Wednesday, October 27, 2021

Comments by dragonfly

Showing 27 of 27 comments.

  • I think I know what the hell I’m talking about and I don’t need to be nice about it so others don’t feel threatened. I know more about the drugs than the designers, sellers and prescribers of theses poisons because I have had every single one of them dumped into my body. I know the chemicals from the inside. I have been chemically raped from the inside of my cells.

    To Be a Mental Patient
    by Rae Unzicker (1948-2001)

    To be a mental patient is to be stigmatized, ostracized, socialized, patronized, psychiatrized.

    To be a mental patient is to have everyone controlling your life but you. You’re watched by your shrink, your social worker, your friends, your family. And then you’re diagnosed as paranoid.

    To be a mental patient is to live with the constant threat and possibility of being locked up at any time, for almost any reason.

    To be a mental patient is to live on $82 a month in food stamps, which won’t let you buy Kleenex to dry your tears. And to watch your shrink come back to his office from lunch, driving a Mercedes Benz.

    To be a mental patient is to take drugs that dull your mind, deaden your senses, make you jitter and drool and then you take more drugs to lessen the “side effects.”

    To be a mental patient is to apply for jobs and lie about the last few months or years, because you’ve been in the hospital, and then you don’t get the job anyway because you’re a mental patient. To be a mental patient is not to matter.

    To be a mental patient is never to be taken seriously.

    To be a mental patient is to be a resident of a ghetto, surrounded by other mental patients who are as scared and hungry and bored and broke as you are.

    To be a mental patient is to watch TV and see how violent and dangerous and dumb and incompetent and crazy you are.

    To be a mental patient is to be a statistic.

    To be a mental patient is to wear a label, and that label never goes away, a label that says little about what you are and even less about who you are.

    To be a mental patient is to never to say what you mean, but to sound like you mean what you say.

    To be a mental patient is to tell your psychiatrist he’s helping you, even if he is not.

    To be a mental patient is to act glad when you’re sad and calm when you’re mad, and to always be “appropriate.”

    To be a mental patient is to participate in stupid groups that call themselves therapy. Music isn’t music, its therapy; volleyball isn’t sport, it’s therapy; sewing is therapy; washing dishes is therapy. Even the air you breathe is therapy and that’s called “the milieu.”

    To be a mental patient is not to die, even if you want to — and not cry, and not hurt, and not be scared, and not be angry, and not be vulnerable, and not to laugh too loud — because, if you do, you only prove that you are a mental patient even if you are not.

    And so you become a no-thing, in a no-world, and you are not.

    Rae Unzicker © 1984

  • Sera, you and Ted have made some assumptions about me and my opinions based on your own values and projections. I am all for informed choice. When we actually have that I will shut up. I guess I need to be out here on the fringes shouting about the psychiatric holocaust, but we are on the same side.

    I am the kind of activist who burns her bra and her draft card. I march in the streets and carry signs in front of corporate boardrooms, and I sued Astra-Zeneca for giving me diabetes. I was arrested last spring for growing medical cannabis in my window. (I need the cannabis to relieve the system-wide damage that I sustained as a captive in the psychiatric ghetto who was used as a chemistry experiment by “doctors.”) I’m half-dead anyway after 20+ years on the behavior-control chemicals and I grieve every moment for my many friends who have died in front of my eyes as a result of psychiatric poisons, so I am willing to take risks. I don’t have a job in the mental illness system and I’m not trying to create alternatives so I don’t have to equivocate about the mass death that is being perpetrated against the one in three women who are being slowly euthanized by behavior-control chemicals and the one in ten kids who are killing themselves and their schoolmates on doctor-prescribed amphetamines.

  • It creeps me out that every mental illness activist has to make the qualification up front that “I am not against the use of psychiatric drugs.” Why is it so bad to be against psychiatric behavior-control chemicals? Of course people who are addicted to these petrochemicals are going to be touchy about hearing that they have been lied to and tricked into consuming poisons that cause suicide and early death from the physiologic stress on every body system. Addicts don’t like being confronted with the truth, even when they are involuntary addicts.

    I have been watching people suffer and die from these chemicals for 20 years. Time to grow a pair and stop apologizing for fighting Big pHARMa and the Corporate-Industrial Medical System. These chemicals WILL kill you. Detox Now!

    It’s not my job to make people feel ok about poisoning themselves and it’s not my job to come up with “alternatives.” I just want to stop the damned holocaust.

    This is what I do. I make anti-advertisements about behavior-control chemicals with colored markers on the blank sides of juice cartons and vandalize public areas by taping them up. Disposable grafitti. Rebecca Riley and Gabriel Myers(FL foster child who committed suicide on the chemicals.He was a rape victim) are a big reason why I resort to criminal mischief.

    I’ve been thinking back to how this all got started in 1985. I was suing my male parent for raping me for the first 12 years of my life and raising two small children on welfare in Plainfield, VT. My baby kept having monster bladder infections and I was always running to The Plainfield Health Center for medical treatment for her. During one visit, apparently I was looking a little worn out and I was achy from lack of sleep. Dr. John Matthews, who was examining my child for her infection, jabbed his finger into my back and I jumped. He said, “Aha! You have fibromyalgia, which is an indication of clinical depression.”

    He wanted to put me on depression medication right away but I said I didn’t want to take mood altering substances. He insisted that I had a discreet medical condition that I had been born with. He said it was genetic and that I would have to take a drug for the rest of my life to correct my congenital chemical imbalances. I wanted proof. He did a thyroid test that was inconclusive, but there were no other objective tests to indicate depression. He said there was no test at that time, but there would be one soon. He also kept telling me that theses drugs were tailor-made for my particular body chemistry but the only way to find a perfect chemical fit was to keep trying different variations of the drugs. He said it was my responsibility to attend to my health by consuming these chemicals.

    There was a cabinet in my kitchen in the big old farmhouse on Rte. 2 in Plainfield where I kept the chemical cosh stash that I had been prescribed. There were bottles of doxepin, prozac, depakote, tegretol, klonopin, thyroxine to fix the thyroid suppression of the doxepin, clonidine so that I could empty my bladder, prilosec for the reflux caused by the weight gain, lipitor for the cholesterol rise caused by the doxepin, and benztropine and various non-steroidal anti-inflammatories to control the constant joint and muscle pain. There was a chart on the cabinet door so that I could check off the pills as I took them five times a day.

    I remember having a sense of absurdity about my visiting the cabinet 5 times a day to take the chemicals that would burn away my original sin. For is this not precisely what it means to tell an abused woman that her pain is a function of her congenital, biological, genetic abnormality? I was born with this. There had never been any hope for my redemption. The torture that I suffered as a victim of 12 years of sexual slavery was inconsequential. It was not enough of a reason for my having a low mood. There was no therapy for trauma. But, there was money from Medicaid to pay for pharmaceutical control of my sin.

    I was actually grateful that I had been born in the Age of Modern Living Thru Chemistry. Because of my generally chiliastic state of mind, which is the result of all the atomic bomb drills I endured in my school years, I actually worried about the end of industrial medicine, which would mean the end of my pill supply. This frightened me especially because the the drugs did not really control the despair and fear and physical pain of my untreated trauma. I did not feel better on the drugs so it was terrifying to think of not having them and having no recourse whatsoever.

    Now I understand the meaning of this behavior. I finally grasp just how horrifying this ritual consumption of poisonous sunstances really was, and still is, for the one in four women in the United States who currently is under Corporate Chemical Probation, having been prescribed these drugs for their biological brain abnormalities. I was induced to depend on the authority of doctors and to doubt my own intelligence and biological integrity.

    It was slavery, pure and simple. The same old oppressive, sexist bullshit in a new form.

    It is clear to me now that the Diagnostic and Statical Manual of Mental Disorders is really an update of the Malleus Maleficarum from the Middle Ages. It is a catalog of the sins of the undesirables, those of us who have failed to adjust quietly to corporate serfdom.

    The Malleus Maleficarum

    The Malleus Maleficarum (Latin for “The Hammer of Witches”, or “Hexenhammer” in German) is one of the most famous medieval treatises on witches. It was written in 1486 by Heinrich Kramer and Jacob Sprenger, and was first published in Germany in 1487. Its main purpose was to challenge all arguments against the existence of witchcraft and to instruct magistrates on how to identify, interrogate and convict witches.

    I stopped eating poison. I stopped thinking of myself as inherently defective. I stopped trusting anyone in authority who makes money from controlling the underclasses. That includes all doctors and medical personnel who distribute these ritual poisons and anyone in the social services system that funnels women and children into this death trap.

    We don’t have to burn women in public anymore. We just hand them a prescription and they burn their bodies in this unholy medication ritual 5 times a day, reminded of our incurable wretchedness and indebtedness to authority 5 times a day. Lest we forget.

  • I was chemically raped for twenty five years when I reported to doctors about my
    distress stemming from being sexually assaulted and battered for the first 16 years of my life. The coma-like sleep from the drugs was a relief, but like suicide, psych drugs are a permanent “solution” to a temporary problem. My brain was not broken before, but it, and every body system, is sure broken now, by the people who said they were helping me.

    I appreciate what you do Sandy, but this is a holocaust and your voice is a whisper in the roaring flames.

  • Despite going to childbirth classes I still had a violent birth experience with my first baby. The details are commonplace for most women who go to industrial birth institutions (hospitals) so I won’t recount my experience here. I’m grateful that I had enough of a touchy-feely hippie background to be able to acknowledge my urge to stuff my baby down the laundry chute. At the time I explained it to myself as the overwhelming feeling of being completely responsible for the life of a helpless human being. This post makes it clear that it was also the medical system that contributed to my stress. I had a “birth buddy”, a friend who was pregnant at the same time as me who I could reveal these taboo feelings to. We were able to laugh about it and that helped so much.

    Our culture is broken. Culture begins with mothers and babies and we are screwing it up majorly. My heart goes out to you for the fear and isolation you suffered and for your courage in shining a light on this terrible oppression that has infiltrated the healing professions.

  • ”I recounted giving a talk in Oregon where a young boy, aged 13, was squirming in his seat in the audience. At lunch I asked his mother if he got anything from my talk. She said “you may have saved his life, he had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder at age 10, and was told he would never recover. He had been suicidal ever since, until he heard you say that people can recover from even the most severe conditions.”

    No thirteen year old has bipolar disorder. You can’t recover from a fictitious condition. I don’t understand why you didn’t say this. This boy is being medically abused and someone needs to advocate for him and tell him there is nothing wrong with him.

  • Hi Sandy, As a Vermonter I feel proud that you are here in my state. I wrote to you awhile back asking for help finding a doctor who would help me detox. Wrote about your response – that there was no such animal – in my blog. Sorry if I hurt your feelings, you are obviously brave and open-minded. Change Happens!

  • Hmm, maybe if recipients of mental illness services were told the truth, i.e. that there is no brain disease that can be fixed by chemicals, they are not sick, and the only thing mental illness workers can do is listen, maybe they could move away from the learned helplessness that the oppressive medical model instills in them.

    Kinda krazy to teach recovery skills for fictitious diseases. No wonder you are frustrated. Maybe you could teach skills for coping with systemic oppression, say upfront that it’s about learning to live with impossible, unfair crap, not about managing disease symptoms.

  • I survived 16 years of imprisonment and torture at the hands of my sex criminal father. When I complained about the residual effects of this, the docs said the real problem was the non-testable brain chemical imbalance. I almost didn’t survive their treatments. I went from one kind of rape straight into rape by Corporate Med. It was as if they said, “Oh yeah? Well, now we’ll REALLY give you something to cry about.

    This is great writing. It gives me heart to read articulate personal stories from chemical rape survivors.

  • We are all lucky that you survived with your voice intact. You a such a gifted writer! I’m touched by your vivid descriptions of states that I have found difficult to describe to myself or to others I am asking help from. Please keep writing and giving voice to the unspeakable.

  • Hi Laura,

    Bad luck for the system that they were not able to silence your articulate voice. Thank goddess you survived. I’ve been thinking about Stockholm Syndrome lately in relation to the abuse of power by Corporate Med and it’s sub-category, Corporate Psychiatry.

    I’m an incest survivor and I was labelled and drugged for this “disease” (funny how I caught mental illness from the men who repeatedly raped me as a child) and I am convinced that the dynamics in the oppressive violence that is sex abuse are the same as the ones employed by the druggers. Psychiatry creates abusive, exploitive “relationships” with it’s victims (I mean, clients.) It seeks out prior victims and grooms them just like pedophiles and pimps do,and then traps them in a powerful chemical addiction. The full horror is being told that the drugs are not addictive. At least a pimp doesn’t pretend the drugs he enslaves you with aren’t getting you hooked.

    Keep writing and speaking about your liberation!

  • This was similar to my experience tapering from seroquel. I did 10% at a time, every month or so, going back up in dosage if I became too distressed. I had to cut the pills myself because no-one ever comes off this stuff. Once I clearly understood that my distress was predictable and would subside after a few days I was less afraid of the pain. I just wish I had had other human beings around me who approved and understood the physical and emotional pain I was in. Fundamentally, what is missing is actual human support for people while they are suffering.

    Here’s the irony: The thousand bucks a month that the state was willing to pay for seroquel would have paid the salary of a personal care aide. But we won’t pay for human support, only chemical treatment. What made me decide to stop was that the drugs gave me: bladder dystonia leading to serious, life-threatening infection, cataracts, dyskinesia (still have that fun little issue) diabetes, damage to my forebrain and limbic system, low thyroid and high blood fat. All of these issues except the neuro damage have resolved themselves post withdrawal.

    These drugs are ADDICTIVE. That’s why people aren’t lining up to quit. Doctors must give stronger warnings, with the lowest doses for the shortest amount of time. Before starting the drug there needs to be an exit plan in place. It really says something about how addictive these chemicals are that people prefer to keep taking them even when you inform them their brains will atrophy and they’ll get diabetes. In my experience as a peer supporter, people are continued on seroquel even after they come up diabetic. My diabetes went away when I stopped seroquel. I think you need to think about this fact.

    Thanks for being a scientist and gathering this data. I know you are trying.

  • I’m grateful that someone as gifted and articulate as you has survived to tell the story. No-one should have to go thru these kinds of experiences. It’s a brand new kind of horror for human beings. Your words really show what this inhuman torture feels like. I’ve been free from the chemicals since Dec. 2011. I was prescribed them for 25 years and it took me 5 years to detox and heal the damage. I can assure you that it does get better.