Narrow Escape: My Prescribed Nightmare

Nick A.
30
2057

There is something indescribable about feeling completely and utterly alone, despairing that you may never live a normal life again, never see your family again (except in heavily supervised settings), never read a book or draw or write intelligibly again, and never have clarity of thought, feeling, or mind again. It is the anguish of knowing you may die alone in a facility many decades from now, far past the point when everyone you have ever loved has completely forgotten about you despite their best efforts to remember who you used to be. I have had those feelings and thoughts, having spent a month in a mental facility being told that no one had a clue what was going on with me, and that they could not in good conscience release me for fear that I might harm someone else or myself. Having been in that place, I now get sick to my stomach every time I realize that there are countless others less fortunate than me who are doomed to a life of loneliness, confusion, anger, and despair at the hands of an otherwise indifferent system.

Long before this experience, at the age of 21, I was diagnosed with OCD.  I’d been having intrusive thoughts about harming others and about potentially killing myself as a last resort to prevent this uncharacteristic and unwanted violence.  This led me to check myself into a mental health facility for one week. My OCD diagnosis led me to take a semester off from college and enroll in a three-month-long, intensive outpatient program for OCD. The program met three days a week for three hours a day and focused on Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) including Exposure with Response Prevention (ERP) and group therapy. The mental freedom that I gained from the program was revolutionary, and I would not be the functioning adult I am today without it. I also tried a few different medications, working with my psychiatrist, and landed on Prozac, which I have taken ever since. I later met the love of my life, graduated from college, went to graduate school, got married, and started my career.  I am now 37 and have a four-year-old son with my wife and a position as a high-level design professional in a large East Coast City.

Abyss

Three years ago, in December of 2017, I went upstate with my wife and son to visit my sister and her family for the holidays.  I had forgotten to bring my Prozac for the seven-day trip and so on the fourth day, I started to have withdrawal symptoms including lightheadedness and tracers in my vision. I was able to get an emergency supply from a local pharmacy and while there also bought some DayQuil and NyQuil. Everyone in my sister’s family had a bad cold, and I had gotten it, too. The next day or two were a blur of sleep and taking medicine. On the night of December 30, we all sat down to watch the movie I, Tonya after the kids had gone to bed. Later my wife would discover I had accidentally taken seven doses of DayQuil in less than 24 hours (the maximum recommended is six).  It is also quite possible I had taken an extra dose of my already high dosage of Prozac that day.

Several scenes into the movie, I started to feel like I was communicating with the movie through mental telepathy. I excused myself to the bathroom.  I then felt time and experience separating into individual “frames” like a movie projector reel. It seemed to me that each frame was a branch or fork in which infinite alternate realities awaited me. Simultaneously, I became aware of the presence of the experiences of all of human life. I had the sense that I was standing on the edge of an enormous precipice, as though I could see all of existence at once and realized that I and everyone in this world at this moment are standing right next to the exact center of all things, all time, all existence, in a never-ending cosmic whirlpool. While in some ways mesmerizing and fascinating, the feeling was ultimately terrifying. I wanted only for it to stop, so I walked quietly over to my wife and said, “I think I’m having a problem.”

Shortly thereafter my family decided, and I foggily agreed, that it would be best for me to get medical attention. I was driven to an emergency room in the city. After my wife explained to them my history of OCD and my medicine intake over the last few days, I was admitted to the psychiatric emergency room, or CPEP, for the night. One image I will never forget is that of my wife registering everything happening to me that night and the tear rolling down her cheek as she said goodbye. To the misfortune of us both, she was not allowed to stay with me, and she would have no contact with me for another 14 hours.  I spent the rest of the night wandering aimlessly around CPEP and falling deeper and deeper into confusion and delusion. The next morning after little to no sleep I was interviewed by the on-call psychiatrist, who got nothing out of me but a stupid grin and me repeating the word “reality” over and over. I was immediately prescribed Risperidone, an antipsychotic, taken off of my Prozac, and admitted to a ward.

Escape

Next, I remember “waking up,” though I hadn’t fallen asleep, alone in a drab patient’s room with a full-length window overlooking snow-covered houses. I had no idea what was happening or how I had gotten there. When I finally remembered that I had a son, I began to panic as my paternal instincts told me that he could be in some kind of danger. I desperately looked for a way to escape, eventually finding my way out of the room (I couldn’t work the doorknobs at first) into a larger hallway where I was told by a nurse to go back to my room. Having no idea what that meant, and in a panic to get to my son, I took action. I found a common area with similarly large windows, backed up into another patient’s room, and sprinted as fast as I could at the window, jumping at the glass with all my might in an effort to escape; we were on the fifth floor.

Thank God for strong glass.

I was not hurt except for some bruising and a small scrape on my right leg. I was taken back to bed and possibly given a light sedative. I collapsed and fell asleep until the evening. When I woke up, I felt completely fine again and was totally aware of the madness and confusion of the past 24 hours.  My sister and wife met with me during visiting hours, and we discussed everything as I sobbed and tried to make sense of what had happened and what might have caused it. Since this hospital considered my recent actions to be attempted self-harm, I was told I would be held indefinitely, though if I had no further symptoms, I’d possibly be let out in a week or so. Feeling as though the worst was over, I resolved to make the best of the time with reading and drawing and said goodnight to my family.

Connie

Due to the weekend and the New Year’s holiday, I was on Risperidone for three days before I finally saw someone in charge. That person was Connie, a nurse practitioner, with whom I immediately got off on the wrong foot when I asked to see a doctor. She refused, stating she had been assigned my case. I had requested this because I had become aware in the last three days that I was otherwise back to normal except for becoming increasingly confused and “foggy.” It had gotten so bad that I could no longer focus enough to draw, read, or even write more than a few scrawled, incomplete sentences. I never got to explain any of this, however, as Connie dismissed me after five minutes.  In hindsight, I was probably confused, slightly irritated, and my sentences were disorganized, so I assume she felt she had observed enough and that I was still having the same problem for which I was admitted. Connie refused to hear any more from me that day, setting the tone for all of our future interactions.

On day five or six, Connie came to see me again in the morning for our daily five-minute meeting. I was extremely confused and disorganized, barely able to speak, and terrified because of it. I ran out of my room when I saw the social worker, Deb, walking by, who had been the one person thus far who had treated me like a human being. I babbled something in the way of “Please, help!” Seeing I was in great distress, Deb held my hand as we walked back to my room. I somehow made it clear through random words and frantic gestures that I wanted to speak to Deb only and wanted Connie and any other nurses out of my room. Deb said it was fine and Connie begrudgingly agreed.

Deb had me lay on my bed and take deep breaths, but after a few minutes, she said she had to leave. I walked out of the room after her, trying to tell her she was the only one who could help me, though unable to bring words from my brain to my lips. I was quickly restrained by about five nurses who pulled me to the ground, where I sat sobbing, babbling, and trying to say anything that might help.  After an internal struggle with my brain, I finally shouted to a nurse, “You never look any patients in the eye because you’re afraid to connect with crazy people!,” an observation I had made about that particular nurse since I’d arrived. It was a huge moral victory for me because it was the longest complete sentence I had said all day. I’ll never forget the look of horror on her face, or the triumph I felt in my heart.

That night, though I could barely hold a thought in my head, I resolved to stop taking the Risperidone. I suspected it may have had something to do with my confusion and inability to speak, though I was not sure. At medication time, I refused to take it from the nurse. Connie happened to be working late that night and she soon approached me to discuss it, or more accurately, to bully me, as I was unable to reasonably discuss anything in that state. Nonetheless, I tried to stand my ground, shaking my head and crying. Connie reminded me that I was being held because I had thrown myself at a window and that I was still acting strangely (I instinctively felt the two might be unrelated, but I had no way to prove it). She threatened that if I didn’t take the Risperidone voluntarily, I’d likely be held even longer if my condition worsened, which she assured me it would. I’d also be further detained from seeing my son, and I’d be forced to take the medication anyway. This hit me in my most vulnerable spot, since getting back to my son was all I cared about or could even (barely) focus on.  So, sobbing quietly, I took my medicine.

During the first two weeks, I continued to have my daily five-minute meetings with Connie, where I begged to be taken off the Risperidone and to be put back on the Prozac with whatever focus I could muster. I tried desperately to explain that I feared my OCD would worsen. However, Connie told me several times that what she was seeing was not OCD—that a person with OCD would not have such a cluttered and messy patient room.  At around the two-week point, she told me that my OCD diagnosis of 13 years was “fake news.” It was then that my father (who’d been visiting every day) and I decided that we needed to act somehow to get me off of the Risperidone.  Since I had arrived, my dose had been tripled as my “symptoms” became more pronounced. By the end of the two weeks, even my doctor half-suspected I was having Risperidone side effects and finally brought the dose back down to the minimum again. With the help of my father, in a meeting in which I was unable to sit still because of muscle tension and agitation and barely able to produce a clear thought, let alone a full sentence, I compiled a description of the missteps I felt had occurred in my treatment with the intent of appealing to a judge to have me released.

The next day, I met with the hospital’s attorney and asked to be seen immediately by the judge.

However, after meeting with my father again, Dad and I agreed that I was in no condition to illustrate my sanity to anyone, so we decided to wait a week (court appeals were done weekly). It was a holiday that Monday, and I worked myself up into such an angry panic that I demanded to see a doctor. Connie was luckily out that day, so after jumping up and down in place and shouting “I want a doctor! I need a doctor!” I was finally able to convince someone to call the on-call doctor.

He examined me and immediately diagnosed me with akathisia and “NMS-like symptoms,” which included extreme agitation and mental confusion. NMS is short for Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome, a possible side effect of Risperidone, though I was never told that by a medical professional at that hospital, or ever. The most I was told was that it appeared I might be “allergic” to the medicine, as though it was in some way my or my body’s fault and not a known side effect of the drug. I was immediately removed from Risperidone and put on a Parkinson’s Disease medication to combat the akathisia. The next day, a nurse told me during a daily wellness check that my resting heart rate was below 100 BPM for the first time in two weeks (my normal resting heart rate is usually 60-70 BPM).

Upon my own independent research much later, I found that NMS accounts for every symptom I experienced in those two weeks after being admitted, including fever, akathisia, elevated heart rate, agitation, and restlessness. It is also potentially fatal.

Rock Bottom

Some scientists believe that dogs do not perceive time; that they are forever stuck in the current moment. My experience from that point forward was much the same – I felt forever stuck in my present moment, which included agonizing discomfort, panic, and frustration, and the constant and desperate need to search for something to relieve those feelings. I begged daily to be put back on Prozac. Though my mind was starting to clear, I was now experiencing the worst OCD symptoms in my life in addition to the still-constant muscle tension and agitation. I began tapping my hands, pacing constantly to the point of painful shin splints, both unable and afraid to sit still for fear that the still unexplained mental confusion might come back with force. I became terrified of germs and saw them everywhere.

Nobody seemed to care. I was threatened by one patient who said several times he would kill me, and bullied and mocked by others for my constant pacing and my general look of terror all the time. With a few kind exceptions, the nurses and staff dismissed me and took any claims of panic or distress as false alarms. They told me to “deal with it.” I was given no anti-anxiety medication despite constant insomnia and panic attacks; to this day, I cannot fully understand why, though Connie seemed to indicate at the time that she thought I might be a drug seeker and she did not want to release me on any “heavy” medications.

I had slept little since I arrived at the hospital, averaging less than five hours a night and sometimes less than an hour. But in the last week or so before I was released, I barely slept at all, getting 30-to-60 minutes here and there throughout the night and never during the day. In the 72 hours before my release, I did not sleep at all and, in fact, spent the entire time relentlessly pacing, calling my father in a panic on the public phone, and compulsively taking showers in a failed attempt to relax (I took 10 or more showers my last night in the hospital).

The way I was finally able to gain release from the hospital was questionable at best. Through a combination of continued threats to see the judge (I was now coherent enough to speak, though extremely jumpy, sleep-deprived, and irritable), denial of thoughts of self-harm (though contemplating suicide was the only thing that brought me any cosmic relief), and a false reassurance to Connie that OCD was never in my past—“You’re right, Connie, I’m beginning to think I might have never even had it”—I was able to essentially con my way out.

I have never felt more like a criminal than I did when I left that place. It felt like a prison break. Sadly, upon returning home to my wife and son that evening, I had the worst night of all. I became terrified that I posed an immediate physical threat to my family, so I spent the night pacing and talking to my father on the phone yet again. The next day, after spending three hours in an emergency room, I was admitted to another CPEP. Through careful negotiation involving discussion about my mistreatment at the hospital upstate, confirmation of my choice to stay as completely voluntary, description of my symptoms as clearly OCD and extreme panic, I was admitted and finally issued an anti-anxiety medication: Klonopin. But my admittance to yet another psychiatric facility after barely escaping the previous one could not help but feel like the clear and bitter end to any hopes I may have had for my life.

Rebirth

Luckily, my despair did not last long. A nurse gave me my first dose of Klonopin, pushed my head down gently onto a recliner, and I finally collapsed into sleep.  Eleven beautiful hours. To this day, I think about how good that night’s sleep was; I slept beyond oblivion to a realm of complete and total stillness that I hope to God to experience when I die. And the relief the next morning was like being reborn. I still had trouble staying still the next morning, but this time it was out of the sheer joy of knowing that I might actually make it through this nightmare alive and be able to rejoin my family.

I spent the next eight days at a suburban facility, where a team of doctors and nurse practitioners met with me for 30 to 60 minutes every morning to discuss my treatment there, my mistreatment upstate, my extreme OCD and panic symptoms, and how to properly recover. I essentially had what I’d call “cycling obsessions” at that point, meaning that from one moment to the next I jumped from fears about my actions to religiosity to fear of contamination to inappropriate thoughts, and on and on. I was finally discharged to an amazing, private anxiety outpatient clinic in the city where I still receive services every two weeks.

It has taken me close to three years and a 10-week PTSD intensive to finally be able to live with my memories from the hospital upstate, which for months had come back unwanted in the form of flashbacks, sleepless nights, bouts of intense anger, and feelings that left me in varying states of panic, depression, and general stuck-ness in my own mental prison.  Even now, these memories are very difficult and cause me intrusive thoughts about my responsibility in the whole thing and how it could have been prevented. Despite all of this, I feel compelled to speak out about my experience.  Now more than ever, I believe that one’s right to the truth and to freedom from persecution due to reasons beyond their control are at stake.  I sincerely wish never to feel that alone again, and that no others will have to experience the hell that I have.

***

Mad in America hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. These posts are designed to serve as a public forum for a discussion—broadly speaking—of psychiatry and its treatments. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.

30 COMMENTS

  1. I am so terribly sorry for your experience. The misdiagnosis and mistreatment are tragic. The dextromethorphan in the Dayquil increases serotonin as does the Prozac and this sounds like a pretty clear serotonin syndrome. However, it was complicated by akathisia from the risperidone. It is difficult to imagine your discomfort. If the diagnosis was understood, then you likely would have received the Klonopin early on and would have been discharged from the hospital in a few days.

    What this illustrates is how absolutely psychiatry is professionally a morally bankrupt specialty, something that the comments on this site frequently mention. A malpractice claim is unlikely to prevail, but a complaint to your state medical board is likely to make your doctors think about what damage they have done. Also, the complaint should include the duration of unrecognized akathisia. Serotonin syndrome resolves in a day or two. The risperidone is a treatment for serotonin syndrome, but the akathisia went unrecognized.

    There is no excuse for what happened to you and those who perpetrated this sham facsimile of medical care from your providers should be held accountable.

    Hold them accountable.

  2. Most of us here have experienced a similar hell, to what you’ve experienced, Nick. And most of your symptoms sound like common psych drug caused, or psych drug withdrawal caused, issues. I agree with you, forced psychiatric treatment is torture, and I believe it should be made illegal. Thanks for sharing your story, Nick.

    And I’m sorry for what psychiatry put you through. But I will say, they do like to target and attack us artists and designers, not to mention those of us who believe in God. My experience with “mental health” workers has left me quite convinced that they, collectively, have deluded themselves into believing they are the judges of humanity, rather than God.

  3. My initial reaction is: So many different drugs!

    I thank my good sense and good luck that I stayed away from all that medical nonsense.

    On top of this, the average practitioner is so poorly trained and likely themselves totally uncertain of what to do in most situations, that the “care environment” looks much worse than a clown act.

    I can only continue to promote the datum that I believe can lead us out of all this: We are spiritual beings. From this one datum can come a foundation of basic human compassion, a studied distrust of ANY drug outside of emergency situations, and a route forward towards greater understanding of the human condition.

  4. Thanks Nick and well done for writing since I can understand that
    it’s not so easy to recount the experience.
    In fact we can never actually put into writing, the depth of experience
    and so we hope that the reader has himself enough experience to
    understand to a degree.

    And I think the lack of that understanding in the professional setting
    leads to absolute chaos and harm. Obviously there will be a huge disconnect
    when we put a “professional” and distressed in the same room.
    It is the power threat.

    You should have been given that klonopin right from the getgo. When someone’s mind
    is in distress it could virtually be due to anything at all. When you panicked about your son,
    you should have been allowed to see him, or to talk to him.
    In psych wards everyone should feel that this is the place of ultimate safety. That “YES, YOU ARE OKAY”
    Anyone in this state of nervousness should be given low doses of a benzo and safe talking. You should be asked if the benzo is helping, whether you think it’s too strong, or if you need more. Constantly confirming and reaffirming safety.

    Adults turn into babes of need. It happens. Actually it’s dangerous to drug people because you have no clue if what is coming out of their mouths is reliable info. If they cannot form thoughts under drugs, the dialogue will be misconstrued, misrepresented.
    Really it’s like silent screaming with no one there to receive and is the most traumatizing. I fully get that the memory of it stays with you, but I think for good reason. So you can ensure to have safer people around. To suggest to them what they should do in case it happens. Not just to you but to others.

    What I do not understand is why psych drugs each and every distress? That is one reason no one is moving ahead with trying to get the best outcomes.
    You wanted to feel safe and get the mind back to feeling safe/in control and so it does what seems normal, it goes to a doctor. The horrible drugs they give do the very opposite.

    Terrible experience. I get it. And I also got and understood early on how I should never ever be need again because a “hospital” is actually the very last place I would ever get it.
    Not a fun place to exist, but it’s the way it is at present.

    It would be simply luck to ever have a “good experience” in a “hospital”.
    The problem being that they actually believe in that there is “objectivity” about this person, and that they own that objectivity.
    And I refuse to ever have someone, a mere human, override my objectivity.

  5. No, these “so-called medical professionals” do not usually receive any legitimate admonishment or punishment for their actions of malpractice or worse. Unfortunately, many just pack up their bags and leave to do their awfulness somewhere else or on another vulnerable person. Or sometimes they close up shop and leave for India or some other country in which they can hide. Thank you.

  6. Nick,

    Thank you so much for sharing your beautifully written story.

    I’ve had similar experiences and for over 20 years have been involved in advocacy trying to call attention to the many underlying causes of psychosis/mania that can be misdiagnosed as “severe mental illness”

    Below is a link to a website that I collect information on underlying causes of psychosis/mania that can be misdiagnosed.

    https://psychoticdisorders.wordpress.com/bmj-best-practice-assessment-of-psychosis/

    My initial symptoms were caused by long-term occupational exposure to chemical toxins, but I have also experienced psychosis from the routine use of over-the-counter cold medicine and an abscessed tooth. .

    The nature of psychiatric treatment truly can be a dehumanizing experience and those who work in treatment facilities can become very callous.

    For those of us who narrowly escape, it can be a life-changing and humbling experience that will lead us to our soul’s purpose.

    May you and your family have a blessed holiday season
    Maria

  7. Your story (and countless other similar ´horror’ stories) touches my heart.
    Thank you for sharing it!

    I long retired from work as a Family Physician- little work since 1997, fully retired from allopathic medicine in 2002.

    I also had misadventures if being epically misunderstood by the Field of Psychiatry.
    We have an ´unsustainable System of systems’ creating many roadblocks for proper care of health issues, especially when they touch into Psychiatry.
    I formally divorced Psychiatry in early 2016, four years of attempting to collaborate. I got curious and found many solutions. Yet, the system is delusional.
    I wrote an article with links to other articles on the subject:
    https://beauvera.ca/why-i-divorced-my-psychiatrist-and-the-field-of-psychiatry/

    This year I have further crystallized my offer towards a solution.
    Two questions that require contemplation and vigorous multidimensional, multidisciplinary exploration:
    1. What is a human being? Truly in an optimized state. The ‘physics’ of human anatomy are dangerously missing within allopathic medicine as a whole. Disastrously so in Psychiatry.
    2. What is Reality?

    We got off track decades ago.
    Science does not follow its own dictums. There is no place for multidisciplinary exploration and questioning the multitude of assumptions made on a daily routine basis.
    When you ask the optimal question, you allow for optimal answers to come forward.
    The Hippocratic Oath also broken daily.
    The system even ridiculed and undermines those that question assumptions.
    Sadly, corruption and profit-drive are barriers to discovery of what optimal human health looks like.

    Iatrogenic harm. This is routine in our current health system.

    Self-led healthcare is the wave of the future!

    I do see Medical Science, as it functionally plays out in our world, like a dogmatic religion. « Unscientific »

    • Thank you Angele for this. So much. Excellent blog. And for those clicking on it, don’t be alarmed at not being able to access her website at first try..(it’s sometimes update related) keep going to “advanced” and you can access.
      I’m in Canada also Angele. I completely understand what the visit with the shrink felt like.
      Talk about a feeling of disconnect.
      I tried to talk to physicians also and was met with similar blanks. It has a LOT to do with their unwillingness to admit they have nothing. And regular medicine is suffering because they bought into psychiatry. It’s easier to live a lie than to have infighting or be fired or gossiped about.
      Very broken system.
      They would enjoy their jobs more if admitting their lack of science and “good” drugs.

      I appreciate you coming here and hope to read a blog one day.

      I understand that feeling of looking around, feeling as if you need someone to record for you. It’s nuts. Who should feel this way?

    • Thank you for speaking out Angele!

      “Iatrogenic harm. This is routine in our current health system.”
      Yes! So very true!

      When the health ‘care’ system harms you and you try to speak up about it they will mercilessly beat you down further. In Canada they use taxpayer dollars to do this to harmed patients. This is a petition that hopes to change that perversity and needs more signatures before February 5, 2021 to get read in our House of Commons. Please advise any Canadians you know to think about signing this petition for better patient safety:

      https://petitions.ourcommons.ca/en/Petition/Details?Petition=e-2890

  8. What answers have you found to your two questions?

    What led me to some answers was a different question: Why must we all, including children, live with almost constant violence?
    The answer I got was: Because insanity causes violence and too many of us are insane.
    Then, what causes insanity?
    The answer I got: It’s one way a being has of giving up, of hoping to avoid further attack.
    Then we must find ways to encourage a being not to give up, in spite of everything?
    The answer I got: Yes!
    What is reality? Our collective agreement of how things should be, of what the shared playing field should look like. You mean WE created this reality? Yes!

    • I respectfully disagree. Much of the violence and insanity in this world is at present caused by these psychiatric drugs and related drugs. This is accomplished directly or indirectly. These drugs do cause biochemical changes and even electrical changes in the brain that may make someone more prone to violence. To say it is our “collective reality” is to discount the terror these drugs cause and the terror they cause both on an individual basis and on a societal and cultural basis. It is these drugs that are stealing the very life out of all people of all ages. We did not create this reality. It was forced upon us. Now, it behooves us to awaken and resist this obvious sin of horrific evil. Thank you.

        • You could say it’s sort of a two-tiered system. The criminally insane give the marginally sane drugs to make them act insane so they can point to “them” as the problem. But this does not justify the use of psych drugs. They are harmful in most cases, and do nothing that couldn’t be handled better with a non-drug intervention.

          • I agree 100%. There are the intentionally evil, a small cadre in charge, and a lot of dupes or petty tyrants who go along with the program. None of it is designed to assist those receiving the “aid.” There are many things that can be done which are not conceived or are actively suppressed by the “mental health authorities” because they disturb the larger agenda of making money and keeping people from gathering together to protest.

    • Reality is the combination of an individual’s current and all former experiences. We do not experience life the same as those around us with a different collection of past experiences. This is why eyewitness testimony is so notoriously bad and why you can have a group of people who give wildly different accounts of what happened. Your own reality is subjective and unique to you, the subject, experiencing it.

      Also, “how things should be” is a judgment when actually how things are varies greatly between both cultures and generations.

      Reality is fungible. It’s imposed by those with power onto those with less power or none. The child labeled with adhd has a very different experience of reality than do the teachers, doctors and parents doing the labeling and, usually, drugging. Then the drug changes the reality of the child. Children most often experience this change negatively while the adults experience it positively. Whose “reality” matters more or is more real and valid?

  9. I read this harrowing tale, and then also most of the responses, and I’m sorry but I have one question, which I think must be asked.

    After all of this, isn’t it perhaps better that you get yourself off of all psychiatric drugs, and find a different answer to what’s labeled as OCD than drugs.

    To me that whole story does on all its different levels depict the simple fact that psychiatric drugs cause chemical imbalance and disable the mind.

    I’m not saying that anyone had the right to project their ideology onto you, or tell you what drugs you should be on rather than you were listened to regarding your on viewpoints, I’m simply saying perhaps it’s better to find an other means altogether.

    There’s a site called my good habits https://www.mygoodhabits.com/.com that has good advice on nutrition, and emotional healing techniques; and there are many other alternative sites. I think that’s at least worth looking into.

  10. Thanks for sharing your horrible experiences with psychiatry Nick. I too found out how destructive psychiatry is. Somehow psychiatry managed to put themselves at the top of the pyramid of ‘medicine’ and all medical professionals kowtow to psychiatry’s damaging nonsense and harmful rituals.

    When they write and publish damaging falsehoods onto EMR’s (that are legally proven to be false) they fall back on the excuse it was their “opinion at the time” and when their opinion is proven faulty and without any merit or evidence then they fall back on the excuse “well it was my understanding at the time.” We also learned how legitimate complaints are whitewashed and covered-up. The powers that be take years to process a complaint and then claim they carried out an investigation but you are not privy to the information they collected or even to know who their so-called expert was that provided them with an ‘expert’ opinion. The system is totally rigged against patients and for any complaint to ever be acknowledged or dealt with appropriately. There can never be any improvements when no one is ever held accountable.
    Thanks for speaking out and I wish you and your family the best going forward.

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