I Went So Hard at Anime Frontier 2025 That I had the Ultimate Crash Out: I Was Admitted to a Psych Ward

This title sounds clickbaity as hell but I promise you, it is 100% true.

Where do I even begin?

If Kimochii was all my identities coming together so harshly that I shattered into a million pieces, Anime Frontier was those tiny pieces being glued back together with gold, like a beautiful kintsugi pot. But just as the Golden Honmoon in “Kpop Demon Hunters” could not be sustained in its current form, neither could I. (Yes, I know I’m mixing Japanese and Korean metaphors—just stick with me here. I promise it’ll make sense.)

The Ultimate Price

It’s no secret that Anime Frontier is my favorite con. I had the privilege of being a cosplay judge/guest for its very first year and have seen it grow in the last five years. I went from judge to masquerade competitor to Cosplay Repair manager as well as masquerade contractor. I love this con. And I love working it. I give my everything to this con and it gives it back tenfold. But the problem is: something has to be taken in exchange.

And this year, I paid the ultimate price.

Tuesday, December 16, 2025—just two days after Frontier concluded—I was admitted to the ER and then sent to a behavioral hospital, more colloquially known as a psych ward. Why?

I had sleep deprivation induced psychosis.

I had hallucinations that lasted for roughly 12 hours.

It’s still doesn’t seem real, even after writing it down and talking it through with other people and my therapist. You never think it’ll happen to you. But the truth is: it can happen to any one of us.

No Sleep. No Rest. Just Vibes.

I sleep terribly at cons. My closest friends (and anyone who pays attentions to my Instagram stories) know this. The adrenaline and excitement from the festivities paired with not sleeping in the comfort of my own home, garnished with a dash of up-at-7am-for-work muscle memory, is a recipe for late nights and early mornings. I can usually manage at least 5 hours a night at cons (an amount that is still too low).

At Anime Frontier, I averaged maybe two to three hours.

I kept telling myself this wasn’t going to be like Kimochii, that I felt fine, but if you paid attention to that Kimochii post, you’ll know that I did not follow through with my plans. I did not learn from experience. I repeated it all over again and then some.

But now we know. And we can avoid that in the future.

I’ll say no to the after party.

I’ll put my phone away in bed so I can calm my brain down for sleep.

I’ll give myself more breaks throughout the day.

I’ll take longer, deeper breaths when I need to.

Lies. All lies. I did none of this. Maybe the last one, but that’s it.

I attended the Friday after party. I watched a midnight photo shoot instead of going to bed. I surfed Instagram in bed. I was never anything but “on” all weekend. Every sleep hygiene routine I knew and followed at home I abandoned at Frontier. Because I didn’t want to miss a single moment. Because the FOMO was real and all-consuming. Just say “hi” to one more friend, say “yes” to one more thing. Go go go.

I became manic.

It’ll likely be apparent in my vlog (which I have yet to finish editing), but you can see my mania grow with each passing day of the con. I was constantly yapping, yelling from excitement, running around. I did not know how to slow down. I had to go fast. Always. Don’t miss out. Don’t stop. Just keep moving.

I incorporated some deep breathing every now and then at the booth—something I did learn from Kimochii—but a few deep breaths for 5 minutes once or twice a day does not rest make.

I was an overclocked machine running at its absolute capacity, a computer using every single bit of RAM and battery with no breaks. It’s no wonder I glitched out and crashed. It’s no wonder I needed a full factory reset.

Monday, December 15: First day after Anime Frontier

I had taken Monday off work with the intention of resting. I even made plans to go to King Spa with a few people. But Monday morning I awoke with a sore throat (is it simply from strain? or was it con crud? the flu? covid???) and decided that I shouldn’t spread whatever I might have to the lovely people at the spa. So I stayed home, and tried to rest.

Physically, I did.

Mentally, I did not.

I was still working myself up. I wasn’t just resting. My husband Jason keeps likening it to an addiction and I cannot blame him; I was addicted to the dopamine hits of socializing with friends and I wanted to keep the happy train going. I joined discord voice chat after discord voice chat, yapping and yapping and yapping, getting my heart rate up, prolonging any sort of meaningful rest or sleep.

I became erratic. Volatile. Set off by anything and everything. I was yelling. Deliriously scream-singing in the hallway because the “acoustics were amazing” and I “needed to get the energy out of me.” I terrified my husband. I said hurtful things. While post-Kimochii was less hypermania and more debilitating decision fatigue, it resulted in the same thing: Jason needed to call reinforcements and have bestie Kasey come over to help him and manage me.

It didn’t work.

I was still getting worked up mentally. I slept but it was not restful. In fact, my delirious brain was convinced it was going to learn that night how to lucid dream. Did I? I have no idea. (I don’t think I did.) All I know is that if every thought in my brain was a droplet of water, my mind was a dam that had burst. It didn’t stop. There was no end in sight from the deluge of every single emotion or feeling I had.

Tuesday, December 16

By Tuesday morning, I was convinced of things that were not real. Having conversations with people that were not there, stringing together theories that only made sense in my mind. They included such ridiculous conspiracy theories as “Robin Williams had OCD and he left subtle messages in his movies about it and when you piece it all together, you realize you too have OCD and you must make a video of it so that other OCD people can find it and discover it.” (Do I have OCD? I don’t know. That part is yet to be determined. But you’ll be happy to know I have a psychiatric assessment scheduled for January, so maybe we can finally get to the bottom of what the hell is up with my brain.) I would later think that the people arriving in my house (spoilers: it’s the EMT and cops) were not who they said they were but were actually voice actor friends putting on a production and I was the star of the show. But I couldn’t break character and I couldn’t open my eyes because that would ruin the surprise. I caught glimpses of people but my mind filled in the blanks, made me see what I wanted to see.

The entire time this was happening, it all felt like a dream.

You know that feeling between waking and sleeping? That brief moment just before you drift off to sleep, where random images play in your mind like the trailers before a movie? (You may not; I learned after leaving the psych ward that these are called “Hypnagogic Hallucinations” and not everyone gets them.) While these images are of no concern when you’re falling asleep, having them when you’re awake is another thing entirely.

I went along with the dream logic. It all made sense to me in those moments. I didn’t question them at all. My reality was mine alone and did not align with fact.

I was too far gone.

So 911 was called.

I was taken—in handcuffs—to the ER via ambulance. I was sedated. (I was told later that I even screamed at the cops to “shut up” which came as a shock to my non-confrontational self.) And, with the help of my husband and mom, I was admitted to a behavioral hospital. Unfortunately, this was not one that my family got to choose for me; it was one chosen by the ER/hospital and it was that or get a court-order. We (they) chose no court-order. (And as it turns out, this facility has a bad reputation among therapists, but that’s another story.)

Tuesday for me was one big trip of crazed excitement followed by tired confusion. For my closest family, it was hell on earth. I regret so much putting them through those hours, becoming someone I am not. Losing all control of logic. Losing myself. From the inside, I was just going with the flow. But from the outside, I can only imagine how stressful and traumatizing it was. To watch your family member completely unravel. To see your wife yell hurtful things at you. To see your daughter sedated at the hospital or cuffed to a bed.

Wednesday, December 17

I spent all of Wednesday at the hospital trying to get my bearings. I was still extremely drowsy from the sedation and I was convinced that this was a dream. Because there was no way that I landed myself in a psych ward. Nope. No way. Not me. This is the dream. I just needed to lie down in one of these stiff, hard cots and I would wake up to find myself in my bed.

It didn’t work.

I ate the meals they gave me in a daze.

I puttered around mutely.

I slept through phone call time.

It wasn’t until a nurse allowed me to call Jason that night—to make up for missing it earlier—and hearing his voice that I realized that this was my reality. I really was in this hospital. With zero idea when I’d be able to get out.

Life “Inside”

I felt more lucid the next day after paying off more of my sleep debt. I noticed other patients had composition notebooks and asked around where I might get one for myself so I could journal. The recreational therapist was able to get me one but we were not allowed pens on the ward—only colored pencils or markers.

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I would spend the next week learning the routine of the hospital, witnessing crash outs from my fellow patients, and writing constantly in my notebook. Writing allowed me to separate myself from the experience, to look at it from a writer’s perspective as if I was doing research for a book and not living it myself. It helped, in a strange way.

I attended group therapy sessions, took regular showers, ate regular meals (that actually were pretty decent, all things considered), and thought about what the hell landed me here in the first place. I occupied my time with writing poems, making lists, doing crossword puzzles, and reading a book that Jason was able to send to me after I practically begged him for one.

We weren’t allowed to sleep in our rooms during the day. There wasn’t a single cushion in the day room. The second floor did not follow the scheduled activities we were supposed to be doing, so the days were long, boring, and uncomfortable.

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12/18/25

Cold tile, hard cot
Cold night, I’m not
Meant to live
Under watch
Please forgive
All I’m not

How’d I get here?
It’s a blur
There’s a stirring
Down below
Deep beneath
The undertow
Cast away and
Let go

Count the minutes
Watch the hours
Mindless waiting
Lacking power
I’m so tired
Let me leave
I’ll be good
Just believe

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I would later learn that the second floor of that hospital was mostly dedicated to the more acute cases. And, considering I had an entire psychotic break, it’s no wonder why I ended up there. But it was also clear, after a few days there, that I was better suited for the third floor—where the patients had more freedom and were trusted more by the staff.

My hallucinations were gone. I had gotten enough sleep. I was basically back to normal. So they sent me up to the third floor on Saturday, December 20, where I made a lot more progress on my self-care journey.

Glimpses of the Outside

Watching shadows of tree branches against my window swaying in the breeze is very Plato shadows in the cave. Especially considering I have zero memories of the outside of my cave. I don’t remember getting here; I don’t remember the exterior of this building. I remember the waiting room and my first time in the main rec room.

I don’t think that’s ever happened before—I don’t think I can remember a time where leaving a place was my first look at the exterior of it.

There’s always been an establishing shot before going inside.

Leaving will be a trippy moment indeed.

December 21 journal entry

It turns out I had arrived at the hospital on a stretcher in the “face down ass up” position as my friends told me. So that explains the gap in memory. I’m glad I was able to bring them some levity during a ridiculous and scary moment.

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Lists and lists and lists

On top of journaling, I made lists. I wrote down names. I wrote down our meals. I wrote down all the things that I had taken for granted.

I kept a running list of “glimmers,” little nuggets of happiness amidst the prison-like interior of the hospital. Some notable ones included:

• Eating meals in the cafeteria
• Impromptu dance party in rec room
• Folding paper cranes
• Basketball outside
• The sun on my face, wind on my skin
• Adorable “Rudolf the Reindeer” animation on Vevo (look this up!)
• Jenga with B & C
• D calling me “cool” for writing things down
• Making 4 shots in a row in basketball
• Socks fresh from the dryer
• Fish tacos
• C sharing his suicide story in group (was very inspiring and reassuring)

The more I added, the better I felt. Practicing gratitude and savoring moments of peace truly do wonders for your soul.

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Doing the Work

I don’t think I made much progress while I was on the second floor. I think at that time I was simply in survival mode and getting my bearings. It wasn’t until I was on three and I started making connections with people (and the therapy sessions that were scheduled were actually happening) that I started to come out the other side.

My outlook was more optimistic; I was seeing the true value of this facility and the people in it.

12/22/25

Making lists
Reading books
Writing rhymes
Singing hooks

Watching shows
Playing games
Eating snacks
Learning names

Playing ball
Walking laps
Telling jokes
Getting laughs

Saying prayers
Humming tunes
Taking naps
In your room

Try your best
Do the work
You’re okay
You have worth

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Throughout all of this, my medication was consistently monitored and adjusted by the doctor assigned to me. I won’t lie: the staff confused me quite a bit. There were so many different types and they all played different roles, but no one explained what those roles were. There were techs, nurses, nurse practitioners, recreational therapists, group therapists, and doctors. There were so many and just as you’d get used to one set, another set would come in for the night or day shift and you’d have to relearn their quirks all over again.

Your experience inside and how pleasant or unpleasant it was going to be lay solely in the hands of the staff. There were those that clearly cared; that treated us like humans and not numbers, like patients and not burdens. But there were those who clearly were there for a paycheck, or even some sort of sick power play. Who barked orders and replied curtly when you couldn’t magically read their minds or questioned an inconsistent rule or policy. Who took their aggravation out on you.

You learned quickly who to turn to and who to avoid.

You gamed the system if you could. Toed the line when you had to. I felt a little like Andy Dufresne when I’d pocket “the good” marker for later use (markers were not allowed outside of scheduled recreational times) or I gave a hug to a fellow patient in need (there was a strict “no touching” policy) or had B make me a contraband hairtie out of a mask she had found outside while we had “yard time.” (It was not called “yard time” but it might as well have been.) The point is: you chose your battles in the name of your own sanity.

Yeah. The funny thing is – on the outside, I was an honest man, straight as an arrow. I had to come to prison to be a crook.

Andy Dufresne, Shawshank Redemption, 1994

Merry Christmas: You’re free to leave

My Christmas gift from the facility was a bag of candy, a throw blanket, and my freedom to leave. On Wednesday, December 24, I was discharged and released to the care of my family.

It was a strange, surreal experience. The ward was in a happy mood because Music Therapy was in full swing, which consisted of a makeshift karaoke machine. One of the therapists had handed out gifts for everyone and spirits were high. It made it so hard to leave.

All these fellow patients I had met, that I had shared this unique experience with, I would have to say goodbye to. And while I got some of their contact information, some of them I didn’t as I was rushed out. I gave as many hugs as I was allowed, told my favorite tech that he was my favorite, and took the elevator down to the ground floor where my husband and mom waited for me.

During the walk down the final hallway, I could feel myself growing anxious. An irrational thought came over me—that something would happen last minute that would force me to stay longer and that I was not in fact being permitted to leave. I think the staff with me could tell because they kept asking if I was okay.

Stepping into the lobby was indeed as trippy as I had predicted. The space was decked out with Christmas decorations and I recognized absolutely none of it.

I embraced my family.

A nurse cut off my ankle monitor.

I was free.

I couldn’t tear my eyes off the building when I set foot outside, my neck craning as I followed my husband to our car. I looked up at the tinted windows and tried to find the one that led to the rec room where everyone continued to sing karaoke.

I missed it. In a way. The familiarity of it. In just 9 days, I had acclimated to the behavioral hospital so much that leaving felt wrong.

How do you explain such an experience to someone who has never gone through it before? Who among my friends and family could understand first-hand my life for the last week?

And as I left, I was reminded of the stress I had put on my loved ones who had supported me through the entire ordeal. Who were doing the tireless work outside to get me out; talking to doctors, talking to insurance, doing paperwork. Not only that, but supporting my husband: keeping him company, bringing him food. My support network did amazing work, and all at once as I left that place, I felt like such a burden.

Like I had failed them all by letting this happen in the first place.

I cried.

For the first time since this entire event started (not counting my crying at Anime Frontier itself), I cried. I had teared up once during my entire stay—when a fellow patient shared his entire heartbreaking story of how he ended up at the facility—but I hadn’t really truly cried. I had managed to separate myself from the experience just enough to feel it but not feel it.

The gravity of it all came crashing down on my shoulders during that car ride home.

Would I ever be the same?

Life “Outside”

I still catch myself looking at the clock and thinking of what would’ve been on the schedule at that given time. If it was 11:30, I would know that it was lunch time. If it was 4pm, that meant it was time for phone calls or visitation.

My mind thinks constantly of C and B, hoping they made it where they needed to go. Thinking of A when I picked up a box of Reese’s Puffs at her suggestion. When we went to HEB last night and I shivered in the cold, my heart went out to K and hoped that he would not end up on the street whenever he got out. And did Ms. L end up discharged? Where did she land?

My body and mind are here, but my heart is still in that facility. With my fellow patients. I only want healing for all of us, for us to get back on our feet.

There are moments that split your life in two—before and after. I’ve had events that I thought were that but are soon upstaged by another. This is one such moment. There’s before getting admitted, my time on the ward, and after. They feel like three different people. But they’re all me.

At Kimochii, my splintered self came together so harshly that it broke.

At Anime Frontier, they came back together again with gold.

At the hospital, that self was broken down again so that it could be built into something even stronger. Accepting both the good and the bad.

Loving all of me.

(See? I told you’d I’d bringing it back to the Honmoon.)

I worry that I will forget this moment. That I will go back to my normal life where I take things for granted and turn a blind eye to the issues around me.

I want to help. I want to give back.

But right now, I must focus on my own healing. Put on my own mask first before others, as they say.

But I’ll be back to that hospital.

Not as a patient.

But I will be back.

Hopefully with boxes and boxes and boxes of donations for the patients inside. Whose journey I now relate to. Who I will never forget.

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Final notes

This post is long enough but I have to say this if you made it this far.

Please take care of yourself.

Stop con crunching. Stop skipping meals at cons. Stop staying awake until the wee hours of the morning. Stop pushing and pushing and pushing. It doesn’t matter that it’s only over the course of a weekend—your body and mind cannot withstand that kind of punishment for long. If you do not schedule maintenance, your body will force it upon you when you least expect it.

Please.

I beg you.

Learn from my mistakes.

Take your time. Slow things down. Breathe.

Learn your boundaries and enforce them. Have your friends enforce them. Step away.

There will always be a price.

And sometimes that price is a Grippy Sock Vacation, $3k+ in medical expenses, and your freedom.