Between Dreams and Reality

⚠️ Trigger Warning:
This post discusses mental health struggles, psychosis, grief, alcohol use, and self-harm. Please read with care, and only if you feel in the right headspace.

✨ If you are struggling:
If anything in this post feels close to your own experience, please reach out for support. You don’t have to go through it alone. In the UK, you can call Samaritans at 116 123 (free, 24/7). If you’re elsewhere, please check for a trusted local helpline in your country — or talk to someone you trust right away. You deserve help, you deserve healing, and you are not alone. 💜

✨ A note before the reflection
This post is more of a reflection — a little insight into where I once was. I know I write about heavy things, but please know I’m in a different place now. I laugh, I smile, I even have fun sometimes. But there was a time that shaped me deeply, and those experiences continue to inspire the way I write today.

Sometimes your mind betrays you. It gets sick, and you don’t understand why.
Did I do something wrong? Why me? What did I do to deserve this?

The truth is, there’s no answer. Illness doesn’t care who you are — saint or sinner, rich or poor, healthy or broken. It creeps in quietly, without warning, poisoning your thoughts until your head feels dark and unrecognisable.

For me, that was when I could no longer tell what was real and what was imagined. Many people still joke about that time in my life. They laugh at the “crazy years,” never knowing how terrifying it was to live them.

I think it began because I never truly belonged anywhere. No matter how hard I tried to adapt, I was always the misfit, the joke. Dreams and reality blurred. I have always dreamt in first person, and when my mind became unwell, my dreams felt more real than waking life. Faces, conversations, even betrayals — some belonged to real people, but others never existed outside my head. And yet I trusted them. I let them hurt me.

When I tried to explain, no one understood. I was “the nutter, the head case.” People would question who I was talking about, and I’d insist they’d met them only days ago. But those people weren’t real. My stories didn’t make sense. And deep down, I knew I was losing myself.

So I turned to alcohol. Not enough to be an addict, just enough to press pause on my thoughts. For a while, it was a dark oblivion, a false comfort. But it wasn’t a cure. It fuelled my jealousy, my rage, my sadness. It made me lash out at people who couldn’t possibly understand where I was coming from. Everyone else seemed happy while I was falling apart.

I began hurting myself just to feel real again. The imagined people stayed, whispering cruel things, convincing me that those who loved me were only planning to betray me. And I believed them. At one point, I thought the only escape was to leave this world altogether.

But then I lost someone close. That grief jolted me awake. It was the kick I needed to realise I didn’t want to die — I wanted to survive.

Even then, asking for help wasn’t easy. I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety, but I always felt there was something more. Still, I went through the counselling, the questionnaires, the pills. They dulled everything — my thoughts, my feelings, my sense of self. I wasn’t “better.” I was just numb. A shell.

It was easier for the world to label me “the anxious, depressed girl” than to hear me say I was caught between two worlds — trapped in the shadows of psychosis. Maybe I wasn’t clear enough. Maybe I didn’t understand myself enough. But no one ever truly heard me.

Looking back, I know I wasn’t perfect. Maybe I did make mistakes. Maybe I did deserve the confusion, the haunting years. I don’t think I’ll ever be 100% cured. Sometimes it creeps back, though never as bad as before. It left scars: I find it hard to trust, I doubt myself, I distance myself. Because if I let people in, what if it all happens again?

Even writing this now, I’m not sure it makes sense. But that’s the point — I never fully understood what was happening to me either. What I wanted more than anything was for someone to just stay beside me. Not to interrupt, not to question, not to fix. Just to listen. To say: You’re going to be okay. I’m still here. I’m not leaving.

Since then, life has been a process of rebuilding.
Separating dreams from memories.
Pain from reality.
And most of all — forgiving the version of me who didn’t know better.

Now, writing is my bridge between those two worlds. It gives me control over my imagination, instead of letting it control me. I write to heal. I write to express. I write to connect. My stories carry pieces of those years — the blurred edges, the raw emotions, the grief and survival — but this time, I’m the one holding the pen.

I will never fully understand why it happened to me. But I know this: illness doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care who you are. I wasn’t special. I wasn’t chosen. I was just another human being who got caught.

✨ A note to finish
As I said before — I am okay now. I write about dark things because it helps me process what’s happened, and I hope it helps someone else feel understood too. I would never wish these feelings on anyone, but if you are going through something similar, I want you to know you’re not alone. I don’t sugar-coat it. Life doesn’t suddenly turn perfect. There are still dark days — days when you don’t want to get out of bed or face the world. But those days are temporary. That’s what I remind myself: this stage will pass. And while it’s hard, I push myself through — into the shower, into work, into living. Each time it gets a little easier.

© 2025 Louise C Kay. All rights reserved. Please do not reproduce without permission.