Experiencing Psychosis After My Father’s Death

“Bomb!”

Again. I had to say it once more.

“Bomb! There’s a bomb in my bag!”

The conveyor belt abruptly halts and an alarm blares. People scramble, some moving away while others rush toward the scene, their smartphone cameras flashing. Soon, security personnel surround me.

“Ma’am, you need to come with me, please,” says an airport official, or at least what appears to be one. But deep down, I suspect she is connected to a sex-trafficking ring I escaped from weeks earlier in Los Angeles.

What should I do? Do I follow her to potential arrest and interrogation? Or do I flee? The armed guards beside her urge me forward, dragging me against my will into a dim room where a syringe is presented—an injection that feels menacing.

***

Fortunately, the injection wasn’t lethal. I was not actually a terrorist but a woman grappling with a psychotic break following the profound loss of my father.

Despite its commonality—estimates suggest that about 1 in 100 individuals may encounter psychosis during their lifetime—this mental health condition is often misperceived. Characterized by delusions and hallucinations, psychosis can stem from various sources including severe stress, substance use, or postpartum conditions. Importantly, a family history is not necessary; I had none, though I had battled anorexia as a teenager.

For me, the onset of psychosis was triggered by trauma: my father’s sudden passing at 67 from a heart attack, a devastating announcement I received from the police. Funeral directors advised against viewing his body due to decomposition, having been discovered days later. At the time, I was living in London, and I traveled alone to Yorkshire to handle funeral arrangements while awaiting my mother’s arrival from Brisbane, Australia.

At only 31, I found myself without immediate family in the UK. I was entangled in a one-sided relationship with a man in LA who refused to call it a relationship. I flitted between London and Los Angeles, struggling financially as a freelance journalist. In London, I lived in a run-down flat but maintained work with Sky News and the BBC. In LA, lacking a work visa, I resided in a basement near the site of infamous crimes, spending my time pitching stories and trying desperately to win his attention.

Overwhelmed by jet lag, feelings of abandonment, and grief, I began to unravel.

Paranoia set in regarding my relationship. Was his emotional unavailability due to him seeing other women? I wasted hours analyzing social media for evidence. Attending a conference in Vegas only increased my anxiety; he was preoccupied with work, while I wandered through lifeless casinos, lost in grief and fears. I began taking Adderall to manage the fatigue from my travels. Later, doctors informed me that while the Adderall didn’t cause my psychosis, it certainly didn’t help.

Each morning, panic washed over me. I wondered if I was in denial about my troubled relationship, or if something deeper was at play.

As a journalist, I’m trained to notice inconsistencies and question motivations. My mind was racing to piece together the facts.

Every minor event morphed into worrying conspiracies. A trip to New York meant a meeting with the Mob. Odd prescription medications in his bathroom indicated something sinister—perhaps he was gay and secretly using me in some elaborate scheme.

I reached an unsettling conclusion: he was part of a sex-trafficking operation attempting to use me for breeding. The moment I recognized my fear, I panicked and caught a red-eye flight back to London without informing him.

Upon returning to London, my sense of danger intensified. My career had largely focused on stories of male depravity and vulnerable women—stories I was convinced I was now entangled in.

Distrustful of my therapist, I sought help from my general practitioner. After listening to my fears, he advised, “It sounds terrifying. You need to go to the police.”

Repeated visits to the police followed. On one visit, I recounted my fears regarding the trafficking ring, urging them to protect me. Fearing they would report my claims, I panicked and begged them not to take notes.

The officer thoughtfully set his pen down and replied, “If you head to the hospital nearby, I won’t report this.”

At the hospital, when I explained my situation to the doctor, he offered beta blockers. My paranoia led me to refuse them, inciting his frustration, which resulted in my premature discharge. I left feeling more terrified than when I arrived, but the nurses allowed me to rest in a private room until the next morning.

A few weeks later, fearing an assault at a political event, I took emergency contraceptives. I also made arrangements for my future should something happen to me and decided to leave the UK.

It was then I discovered I was pregnant.

I confided in only one close friend about my abortion. My communication with family had dwindled. Each day brought a new panic regarding the supposed trafficking scheme, yet I kept those thoughts from my loved ones to protect them.

My mother began suspecting something was gravely awry. She reached out to family friends, who organized to bring me back from London. Before they could collect me, I booked a flight to Brisbane, desperate to return home.

The 26-hour journey to Australia amidst psychosis is etched in my memory as one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. I was convinced a bomb had been planted in my luggage by the traffickers I thought I had escaped. Upon realizing this, I warned flight attendants of my imagined threats.

Upon landing in Singapore for a layover, a medical escort approached me and offered a sedative, which I discreetly spat out and evaded. I subsequently missed my connecting flight.

Eventually, with assistance from the staff who recognized my deteriorating mental state, I was rescheduled for another flight. As I set my suitcase on the security conveyor belt at the gate, I again shouted, “Bomb!”

Somehow, the staff managed to reach my mother by phone. “Listen, love,” she implored, her voice trembling, “you have to get on the plane home.”

Could I trust her? I didn’t know. But in that moment, our mother-daughter connection broke through the fog of my paranoia. I complied.

As we descended toward my home airport, my hallucinations intensified. I became frantic, repeatedly shouting, “I want my mum!” I was escorted off the plane and rushed through security; there waiting for me was my mother. We embraced, both of us in tears.

Once home, my mother and brother listened to my delusions. My brother wept quietly. A visit to my mother’s local GP followed. In the waiting room, I began to smell something burning. I looked down, convinced I was on fire from the inside, but I decided it was futile to share this with my family.

When I finally saw the doctor, he listened to just a minute of my story before diagnosing me with a psychotic break. I received another injection to calm me, collapsed, and was then transported to Logan Hospital, where I was sectioned for six weeks.

***

Recovering from psychosis was a daunting experience. While hospitalized, I clung to my outlandish beliefs, feeling unjustly labeled as “crazy” for expressing my truth. Convincing myself that the male patients posed threats took time to unlearn. Through a regimen of antipsychotic medication and therapy, I progressively recognized the inconsistencies in my thoughts. Each day brought me closer to my “sane” self, yet I emerged from this experience with PTSD, fearful and mentally strained, all while my visa was expiring, obligating me to leave my family and return to the UK.

The initial highs of clarity transitioned to a deep depression, where I often had to step back from the Tube platform to avoid falling. With the support of an adept NHS psychologist, I gradually began to heal.

Reintegrating into my life in London proved challenging. I wanted to share my journey with the editors and producers I worked with but hesitated, concerned they would judge my mental health. Yet, I recognized the significance of my story; it would be years before I could discuss it without being overwhelmed by emotions.

This month marks a decade since those events, which reshaped my understanding of my mental state. Currently, I engage in private therapy, abstain from alcohol, and maintain a disciplined sleep routine.

Many take their mental stability for granted. However, my experience with psychosis has taught me that the boundary between reality and illusion is exceedingly fragile, and anyone is susceptible to such conditions.

Today, I’m not fearful of relapsing into psychosis. Should it occur, I would recognize the warning signs. More importantly, having navigated through my darkest moments and emerged intact, I am no longer afraid.