My Journey Through Chaos, Recovery, and Purpose- Kimberly Pratt

Kimberly Pratt, a proud Oakland, California native, lives by the motto: "Cherishing life and all things literate, loving, and spiritual." Her passions reflect a deep appreciation for meaningful connection and personal growth.

I feel broken. My thoughts are loud and relentless, buzzing through my mind with no off switch. My body feels like it's vibrating, while the world around me moves in slow motion. Sleep barely visits. I’ve been manic for a while now. The mania, along with voices yelling in my head, finally led me to a psychiatrist’s office—where I was diagnosed with Type 1 Bipolar Disorder.

Bipolar disorder is a brain condition that affects mood regulation. In my case, this means experiencing intense manic episodes—periods of heightened excitability and energy—and, at times, hypomania, which is a milder version of mania. Depression can also be part of this disorder. Thankfully, I don’t experience it often, but when I do, it’s devastating.

Looking back, I’ve always felt different—overly emotional, self-conscious, and deeply needy. When I was two, my mother was hospitalized in a mental institution. Neighbors told me I used to pace the backyard, calling for her. That abandonment left a permanent mark. As the only daughter among sons, I didn’t feel nurtured. I buried my emotions and withdrew into an inner world filled with fear, shame, and self-loathing.

Books became my refuge. I devoured them, escaping into imaginary worlds that felt safer than my own. Eventually, I found friends—people who gave me companionship, laughter, and comfort. In my younger years, books and friendship were my lifelines. But by high school, things began to shift. I started drinking and using drugs—what my psychiatrist later called self-medicating. I was numbing the overwhelming emotions of adolescence and trying to feel “normal.” The temporary relief turned into addiction.

Addiction took over. I fell into IV drug use, homelessness, and what is described in twelve-step programs as “incomprehensible demoralization.” But then, at 26, something miraculous happened. My higher power—whom I call God—intervened, and I got sober. That turning point led me to a supportive spiritual community where I began the long, painful process of healing. Growth isn’t comfortable, but it’s necessary.

Sobriety gave me a second chance. I earned my teaching credential and became an elementary school teacher. A few years in, I was accepted into the Teacher at Sea program, which pairs educators with marine scientists aboard research vessels. My first cruise took me along the Pacific coast, studying whales and dolphins. That experience lit a fire in me to become a marine biologist, and I went on to participate in two more cruises.

Inspired, I wrote a federal grant to integrate marine science into my fifth-grade curriculum. It was incredibly successful and boosted state science scores. But in chasing this dream, I ignored one important truth: I had an intense fear of deep water.

Pushing through that fear, I began scuba diving—until a near-fatal accident changed everything. During a dive in Monterey Bay, I was found 30 feet underwater, unconscious and without a pulse (See article about this trauma). On the beach, first responders revived me with CPR. I survived, but was left with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

Despite this, I continued my work. I joined two additional research cruises—one in the Bahamas and another out of Woods Hole, Massachusetts. My work earned national recognition, and I was named the International Science Ambassador for the United States, presenting in Vienna, Austria, on three occasions.

From the outside, my life looked impressive—travel, prestige, and purpose. But inside, something was wrong. I was still teaching full-time, managing the grant, and globe-trotting, all while unknowingly being in a manic state. I told my AA sponsor that the voices in my head were shouting. “That’s not right,” she said, and encouraged me to see a psychiatrist. That visit confirmed what I had suspected—I had bipolar disorder.

One of the most important factors in my healing has been support. Bipolar disorder can be incredibly isolating, and I don’t always notice when I’m slipping into mania. But my friends and family do. My friend’s suggestion to get help was a lifeline. Support holds me accountable and helps me maintain the habits I need to stay healthy. Opening up about my diagnosis has reduced the shame and allowed me to be vulnerable—and in turn, connect more deeply with others.

Medication has also been essential, though the process wasn’t easy. I spent a year cycling through 17 different prescriptions during drug trials, all while working full time and managing major projects. Eventually, we found a combination that worked. Even now, adjustments are sometimes necessary, and it’s tempting to skip my regimen. But then I remember what’s at stake: my well-being, my peace, and the chance to live a balanced life.

Living with bipolar disorder isn’t about managing just the high and low points. The condition runs quietly in the background, like a light that never switches off—a constant presence. My addiction, my bipolar brain chemistry, my reality distortion—all of it needs daily maintenance. That means exercising, taking medication, journaling, getting sleep, eating well, praying, listening to music, seeing my therapist, and showing myself immense compassion.

All of this, while caregiving for my mother with severe dementia, navigating family challenges, running a household, attending 12-step meetings, nurturing my relationships, and trying to help others—it’s exhausting. But it’s doable. I have hope.

Bipolar disorder has made me more vulnerable, but it’s also made me more human. My openness helps others open up to me. Through recovery, I’ve gained a sense of empowerment and a belief that the universe supports me. I walk forward—sometimes unsteadily, sometimes boldly—knowing that healing is possible, and that by living honestly, I can offer hope to others, too.

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