Writing Through a Psychotic Episode: What I’ve Learned About Voice and Reality
A craft reflection from the margins of the mind.
When I was in the middle of a psychotic episode at Job Corps in Williston, ND, writing didn’t feel like therapy. It felt like survival. The lines between fiction and hallucination blurred, but somewhere in that space—between fear and clarity—I found a new voice. And I realized something: madness and creativity are not enemies. They're tangled. And sometimes, writing is the only thread that holds.
This isn’t a guide for writing about psychosis from the outside. It’s a glimpse into what it’s like to write through it—as someone who’s lived it.
1. Reality Is Fluid—And That’s Not a Flaw
When you’re experiencing psychosis, what’s “real” becomes negotiable. Sounds take on meaning. Objects breathe. Time folds. But when I put pen to paper, I stopped trying to explain the episode and started exploring it.
🔸 Writing became a way to honor the experience without romanticizing the pain.
In craft terms, this unlocked something essential: the power of unreliable narration and fragmented structure. The page became a place where contradictions could live together. I didn’t have to “fix” the story—I could let it unravel and reform.
📚 Recommended reading:
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The Collected Schizophrenias by Esmé Weijun Wang — deeply personal essays on psychosis, identity, and academia.
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“Unreliable Narration and Mental Illness” (Craft Essay) from Brevity.
2. Voice Becomes Raw and Real
During my episode, my inner monologue felt like it was echoing through a cave—sometimes mine, sometimes not. Writing in that state gave me access to a voice I’d never heard before: sharp, hallucinatory, and strangely poetic.
Instead of silencing that voice, I wrote with it. I let the strange syntax stay. I stopped editing out the surreal moments. And the result wasn’t confusion—it was truth, my truth.
🎙 Video: “Living With Psychosis | Lucy's Story” – Mind UK
Lucy talks about what psychosis feels like from the inside—and how art became her anchor. Her words mirror what I felt: "Sometimes, it’s the only language I have."
✍️ Writing prompt:
Write a short piece in the voice you hear during your most emotionally intense moments. Don’t censor it. Let it be messy, strange, divine.
3. Writing Can Be a Map or a Mirror
There were days during my episode when I couldn’t trust my memories. Writing became a map back to myself—a place to document, to trace, to navigate the chaos. Other days, it was a mirror showing me things I didn’t want to see.
But the act of writing—even disjointed, even erratic—was grounding. It reminded me that I was still here. That I was thinking, even when I didn’t feel real.
💡 Tip: When memory feels unstable, focus on sensory writing. Describe the color of your sheets, the taste of toothpaste, the way your chest rises when you breathe. These are anchors.
📚 Further reading:
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“On Writing Through Delusion” by N.K. Jemisin – a brilliant blog post on how mental health intersects with storytelling.
4. Madness Isn’t a Metaphor—It’s a Lived Reality
Writers love to use madness as a metaphor: the “mad genius,” the “broken artist,” the “stormy mind.” But psychosis is not just a poetic device. It’s a condition that impacts memory, safety, and identity.
If you're writing about psychosis, or through it, don't sanitize it—but also don't reduce it to trauma.
💬 Real voices matter. Lived experience matters. And what I learned most through writing while psychotic is this: I’m not broken. I’m complex. And so is my voice.
📖 Read:
Madness: A Bipolar Life by Marya Hornbacher — a raw memoir about the overlap of brilliance, breakdown, and survival.
🛠 Resource: The Icarus Project Archive (now Fireweed Collective) — A radical mental health support community grounded in lived experience.
Final Thoughts
Writing through psychosis wasn’t about clarity. It wasn’t even about coherence. It was about witnessing myself. About keeping a record when the world slipped sideways. About using my own voice, not as evidence, but as a kind of freedom.
So here’s what I want you to know:
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If you're writing through an episode: your words matter, even if they don’t make sense right now.
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If you’re writing about someone else’s psychosis: listen. Study. Don’t turn us into metaphors.
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If you’ve survived this and you’re writing at all: I’m proud of you.
Your voice is real. And your story is, too.
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