That day, Dr. Ahmad asked me to meet him in one of the small consultation rooms down the hall from the unit. And when I sat down across from him, he had my chart open and a serious but kind expression on his face.
He told me I'd made really good progress over the past week and that he thought I was getting close to being ready for discharge, which made my stomach flip with both excitement and fear at the same time.
He explained the criteria I needed to meet before I could leave, ticking them off on his fingers as he talked. First, I needed to show consistent response to the medication with minimal breakthrough symptoms. Second, I needed to show I could use the coping skills they'd taught me when symptoms did come up. Third, I needed a solid safety plan with people to call and steps to follow if things got bad. Fourth, I needed to have outpatient appointments already scheduled so there was no gap in treatment.
He looked at me carefully and said if I kept improving like I had been, he estimated I could be ready to go home in another two or three days, maybe four at most.
The timeline felt both too fast and too slow because part of me was desperate to get out of here and sleep in my own bed and have some privacy, but another part of me was scared about leaving this safe bubble where nurses check on me and doctors are always available and I don't have to make any real decisions.
I told him I understood the criteria and I'd keep working on everything. And he nodded and made some notes in my chart before standing up to leave.
Back in my room that evening after dinner, I pulled out the notebook the hospital gave me and started working on what Dr. Ahmad called a crisis plan. I wrote "Warning Signs" at the top of the first page and started listing everything I could think of that might mean my symptoms were getting worse.
The voices getting louder or more frequent. Seeing bright colors around people again. Feeling like I need to avoid mirrors or certain lights. Not being able to sleep for more than a few hours. Feeling like I'm spreading infection or hurting people by being near them.
I filled up almost a whole page with warning signs, trying to be as specific as possible so I'd actually notice if things started going downhill.
On the next page, I wrote "Coping Skills to Try" and listed all the techniques Jonas and the other staff had taught me. The 5-4-3-2-1 grounding method where I name things I can see and touch and hear. Running cold water over my hands or holding ice cubes. Paced breathing with counting. Calling the voices what they are—just symptoms, not real information. Taking my medication at the exact same time every day. Getting outside in natural light. Avoiding fluorescent lights and too much caffeine.
The list got pretty long, and I felt a little proud that I'd actually learned all these concrete things to do instead of just hoping the symptoms go away on their own.
Then I started a new page with "People to Call for Help" and created a hierarchy like Dr. Ahmad suggested. Number one was my outpatient therapist, once I had one assigned. Number two was Dr. Ahmad's office number during business hours. Number three was the mobile crisis line that's available 24/7. Number four was 911 if I was in immediate danger of hurting myself or someone else.
I wrote all the phone numbers down carefully, and then I added my sister's number with a note that said "only if I need someone to talk to, not if I'm having active symptoms about hurting people."
Having it all written down in order made me feel more prepared, like I was creating a roadmap I could follow when my brain wasn't working right and I couldn't think clearly about what to do next.
The next morning in group therapy, there were eight of us sitting in the circle of chairs in the common room. And when it was time for sharing, a guy named Noah who I'd seen around but haven't talked to much raised his hand. He was probably in his thirties with a beard and tired eyes. And when the therapist running group called on him, he took a deep breath and started talking about his relapse.
He explained that he was doing really well for six months—taking his medication, going to therapy, managing his symptoms, feeling almost normal. Then he decided he was cured and didn't need the medication anymore. So he stopped taking it without telling his doctor.
Within three weeks, he was hearing voices again and having paranoid thoughts. And within two months, he was back in the hospital going through the whole process of finding the right medication combination all over again.
His voice was matter-of-fact, but I could hear the frustration and regret underneath. And several other people in the circle were nodding like they knew exactly what he was talking about.
Another woman shared that she's relapsed twice, and each time it was because she stopped medication or stopped going to therapy when she felt better.
A younger guy mentioned that he's learned his symptoms never fully go away. He just gets better at managing them and recognizing them early.
The therapist guided the conversation, and the collective wisdom that came out was pretty sobering. Recovery isn't about getting cured or reaching some finish line where you're done dealing with mental illness. It's about learning to manage symptoms over time, recognizing warning signs early, and having a solid support system and treatment plan you stick to even when you feel good.
Nobody in the circle was promising that discharge means everything will be fine forever. And honestly, that was more helpful than false hope would be.
When group ended, I felt like I understood better what I was actually facing, which was a lifetime of managing this illness, not a few weeks of treatment and then back to normal.
That afternoon, I was in my room reading when one of the nurses came to tell me I had a phone call. And when I picked up the phone at the nurses' station, it was Inez from CPS.
Her voice was professional but not cold as she explained she'd finished her investigation and wanted to outline the next steps.
She said that based on her interviews with me, my sister, my mother, and Dr. Ahmad, plus her home visit to my sister's place, she was recommending that the case be monitored for ninety days and then closed if I maintained treatment compliance and there were no further incidents.
She emphasized that this was actually a positive outcome given the circumstances, because in cases involving command hallucinations about harming a child, CPS could have pursued more restrictive measures.
She told me that my choice to ask for help before acting on the hallucinations, plus my cooperation with the investigation and treatment, had been really important factors in her assessment.
The monitoring period meant I'd need to keep going to all my appointments, take my medication as prescribed, and follow the safety plan about not being alone with my nephew. She'd do one more home visit in thirty days to check on how things were going. And if everything looked good at the ninety-day mark, she'd recommend the case be closed completely.
I thanked her for being fair and thorough with the investigation, and I told her I was committed to following every single requirement she'd outlined because I understood how serious this was.
After we hung up, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders because ninety days of monitoring was way better than losing contact with my family forever or having the case stay open indefinitely.
I checked my email on the hospital computer later that day, and there was a message from Pari in HR with several attachments. The email explained that she was sending me the FMLA paperwork I needed to fill out for medical leave, along with information about the company's short-term disability benefits.
She wrote that if I was approved for disability, it would cover 60% of my salary while I was out on medical leave, which would help with rent and bills and medication costs.
The financial relief of knowing I'd have some income was huge because I'd been lying awake at night worrying about how I was going to pay for everything if I couldn't work.
Pari's email also suggested we schedule a phone call for after I was discharged to talk about a gradual return to work plan and discuss any accommodations I might need when I came back.
Her tone throughout the email was professional but supportive, not judgmental or worried, and reading it made me feel like maybe I wouldn't lose my job over this after all.
I wrote back thanking her for the information and saying I'd fill out the paperwork as soon as possible, and that I'd appreciate the chance to talk about accommodations once I was out of the hospital.
Two days later, Dr. Ahmad told me he wanted to do a practice run to see how I handled being outside the structured hospital environment, and he arranged for me to spend an hour in the hospital's outdoor garden area with minimal supervision.
A staff member walked me down to the garden entrance and told me she'd be nearby if I needed anything, but otherwise I was on my own to practice managing in a less controlled space.
I walked out into the sunshine, and it felt almost overwhelming after being inside under artificial lights for over a week. There were benches and flower beds and a small fountain, and I picked a bench in a sunny spot and sat down.
Within a few minutes, I started noticing faint colored glows around some of the plants, like pale green around the leaves and soft yellow around some flowers.
My first instinct was to panic and assume the hallucinations were getting worse. But I made myself stop and use the reality testing skills. I said quietly to myself that these were visual distortions, just my brain creating false perceptions, not real auras with meaning.
I focused on the physical sensations instead, pressing my feet flat against the ground and feeling the warmth of the sun on my face and the hardness of the bench under me.
I practiced the 5-4-3-2-1 technique. Naming five things I could see: bench, fountain, flowers, tree, path. Four things I could touch: bench, my jeans, my shirt, my phone in my pocket. Three things I could hear: fountain water, birds, distant traffic. Two things I could smell: flowers, fresh air. One thing I could taste: the mint from the gum I was chewing.
By the time I finished the exercise, the colored glows had faded to almost nothing, and I felt calmer and more grounded.
I spent the rest of the hour just sitting and breathing and practicing staying present. And when I went back inside and reported to Dr. Ahmad that I managed the symptoms successfully without staff intervention, he made a note in my chart and said, "This is good evidence that you're ready for discharge soon."
That evening, I was lying on my bed scrolling through my phone when I came across the notes app where I'd been keeping detailed records about people's auras for months. There were pages and pages of entries with names and dates and descriptions of colors and what I thought they meant, and predictions I made.
I started reading through them, and I felt sick because now I could see how delusional it all was. How I was creating patterns and meanings out of random visual distortions and confirmation bias.
I thought about Dr. Ahmad's explanation of how my brain was generating false perceptions and convincing explanations. And I understood that keeping these notes would just make it easier to fall back into that delusional thinking if my symptoms got worse again.
I selected all the notes and hovered my finger over the delete button. And for a second, I hesitated because it felt like I was erasing part of my identity. This thing I thought made me special and useful to people.
But then I remembered standing over my nephew's crib with my hands reaching toward his face. And I pressed delete and watched all the entries disappear.
I went through my phone more carefully after that, deleting photos where I thought I'd captured auras, removing voice memos where I'd recorded my predictions, clearing out everything related to what I'd believed were my abilities.
It felt strange and sad, like I was letting go of something I thought was real and important. But I also felt a sense of relief, like I was closing the door on a dangerous delusion and choosing reality instead.
The mix of loss and relief sat heavy in my chest as I put my phone away and tried to sleep.
Late that night, I woke up suddenly, and the overhead light in my room looked wrong somehow, like it had dark shapes extending from it toward my bed. I blinked hard and rubbed my eyes, but the shapes were still there. Black tentacles reaching across the ceiling toward me, and I heard a faint whisper saying something about infection spreading.
My heart started pounding, and I felt the familiar pull of panic, the urge to believe what I was seeing was real and meaningful.
But instead of lying there and letting it spiral, I forced myself to get out of bed and walk to the bathroom. I turned on the cold water in the sink and stuck my hands under the stream, and the shock of the cold against my skin jolted me back into my body.
I kept my hands under the water for a full minute, focusing on the temperature and the sensation and the sound of the water running.
I looked at my face in the mirror and said out loud that this was just a symptom flare, a brief hallucination, not reality. The black tentacles were just my brain creating false images, and the whisper was just an intrusive thought, not a real message about spreading infection.
I dried my hands and went back to my room, and the tentacles were already fading, becoming less solid and defined. Within a few more minutes, they were completely gone, and the light looked normal again.
I got back into bed feeling proud that I managed the symptom myself using the techniques Jonas taught me, and I was able to fall back asleep knowing I handled it without needing to call for staff help.
The next morning, Dr. Ahmad came to my room with a packet of papers and told me we were going to work on completing my WRAP together, which stands for Wellness Recovery Action Plan. He explained it was basically a detailed guide I was creating for myself about how to stay stable, what to watch out for, and what to do if things start going wrong.
We started with a section called "Daily Maintenance," and I listed out all the things I need to do every single day to keep myself healthy. Take my medication at the same time each morning. Eat three regular meals instead of skipping or forgetting. Get at least seven hours of sleep each night. Avoid fluorescent lights when possible and use softer lighting at home. Limit caffeine to one cup of coffee in the morning. Spend some time outside in natural light. Check in with myself about symptoms and use grounding techniques if needed.
The list felt long, but Dr. Ahmad said these basic maintenance activities were the foundation of staying stable.
Then we worked on a section for early warning signs, which was similar to what I wrote in my crisis plan but more detailed. We listed specific things that would indicate my symptoms were starting to get worse, like voices becoming more frequent or commanding, seeing bright auras around people again, having trouble sleeping for multiple nights in a row, feeling paranoid about spreading infection, wanting to isolate completely.
For each warning sign, we wrote down specific actions to take, like calling my therapist for an extra session or contacting Dr. Ahmad's office to discuss medication adjustment.
We created sections for crisis planning with the hierarchy of people to call, and post-crisis recovery with steps for getting back on track after a setback.
By the time we finished, I had a comprehensive reference guide that covered pretty much every scenario I might face in managing my mental health going forward.
Later that afternoon, Inez called again, and this time she asked to speak to me, my sister, and Dr. Ahmad altogether in a three-way conversation. The nurse transferred the call to a private room where Dr. Ahmad was waiting, and my sister joined from her home phone.
Inez went through the safety plan point by point, making sure everyone understood and agreed to each part.
She confirmed that I wouldn't have any unsupervised contact with my nephew for at least ninety days, meaning another adult has to be present anytime I'm in the same room with him.
She confirmed that I'd maintain weekly therapy appointments and monthly psychiatry appointments throughout the monitoring period.
She confirmed that my sister would immediately contact CPS if she had any concerns at all about my stability or behavior.
She confirmed that I'd continue taking my medication as prescribed and following my treatment plan.
Everyone took turns saying they understood and agreed to their parts of the plan, and I made sure to say clearly that I was committed to following every requirement because I knew how important it was for my nephew's safety and my family's peace of mind.
Inez thanked everyone for their cooperation and said she'd be scheduling a home visit in thirty days to check on progress, and that if everything continued going well, she'd recommend case closure at the ninety-day mark.
After we all hung up, I felt like a huge milestone had been reached because having everyone on the same page with clear expectations meant we could move forward instead of being stuck in uncertainty about what happens next.
On day ten, Dr. Ahmad signed my discharge papers and handed me three prescriptions along with a thick packet of information about warning signs to watch for. I folded everything into my backpack next to the notebook and the few clothes my sister brought me.
And the occupational therapist walked me through the discharge process one more time to make sure I understood all my follow-up appointments. My first outpatient therapy session was scheduled for two days from now, and my psychiatry follow-up with Dr. Ahmad was in three days, and I had a card with the mobile crisis number to call if I started having symptoms I couldn't manage.
Walking out through the hospital lobby felt strange after ten days of being watched constantly, and I kept expecting someone to stop me and say there'd been a mistake.
The bus ride home took forty minutes, and I spent most of it staring at my shoes to avoid seeing colors around other passengers. Though I caught faint glimmers a few times that I forced myself to ignore.
When I unlocked my apartment door and stepped inside, everything looked exactly the same as when I left in the crisis team's van. But somehow it all felt different now that I knew what had been happening in my brain.
I dropped my backpack on the couch and stood in the middle of my living room for a minute, trying to figure out where to start. And then I noticed how the overhead light seemed way too bright and created this visual static that made my eyes hurt.
I flipped the switch off, and the room got darker but calmer. And I decided right then that I needed to change all the bulbs to something softer that wouldn't trigger the visual distortions.
I spent the next hour going through every room, unscrewing the bright white bulbs and replacing them with warm yellow ones I found in the closet. And when I was done, the whole apartment had this gentler glow that didn't make my brain feel like it was buzzing.
The bathroom mirror was the hardest part because I remembered standing there and seeing my own black aura with those tentacles reaching out. And even though I knew it wasn't real, I still felt anxious looking at my reflection.
I took the mirror down from the wall and leaned it facing backward in the closet, telling myself I could put it back up later when I was more stable. There was a smaller mirror in my bedroom too, and I covered it with a towel.
And once both mirrors were dealt with, I felt this sense of relief, like I'd removed something dangerous from my space.
I made myself a simple dinner of pasta and vegetables, taking my evening medication with water and setting an alarm on my phone so I'd remember to take the morning dose at the same time tomorrow.
That first night, I slept in short stretches, waking up every few hours to check that I was really home and really okay. But by morning, I'd gotten maybe five hours total, which felt like progress.