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.​

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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.