Trigger Warning: This piece mentions psychosis, intrusive thoughts, and trauma.

Please read with care.

Can we talk about psychosis and the exhausting work of trusting reality?

Can we talk about psychosis and how difficult it is to trust reality after so many separate episodes? Can we talk about how hard it is to admit that we struggle to believe what is real and what isn’t? How exhausting it is to constantly fact-check, evidence-seek, and cross-examine our own senses in every function just to survive something as small as a polite hello?

My journey with psychosis has taken many forms on many occasions, and as always, I’m happy to be open about it.

I spent years accepting that my psychosis was drug-induced, but when I got sober, went to therapy, and stayed in treatment, I learned that wasn’t always the case. I have had many episodes sober.

As a young teen, I believed there was a small, unrecognisable creature in my room that I loved like my own child. When I “saw” a family member had thrown it down the stairs, I tried to throw myself after it to save it. I came round in their arms.

As a new mum, I believed unknown beings were downloading something into me, mistaking fish-tank water patches in the garden for crop circles. I thought they were electrically charging me because I kept shocking people by touch, unaware I was simply charging myself up in fleece bedding and sheets while I slept.

I’ve seen dust mites present for weeks after the infestation was evidently gone to everyone else.

I’ve been convinced my neighbour and a predator I’m ashamed I once knew, had hacked my devices, keeping stickers over my cameras “just in case.”

Most recently, I felt certain my neighbour was filming me, tampering with my water, and entering my home.

And then there was that one moment that didn’t feel like psychosis at all. Sleep-deprived, breastfeeding my newborn, I woke to someone calling my name and my room glowing gold. It felt like an angel had saved me and my baby. That experience was just as real, just as unforgettable, but it carried safety instead of fear.

There’s a grief that comes with psychosis. A grief for not being able to be curious without fear. For not being able to trust new ideas, odd coincidences, or strange feelings without running them through a fact-checking process that drains the life out of them. Not being able to trust your own intuition drains the soul and starves curiosity.

What I’m getting at is that psychosis can present as terror and fear, but it can also present as safety and peace. For me it’s often fear, stress, and trauma dressed up as reality. Sometimes it’s my brain protecting me. Sometimes it’s meaning-making gone into overdrive. And sometimes it blurs into the survival spirit in ways even we can’t explain. But it’s my brain’s way of keeping me safe. As strange as it sounds, it makes perfect sense to me given my experiences.

I’m sharing this because, for me, psychosis needs to be talked about in its entirety, and honestly? It sucks to be looked upon as “oh isn’t she quirky with her trauma and her tin foil hat” or “oh bless her and her brain.”

It’s real for me. It’s complex for everyone. It’s terrifying and sometimes strangely beautiful. And it deserves compassion, not caricature.

If you’ve lived through anything similar, whether it felt like terror, protection, or something divinely timed, I got you. 

Here’s some additional info on why this happens:

Neuroscience shows the brain is always predicting and protecting, trying to keep us safe. When that system tips too far toward internal meaning-making (especially under trauma, stress, or sleep deprivation), psychotic experiences can emerge. Trauma can “teach” the brain to stay hyper-alert, so later it may create intense beliefs or visions to protect us from perceived danger. Intrusive thoughts work in a similar way: they’re the threat-detection system running loud, sometimes unbearably so. In short, psychosis isn’t weakness, it’s the brain’s survival system misfiring, trying too hard to protect us.

I just hope this might help anyone who’s struggling with labelling and seeking support for these experiences.