loved ones with SMI.

Michael is twenty-nine years old. He experienced his first psychotic break at age twenty-one and was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder. He struggles with medication compliance due to anosognosia and also with alcohol use disorder. He has been psychiatrically hospitalized more than fifteen times, nearly all involuntarily. He has been arrested four times, two of those arrests occurring this past summer while he was actively seeking help.

Over time, Michael became increasingly symptomatic and began drinking alcohol frequently, which severely exacerbated his delusions, paranoia, disorganized thinking, and erratic behavior. I worked closely with him until he agreed to contact a local facility that treats both substance use disorder and mental illness. Although he was accepted, there were no beds available for one week. During that waiting period, Michael was arrested and charged with six felonies. He was released under Illinois’ no-cash-bail law.

I later learned that the police had requested that the judge keep Michael in custody because they recognized he needed help and protection. That request was denied. Michael entered treatment as planned after his release. However, when he met with a nurse practitioner at the facility, she stated that he appeared “overmedicated” and reduced his antipsychotic medication from 20 mg to 5 mg. This was not an acute psychiatric hospital, and his medications should not have been altered. I immediately contacted the clinical supervisor to express my concern.

Michael interpreted this reduction as confirmation that he had been overmedicated for eight years and was relieved to take less medication. I knew, however, that his symptoms would worsen and that compliance would decline. After two weeks in what was supposed to be a twenty-eight-day program, he left the facility. When he returned home, he was significantly worse than before.

At that point, I knew the only remaining option would be involuntary psychiatric hospitalization, which requires that a person become an imminent danger to themselves or others. As Michael deteriorated, I reached out to multiple professionals seeking help. A local police sergeant who had previously assisted us was compassionate and eager to help. She informed me of an Illinois law I had not known: if an individual has pending felony charges, a family member cannot file a petition for involuntary psychiatric hospitalization. I later confirmed this information with a state’s attorney who works in specialty courts. I was stunned. This is a dangerous and deeply flawed law that leaves families powerless.

Shortly thereafter, Michael experienced a delusion that he was having a heart attack. Although I recognized this as psychosis, I took him to the emergency room. While there, I requested a psychiatric evaluation. The night before, Michael had verbally threatened me and was exhibiting severe psychotic symptoms. It is devastating as a parent to have to wait until a loved one is threatening before help becomes available.

Michael was transferred to a psychiatric hospital, where staff quickly recognized that the drastic medication reduction had been negligent and harmful. They increased his antipsychotic dosage appropriately. He was hospitalized for seven days and discharged, still symptomatic.

Michael then sought help at another psychiatric hospital for his co-occurring disorder. He was admitted and remained inpatient for four days. Three days after discharge, on August 11, he was arrested again. This time, the judge did not allow him to leave. While he was incarcerated, I learned there is only one forensic psychiatrist for approximately 700 inmates, and it can take about one month to be seen.

Upon arrival at jail, Michael reported that he was taking only 5 mg of his antipsychotic medication. After speaking with him, I encouraged him to advocate for a return to his long-standing dosage of 20 mg. It took two months for this change to occur. There are no additional mental health services available in the county jail.

I am grateful that Michael is now on the correct medication and is sober and safe. However, I am deeply disturbed that jail has become the only place where his life-saving needs are being addressed. No family should have to endure this. My journey with Michael has been a continual learning process—heartbreaking, exhausting, and often infuriating—but I remain hopeful that he can one day live a healthy and stable life.

Sincerely,
Sarah Kibler

Because Michael did not receive timely, appropriate treatment and instead cycled into the criminal justice system, the cost to the state has been significant. In Illinois, incarcerating an individual costs an estimated $33,000–$38,000 per year, meaning Michael’s six months in jail has likely cost taxpayers $15,000–$19,000 for incarceration alone—excluding court proceedings, law enforcement involvement, emergency care, and repeated hospitalizations. By contrast, sustained community-based mental health treatment and supportive services cost far less and are proven to reduce arrests, hospitalizations, and long-term disability. Michael’s experience underscores a hard truth: treatment saves lives and money, while neglect drives suffering and escalating public costs. Treatment Saves. Neglect Costs.

]]><![CDATA[Caught in The System of Incompetency]]>Fri, 30 Jan 2026 07:42:57 GMThttps://www.nationalshatteringsilencecoalition.org/blog/caught-in-the-system-of-incompetency

My name is Danielle Bennett. My son, Elliot Michael Bennett, has been living in a system that punishes mental illness, a no-fault brain disorder, and delays justice until a person breaks. We live in Arizona.

Elliot was never a troublemaker. He was the kid who would give you the shirt off his back. He worked hard, loved his family, had big goals, and worked for what he had. He poured his heart into motocross and earned a Kawasaki sponsorship. We were with him every weekend, watching him chase something positive and real.

Then our family went through a devastating stretch of loss and trauma, and Elliot’s brain began to unravel. He escalated into psychosis, fear, confusion, and paranoia that made him vulnerable and in need of protection. The wrong people took advantage of his vulnerability when he needed protection and treatment, not isolation. What has happened since has been crushing.

Elliot, now 22 years old, has been held in pretrial detention since March 2023 in Maricopa County, Arizona—without a trial. The case has repeatedly encountered court proceedings intended to determine whether he’s competent to stand trial. This “competency cycling” has left him stuck in limbo.

Because of his symptoms of mental illness, Elliot has often been unable to meaningfully assist in his own defense. Instead of the process moving forward with appropriate care and timely court action, he has remained in custody as his condition slowly deteriorated. It’s as though the system has allowed him to decline over time rather than ensured consistent treatment and due process.

Communication has been deeply inconsistent. There have been periods when we could not reliably hear from him. Basic stability like access to services or consistent procedures seemed to disappear without explanation. It felt confusing, opaque, and dehumanizing to us from the outside.

On top of that, there have been serious discrepancies and concerns about how this case has been handled. We lost trust in the courts. Shifting narratives, missing clarity, and a lack of transparency left us asking, “How can a person defend themselves when the process itself becomes the punishment?”

I am not asking anyone to decide guilt or innocence online. I am asking people to see what happens when a young person in a mental-health crisis is swallowed by delays, confinement, and a revolving door of competency proceedings—while time passes, hope fades, and a family watches their child slip away.

We are still fighting for basic due process, meaningful mental health treatment, and a timeline that makes sense. We are trying to get the right help in place and preserve records that show the true timeline of court events, custody movements, and documentation. Why? None of this should be happening in silence.

I’m sharing Elliot’s story because families like ours need to be heard. We plead for accountability, humane treatment, and a system that doesn’t abandon people in psychosis behind concrete walls while the clock runs out. Elliot is a human being. He is loved. And he deserves care, due process, and a real chance to be heard.

Since March 2023, Elliot has remained in pretrial detention in Maricopa County at an estimated individual taxpayer cost of $140–$150 per day—totaling roughly $150,000 or more—without a trial and consistent, meaningful treatment. When treatment is delayed and people are warehoused instead of helped, the cost is not only human, it is financial. Taxpayers are funding prolonged pretrial detention, repeated competency proceedings, court continuances, emergency interventions, and system inefficiencies that serve no one while a person in crisis deteriorates. It is far more expensive to confine someone in psychosis than to provide timely, effective treatment in the community or hospital. Every day, Elliot remains trapped in a cycle of wasted public dollars, lost time, and irreversible harm. Neglect costs—and we are all paying for it.

]]><![CDATA[Back from the Brink of the Final Frontier]]>Mon, 26 Jan 2026 08:00:00 GMThttps://www.nationalshatteringsilencecoalition.org/blog/back-from-the-brink-of-the-final-frontier

2003: A Mental Odyssey

Growing up in a happy, healthy home at the start of the 21st century, my family never imagined we would enter a new “dimension”—serious mental illness. As if transported to an alternate reality, symptoms of bipolar disorder and psychosis appeared in me, leaving us bewildered.

At first glance, turning sixteen was the next step in the natural course of my life. That birthday landed on the precipice of a new school year and the transfer to a different school. For someone on the outside, I handled changing schools as well as could be expected. As this life event dovetailed with another teenage birthday, no one suspected the initial spiral into clinical depression. Unbeknownst to me or my family, the subtle lows of the illness were just the start of a rocky road to the brink of what my dad called the “final frontier,” the brain.

Upon the transition, my thought process slowed, newly formed friendships fell apart, and unexplainable fatigue drained my heart into dejection. No one, including myself, had a clue how crippling this altered reality of mine would become. The psychological duress that raked my mind across coals of internal anguish was a new normal for my maladjustment to the different school environment.

Happy Home, Troubled Mind

Before this state of mind, I’d grown into a creative, introspective, and otherwise well-rounded teenager: excelling academically, growing my musical skills in piano and French horn, and competing at varsity-level cross-country races; all my accomplishments benefited from a solid foundation in my youth. My parents were contentedly married, my older brother was my role model, and my neighbors, friends, and fellow students were a community I knew and trusted. The fabric of who I was and the surrounding people in my life were safe and stable.

Imagine the shock to me and my family from the onset of this illness. My mind descended into an overwhelming state of hopelessness, self-hate, and suicidality. It felt like I’d walked into an escape room without any clues to set myself free. The enclosing dark began to grip my psyche until New Year’s Eve, when the fog lifted. Without warning, my paradigm shifted. Mania waltzed onto the scene.

The flights of grandiose thinking.

The hopeless romanticism of a schoolgirl crush.

The sheer delight of simple coincidences.

The euphoric highs of creative expression.

At first glance, I seemed to be returning to my usual self—improvising show tunes on the piano, drawing caricatures of my classmates, and praying with a renewed fervor in my faith.

Curiouser and Curiouser

Another dimension of the illness’s paradigm shift was compounding anxiety. Fear of the unknown lurched into the foreground of my mind, whether it was the dark of my bedroom closet at night, or the way classmates looked at me when I asked a question. This irrational bridge to the brink of my psyche gave way to a new reality—paranoia.

My mind quickly unraveled, revealing how sick I truly was.

When I sat down to a test one morning in class and saw a spiral doodle scrawled across the page, memories from a scary movie pierced my mind's eye. This supposedly random mark on my paper set me off, and I took off on a mad sprint down the hall to the nurse. She called my parents to her office as my hallucinations ebbed and flowed.

“Did you hear Michael calling my name? Just now, in the hallway?” I asked nurse Nancy about the classmate I'd obsessed over since the first month of school. She looked at me, puzzled, as I hallucinated. My confusion fed panic. Once my parents arrived at her office, they took me to the psychiatrist and then admitted me to the local juvenile psych unit later that day.

Coming To: Faithful Progress

Through the combined healing approaches of psychotropics and counseling during three weeks of inpatient care, plus two months of outpatient therapy, my sanity returned. My mind was finally at peace. The literal brainstorm that opened my alter-reality and “own little world” quelled at last.

Shortly thereafter, an official diagnosis of bipolar disorder type I with psychotic features had freed me to identify and explain my warped reality I’d journeyed through that year. Equipped with the tools of therapy and medications to manage my sickness, success followed. I finished high school on time, graduated college summa cum laude four years later, and met, got engaged, and married the man of my dreams a year after that. But, as my confidence in myself grew, so did a mix of other beliefs.

Misguided to Setback

As a Christian from a young age, I always believed that God could do miracles and that He is the same God as the one in the Bible. The summer after my first episode at sixteen, I attended a healing service where the minister declared me healed in Jesus’ name. In my heart, I wanted to receive healing from bipolar disorder. Eight years later, while listening to a televangelist's sermons on TV, I clung to the fixed notion that I was healed and mustered the blind faith to taper off my psych meds.

I attribute this decision to a combination of factors at play: naivety, misguidance, pride, denial, and lack of insight, or anosognosia. In hindsight, it’s obvious to me that anosognosia was a significant factor in living in my “own little world” at sixteen, and my regression into manic psychosis at twenty-four. Anosognosia is a symptom of serious mental illness that keeps one from realizing they are sick at all. A byproduct of this symptom is a blind spot where the person who is sick doesn't realize their medicine is the reason they maintain stability.

2012: On the Brink Again

Again, like at sixteen, I was hospitalized for delusional thoughts, skewed moods, and outbursts of behavior. This time, I was held captive against my will with more than forty other adults battling the wilderness of their illnesses at the brink of their final frontiers.

Within the confined, stark layout of the psych hospital, my sick mind fought symptoms that manifested as spiritual, metaphysical, in addition to physical and emotional. Paranoia, irritability, euphoria, hallucinations, and delusions flooded my being. While I struggled internally, external pressures mounted—the constant change in daily schedules, the pressure from clinicians to try new medications, and the unpredictable actions of the other patients berated my psyche. I needed a break from the symptoms, collective isolation, and unfeeling treatment from staff and patients I witnessed moment to moment.

Eleven days later, the hospital discharged me, albeit unjustly, as my symptoms had not improved. I returned two weeks later, having flown across the country to be in my cousin’s wedding, while deteriorating to the point of urgently needing inpatient care again. This chapter of my life closed after totaling three months in and out of local hospitals that tried my patience, faith, and sanity. A keen nurse reintroduced me to the medications I’d originally weaned off, and my mind eventually returned from the brink.

Back to The Future: Where I Am Today

More than a dozen years later, I continue to follow a call to advocate for those whisked away to the brink by these illnesses of the final frontier. My efforts for those who suffer from serious mental illness like mine encompass various enterprises. I joined the National Shattering Silence Coalition (NSSC) in 2022, serving on the steering and communication committees and leading the organization through a transition period after the founder’s passing. I co-chair a committee and serve as the graphics specialist, spreading the message of our organization as widely as possible online and in-person. The NSSC seeks to educate the public about the realities of these illnesses, enacting change at various levels of influence.

As a creator, I’ve documented my journey through my bipolar episodes in my memoir, But Deliver Me from Crazy. This work, blogging, speaking at events, hosting an annual mental health and faith awards, engaging on social media platforms, and continuing in nonprofit activities, is my life calling. My tagline is “sharing bold, brave, and real insight to enlighten.” My artistic creativity also continues to flourish through my freelance business, sans the manic highs. I share my story and the hope of healing to encourage families with loved ones who are suffering from illnesses so they may be strengthened and supported.

For those who wonder where hope lies, I point to my journey. No matter what wreckage these illnesses can bring, no matter the depths of desperation, there is a light that dawns each day. Darkness doesn’t have the final say over this final frontier, nor does a diagnosis of serious mental illness determine the limits of life. With hope in one’s heart and help for one’s head, a safe and stable life can unfold. We who carry the scars of stories like mine are not meant to hide or cover them but offer them as evidence that there is a way through the confusion.

Back to reality.

Back to charted, tamed territory.

Back from the brink of the final frontier.

Katie R. Dale is an advocate, author, and artist. Her passion is to reconcile the two unseen realms of mental and spiritual, sharing bold, brave, and real "insight to enlighten." As a former NSSC Coordinator and Delight in Disorder Ministries President, she advocates to help the plight of those affected by SMI/SBDs. Her writing is featured in her debut memoir, But Deliver Me from Crazy (Communikated Publishing, 2020), various anthologies, blogs, and media outlets. She currently resides in Germany with her husband, Chris and daughter, Kylie. Learn more about her on her website, KatieRDale.com and follow her on social @KatieRDale.

]]><![CDATA[When Hospitals Become Prisons: NSSC Members Speak Out on Ohio’s Treatment Crisis]]>Tue, 20 Jan 2026 16:00:00 GMThttps://www.nationalshatteringsilencecoalition.org/blog/when-hospitals-become-prisons-nssc-members-speak-out-on-ohios-treatment-crisis

A recent joint investigation by The Marshall Project and Ideastream Public Media has uncovered a harrowing reality: Ohio’s state psychiatric hospitals are struggling to keep up with a surge of criminally-charged patients, leaving civil patients and families in the shadows.

At the heart of this story are two of our own, voices from the frontlines. NSSC members Jan Dyer and Tyeesha Ferguson were interviewed for the report, sharing the raw, often heartbreaking challenges families face when trying to navigate a system that is fundamentally broken. They aren't just names in a news story—they are mothers and advocates representing thousands of families who are tired of the silence surrounding severe mental illness (SMI).

Why this matters is clear: when psychiatric beds are diverted or unavailable, the consequences are often catastrophic:

The "Waitlist" Trap: Individuals in crisis are stuck in jails or ERs instead of getting medical treatment.
Systemic Overload: Staff and patients face increased safety risks as facilities exceed capacity.
Dignity Denied: Instead of receiving care for a no-fault brain disease, our loved ones are caught in a cycle of criminalization.

As reflected in our new mission, NSSC is dedicated to dismantling the systemic barriers to healthcare. We believe that silence is not a passive state but an active barrier to understanding and progress. This investigation is a wake-up call for Ohio and the nation. We cannot "reform" a system that refuses to prioritize the most severely ill.

Watch the Investigation. We encourage every member of our coalition to watch the report and share the LinkedIn post to keep the conversation going.

Watch the Video Here

]]><![CDATA[When Psychosis is a Medical Emergency, Why Do We Keep Waiting for Tragedy?]]>Tue, 13 Jan 2026 14:34:36 GMThttps://www.nationalshatteringsilencecoalition.org/blog/when-psychosis-is-a-medical-emergency-why-do-we-keep-waiting-for-tragedy

By NSSC Executive Director Ann Corcoran

With the recent tragedy involving Rob and Michelle Reiner, families like ours have been re-traumatized yet again. Across the country, we hear the same questions after these devastating events: How could this have happened? How do we prevent it from happening again?

And then, as time passes, the questions fade. The headlines move on. The urgency disappears. The laws remain unchanged.

Instead of early intervention, we wait for tragedy.

As Executive Director of the National Shattering Silence Coalition, a volunteer-led organization of caregivers, peers, and professionals working together to improve outcomes for people living with serious mental illness and their families, I can say this with certainty. Whether the tragedy involves a public figure or a family no one has ever heard of, we do not forget. Families like ours live with the consequences of untreated serious mental illness every day.

Many caregivers live in constant fear in a society that fundamentally does not understand psychosis or the fact that it is a medical emergency requiring timely treatment.

Recently, one of our members reached out in fear. Her son, a military veteran now diagnosed with schizophrenia, has been calling her and threatening to kill her. All of his delusions center on his mother. The fear has forced her to move multiple times and now live at an undisclosed address. Yet her son claims he has found her—and that he is coming to kill her.

What choice does she have?

She can call the police, knowing her son may be arrested and charged for making serious threats. But she also knows jail will not treat a no-fault brain illness. The only other option is to wait until he meets dangerousness criteria for involuntary commitment—often meaning she must wait until harm is imminent or has already occurred.

Neither option protects families. Neither option prioritizes treatment.

So she lives jumpy, hypervigilant, always looking over her shoulder. Fear becomes the norm again. Eventually, she decides the only way to breathe is to leave the state for a period of time—not because the danger has passed, but because the system has failed her.

This is the reality for far too many families.

Psychosis, by definition, means a person has lost touch with reality. Delusions and hallucinations are not imagined—they are experienced as real. It is impossible to predict when paranoia, voices, or distorted beliefs will escalate into a dangerous act. In my experience working with families who have endured acts of violence by a loved one, it is almost never because the person was violent by nature. It is because their reality was so profoundly distorted that they believed they had to act to save themselves or someone they loved.

Yet most of society does not understand this.

Law enforcement, policymakers, judges, district attorneys, correctional officers, and—far too often—even clinicians lack adequate education about psychosis and how rapidly it can escalate. Families are left navigating impossible choices while living in fear, shame, and isolation.

Safety plans are critical for caregivers of loved ones with psychosis, yet families are rarely educated about what psychosis means or how profoundly it impacts family dynamics. Instead, they are told to wait. Wait until things get worse. Wait until someone gets hurt. Wait until tragedy forces action.

This is not compassionate. It is not humane. And it is not prevention.

If we are serious about stopping these tragedies, we must stop treating psychosis as a behavioral issue or a criminal justice problem and start treating it as the medical emergency it is. That means laws that allow for earlier intervention, education for professionals across systems, and real support for families before fear becomes their daily reality.

The question is not how could this have happened. Families already know the answer.

The real question is whether we are willing to act before the next tragedy forces us to ask it again.

]]><![CDATA[Including Caregivers in the Conversation: BMS Leads the Way]]>Wed, 05 Nov 2025 10:38:52 GMThttps://www.nationalshatteringsilencecoalition.org/blog/november-05th-2025

by NSSC Executive Director Ann Corcoran

As both a caregiver to someone living with a serious mental/brain illness,and through my work with the National Shattering Silence Coalition, I often encounter the deep frustration and heartbreak that comes from feeling unheard and unseen. Too often, families who know their loved ones best are shut out of the treatment process, despite being the ones most committed to their recovery and well-being. Who wants to see our loved ones recover and thrive more than we do?

That’s why I am profoundly grateful to Bristol Myers Squibb (BMS) for inviting me to participate in the 2025 Schizophrenia Care Partner Summit on October 13th and 14th. BMS is leading the way in recognizing the essential role of care partners in the treatment and recovery journey. This summit was not just an event—it was a powerful statement that caregivers’ voices matter.

BMS is setting a new standard by engaging directly with care partners to learn from our lived experiences, understand the barriers to effective treatment, and explore how they can better support individuals living with schizophrenia and those who care for them. Their approach reflects compassion, respect, and a genuine commitment to improving outcomes—not only through groundbreaking treatments like Cobenfy, but also by addressing the human side of care that is too often overlooked.

What made this summit so impactful was the incredible group of individuals and organizations who came together in the spirit of collaboration—advocates and leaders from NAMI affiliates, Clubhouse International, CURESZ, Caregiver Action Network, The STARR Coalition, Kompashion, and the National Alliance for Caregiving, alongside the dedicated team at BMS. Each person brought their passion, expertise, and shared mission to ensure that those living with schizophrenia and their families receive the support, dignity, and care they deserve.

This gathering was more than a conference—it was a reminder that change is possible when caregivers, advocates, researchers, and industry leaders work side by side. I left the summit feeling inspired and hopeful that our voices are finally being heard and that a brighter, more compassionate future for individuals living with schizophrenia is within reach.

To everyone at BMS and to all who participated, thank you for recognizing the value of caregivers and for fostering an environment where our perspectives truly matter. Together, we are shaping a system that not only treats illness, but also supports healing, understanding, and recovery.

]]><![CDATA[Richard's Story: Compassion, Not Criminalization]]>Tue, 30 Sep 2025 17:14:16 GMThttps://www.nationalshatteringsilencecoalition.org/blog/richards-story-compassion-not-criminalization

By Anonymous NSSC Member

Richard* always had a deep connection to nature. He enjoyed fishing and kayaking. He was the kid who took home the school pets on weekends—a leopard gecko and two hermit crabs. He loved playing with his niece and nephew, and treasured family camping trips under the stars.

On August 27, 2020, when Richard was twenty-five, everything changed. Richard suffered a devastating break with reality and became psychotic. In a terrifying moment, he strangled me, his own mother.

Moments later, when he realized what he had done, he called 911 for help. He sat with me until the ambulance crew and police arrived. I spent three nights in the hospital, grappling with both physical and emotional injuries.

We live in Massachusetts, a state that does not understand or appropriately respond to psychosis, a no-fault brain illness symptom. Instead of receiving the urgent medical help he needed, my son was treated as a criminal. The District Attorney charged Richard with attempted murder.

Richard languished in jail—a cold, non-therapeutic environment that is devastating for someone battling serious mental illness. He was released from jail on his own recognizance in September 2020. This meant that he was set free without having to pay bail, based on his promise to return to court when required and to comply with any other conditions set by the court.

In October 2021, the Assistant District Attorney (ADA) requested a twenty-day psychiatric evaluation at Bridgewater State Hospital (BSH)—a facility run by the Department of Corrections—which the judge approved. Richard was taken to BSH straight from court. The court never gave him a chance to get his bills paid or house situated, and he lost his job.

After the evaluation, BSH released Richard home. Soon after, the ADA found that Richard was deteriorating again. The judge would send him to BSH a second time, for forty days before being released home.

Richard learned to anticipate chaos. He quit his new job and set his bills to autopay, preparing for yet another sudden upheaval as the next court hearing approached.

Each time, BSH would release him home, saying that he was not a danger to himself or others. During one of these stays at BSH, Richard developed a terrifying delusion. He believed that accepting medication would kill him. This took root after he overheard the ADA recount a story in court about a man who had been strapped to a gurney, medicated, and later died.

After Richard was released from BSH in March 2024, he became convinced the ADA wanted him dead. In desperation, he sent 132 emails to the ADA—pleading, reasoning, and begging for his life.

A warrant for Richard’s arrest was issued on July 9th due to the emails. After spending a night in jail, he appeared in court. These emails became the basis for new criminal charges—harassment, stalking, intimidation of a witness, and threatening a public official. The same ADA prosecuting his original case filed these charges.

On July 10th, the judge ordered Richard back to BSH for a "16A evaluation"—a legal assessment to determine whether he was competent to stand trial or not criminally responsible due to serious mental illness. This took three months, at which time he was found incompetent to stand trial.

Richard was then committed to BSH for six months under a Roger’s Order. This allowed the administration of involuntary medication due to his inability to make informed decisions. He remained at BSH for nine and a half months until a hearing in March 2025 determined whether he remained a danger to the community.

Competency was restored. On April 6, 2025, BSH released him back to jail, where he stayed until May 29th, without receiving medically-necessary treatment for his psychosis. Richard was released home to my custody.

With a private attorney now representing my son, all of the motions filed were denied at the dangerousness hearing:

The motion to remove the ADA from the case due to a conflict of interest—denied.

The motion to move Richard’s case to another county because all involved in the original case were involved with the new charges—denied.

The motion to dismiss the case for violation of due process—denied.

The judge released the BSH psychiatric evaluation unredacted and without our knowledge to the jail, the probation office, and the ADA office. Richard’s attorney argued that we were never given the chance to present our case to hold the report until redacted, but the judge only shrugged her shoulders.

His attorney has repeatedly tried to meet with the ADA to address safety concerns and outline the steps we've taken to protect everyone involved, but he has been met with silence and stalling. We never went to trial, and stood before the district court.

Richard pleaded guilty to four felonies and one misdemeanor. Twenty years of jail time was the only alternative. The ADA agreed to reduce the charge from attempted murder to assault and battery with strangulation and bodily injury. The judge ordered three years of probation.

Living through this has been emotionally shattering. The toll—financially, emotionally, and spiritually—has been immense. The cost of repeated court hearings has far exceeded what it would have taken to provide Richard with consistent, community-based treatment.

I do not believe the court was looking to help my son but only to get a guilty plea and settle the case. The system’s indifference traumatizes not just individuals but entire families. My husband and I nearly divorced under the weight of it. Counseling kept us together, but many families aren’t so lucky.

That’s why we keep speaking out.

We won’t stop telling our story until Massachusetts chooses compassion over punishment for people with brain disorders.

Psychosis is a medical emergency. It cannot be treated with handcuffs and jail cells.

Yet, Massachusetts and Connecticut remain the only two states without Assisted Outpatient Treatment (AOT) laws, which allow court-ordered care for those too ill to recognize their need for help.

What will it take for Massachusetts to allow AOT? How many more families must suffer before we prioritize humane treatment over incarceration?

Today, Richard has found the strength to rebuild in the community. He has returned to his apartment and works as a banquet server. With prayer and perseverance, we hope the next two years on probation will pass peacefully and that our family can finally be free from the grip of the court system.

Recovery is possible—but only if we offer care instead of punishment.

*Name changed for privacy

]]>