First, let me make something perfectly clear….I do not consider myself absolved of responsibility for my addiction. Now, that said….stupid ass lyin’ pdocs!
Why am I so angry, you ask? Around 7-8 years ago, I had some major problems going on in my life. I, also, was in a drastic state of bipolar cycling. Which came first…the chicken or the egg..or in this case, the problems or the cycling? Actually, I’m not 100 percent sure but looking back, I believe the environmental (life) problems triggered the psych problems. After a really good (better than street drugs, kiddos!) manic period, I hit the inevitable bottom of hellish depression. And, like any good bipolar person, I sought psych help in hopes of once again gaining my fantastic high. My form of chasing the dragon. The monkey wasn’t on my back…or in my head…I had lost it and wanted desperately to find it again. This will probably only make sense to other people who have experienced the wonderful state of mania.
I’m not a novice and I should have known better. The last place that I should have gone in my quest for my HIGH state was a damn psych doctor. I should have had my ass kicked really good. Looking back, I know that I would have had better luck going over to the bad part of town and finding a dealer. Afterall, many psych docs are nothing more than dealers…and they charge more. Coulda saved myself a lot of money and grief.
The first psych doctor was not so bad. He was a very small man and I came to refer to him as my “poc-doc” (pocket doctor) and I entertained fantasies of being able to just pick that little guy up and stick him right in my jean’s pocket so he would be right there when I needed him. I have to give this little poc-doc some credit. I had fallen so low into the black hell-hole of depression that there were some days when I could not even bring myself to speak. I opened my mouth and nothing would come out. Not even nonsense words or sounds. I wrote many letters for my little fellow to read in lieu of my talking aloud. And, as he would read, his tiny little face would start getting a sad look and the sad look would get to me and I would start crying. The really weird thing about crying then was I didn’t make any sounds doing it, either. I guess this would be considered my deaf-mute stage or something. It had never happened before and has not happened since.  No wailing or loud weeping or even sniffling. Instead, big alligator tears would just start forming in my eyes and then the next thing that I knew, I’d be wiping them off of my chin with my sleeves. And, my little doc would treat me so very kindly. He never insisted that I talk. He never looked at me disapprovingly. Instead, his look was one of sorrow…or maybe, pity. But, whatever he was thinking, he treated me as if he believed that I was unable to talk then or maybe, ever again. My visits with him were probably the best psych treatment that I’ve ever had. After reading my notes or letters and looking at me with such sadness in his eyes, he would take my hand and we would sit in silence for a few minutes. Then, he would begin talking to me in a very compassionate voice. Not saying that he didn’t peddle his magic meds just like manyother psych doc. He did but I got the feeling that he actually believed that what he was prescribing would help me. Other psych docs gave me the impression that they just wanted to quickly prescribe the latest and greatest from the pharma companies and get me the hell out of their office after I have used up my alloted 3-5 minutes
. Treat ‘em and street ‘em, baby! I got a dinner tonight and I’m gonna make some big bucks from the pharma company for praising their brand of bullshit medicine. So, get the biotch out and send in the next one…..
After seeing my little nut-doc for just a few months, I showed up for an appt. and was told that he had left. Apparently, he had a move in the works for some time to a bigger city in another state. And, he hadn’t even bothered to tell me that he was moving!!!! Â I don’t mind telling you that I was crushed. I had trusted that little pecker-head! I had written out my thoughts, fears, etc. on paper and given them to that tiny troll! I no longer thought of him as my little poc-doc but, instead, considered him a mean, uncaring munchkin! Asshole!
Even today, I wonder what the hell he did with my notes and letters. I keep expecting to see them posted on some website like “Crazy Mute Patients” or the like.
Another doctor was in his place. Now, this was not just any doctor. He was the president of my state (I don’t want a lawsuit so I’ll just say my state starts with the name of a direction….as in south, east, west, north) psych association. He had, also, served in some capacity on the board of the Association of Pysch Medicine (I might have that name wrong but you get the idea). So, I thought…”OK, this guy must know his stuff”.
WRONG!!!!!
Instead of being held in high esteem by his psych doc peers, he should have been named #1 Peddler of Psych Pharmaceuticals. The guy was nothing more than a licensed dealer.
But, once again, I admit that I should have known better. I should have listened to my common sense instead of choosing to believe his bunch of bullshit about how much I needed to take this shit or that shit and how none of it was addictive.
And, even though, I readily admit that I didn’t take responsibility for myself and what I put in my body, I was stilled lied to and in a very convincing matter. Yes, I should have researched every prescription. But, it shouldn’t be that way at all. Don’t doctors still take an oath to do no harm? When did the time arrive that we could no longer trust our doctors? Because, ya see, I WANTED to believe him. I desperately needed to believe him….that he could make me better. That he had the answer…the magic pill. I was not 100 percent mentally stable. Fuck…I probably was not even 50 percent mentally stable. I was hurting and in hell. I thought that he was my lifeline back to a “normal” life.
So, when he prescribed Ativan for panic attacks, I took the prescription from his outstretched hand. . And, when they didn’t work any longer and he wrote a RX for a higher dosage, I took them, too. And, then that amount didn’t work…..
I became addicted. And, I didn’t even know it. Afterall, I had had the presence of mind to ask him if the pills were addictive. Maybe, I knew it in the back of my mind and that’s why I asked him. I’m not sure if I wanted him to tell me that they were addictive or lie (as he did) and tell me they were not. I have to be totally honest, I really don’t know that I wouldn’t have taken them if he had verified their addictive properties. But, dammit, I’m not going to bear total responsibility here. HE was the doctor. HE was the one who wanted to portray himself as my Saviour.
After a not very long period of time, I was turned over to a psychian’s assistant. A very nice but naive young lady. I believe that she (in her virgin psych treatment period) wanted to help me. But, she didn’t know what to do except to keep prescribing the drugs and/or occasionally changing my anti-depressant.
Finally, I had enough and I quit going. All those years of treatment and what do I have to show for it? An addiction to Ativan. However, it is an addiction that I am determined to overcome. So, I found a regular family doctor and made an appt. I told her that I did not want to need benzos for the rest of my life. I asked to help me come off of them by lowering my dose using a gradual reduction method. So far, I’ve reduced in the first month by 25 percent. This is not a recommended reduction. It actually should have been less of a reduction. I did not know this until I read it on a benzo forum and other benzo withdrawal websites. But, by the time, I read that info, I had already reduced by that amount for over two weeks and was not willing to take a step backwards. I have had problems. Besides, the withdrawal side-effects, which can be hellish, I may have once again chosen the wrong doctor. She is pretty much unavailable and when I called last week for another reduction, she called in a RX for the same amount that I had been taking.
Dammit….I’m determined. I will be benzo free by the end of the summer! I bought a pill cutter and have researched the amount of safe reduction. Benzo withdrawal is not only hellish, it can be dangerous (and even deadly) if not done properly.
At times when I feel like I am going to explode or my skin, I wonder where my little poc-doc is right now. And, I wonder if any other trusting silent patients sit across from him and hand him notes. And, what does he do with those notes, anyway?
And, I, also, wonder about the millions of people who are in psych therapy now and are being prescribed drugs that make them junkies and never question the person handing over the RX just because they have a framed degree hanging on the wall.
LYIN’ ASS PYSCH DOCS MAKE ME WANNA PUKE!
just a note….I write/blog like I’m vomiting. I don’t usually edit. I’m terrible about not proof-reading. And, I tend to get tired towards the end of a long post such as this one. So, forgive any misspellings or improper usage of words. I know that a good blogger goes back and checks everything. But, who the fuck ever said that I claimed to be a good blogger?
one more thing…I noticed that one of our search terms was “snappy attire for a woman”….bwahahaha…now that’s funny shit!
First, let me make something perfectly clear….I do not consider myself absolved of responsibility for my addiction. Now, that said….stupid ass lyin’ pdocs!
Why am I so angry, you ask? Around 7-8 years ago, I had some major problems going on in my life. I, also, was in a drastic state of bipolar cycling. Which came first…the chicken or the egg..or in this case, the problems or the cycling? Actually, I’m not 100 percent sure but looking back, I believe the environmental (life) problems triggered the psych problems. After a really good (better than street drugs, kiddos!) manic period, I hit the inevitable bottom of hellish depression. And, like any good bipolar person, I sought psych help in hopes of once again gaining my fantastic high. My form of chasing the dragon. The monkey wasn’t on my back…or in my head…I had lost it and wanted desperately to find it again. This will probably only make sense to other people who have experienced the wonderful state of mania.
I’m not a novice and I should have known better. The last place that I should have gone in my quest for my HIGH state was a damn psych doctor. I should have had my ass kicked really good. Looking back, I know that I would have had better luck going over to the bad part of town and finding a dealer. Afterall, many psych docs are nothing more than dealers…and they charge more. Coulda saved myself a lot of money and grief.
The first psych doctor was not so bad. He was a very small man and I came to refer to him as my “poc-doc” (pocket doctor) and I entertained fantasies of being able to just pick that little guy up and stick him right in my jean’s pocket so he would be right there when I needed him. I have to give this little poc-doc some credit. I had fallen so low into the black hell-hole of depression that there were some days when I could not even bring myself to speak. I opened my mouth and nothing would come out. Not even nonsense words or sounds. I wrote many letters for my little fellow to read in lieu of my talking aloud. And, as he would read, his tiny little face would start getting a sad look and the sad look would get to me and I would start crying. The really weird thing about crying then was I didn’t make any sounds doing it, either. I guess this would be considered my deaf-mute stage or something. It had never happened before and has not happened since.  No wailing or loud weeping or even sniffling. Instead, big alligator tears would just start forming in my eyes and then the next thing that I knew, I’d be wiping them off of my chin with my sleeves. And, my little doc would treat me so very kindly. He never insisted that I talk. He never looked at me disapprovingly. Instead, his look was one of sorrow…or maybe, pity. But, whatever he was thinking, he treated me as if he believed that I was unable to talk then or maybe, ever again. My visits with him were probably the best psych treatment that I’ve ever had. After reading my notes or letters and looking at me with such sadness in his eyes, he would take my hand and we would sit in silence for a few minutes. Then, he would begin talking to me in a very compassionate voice. Not saying that he didn’t peddle his magic meds just like manyother psych doc. He did but I got the feeling that he actually believed that what he was prescribing would help me. Other psych docs gave me the impression that they just wanted to quickly prescribe the latest and greatest from the pharma companies and get me the hell out of their office after I have used up my alloted 3-5 minutes
. Treat ‘em and street ‘em, baby! I got a dinner tonight and I’m gonna make some big bucks from the pharma company for praising their brand of bullshit medicine. So, get the biotch out and send in the next one…..
After seeing my little nut-doc for just a few months, I showed up for an appt. and was told that he had left. Apparently, he had a move in the works for some time to a bigger city in another state. And, he hadn’t even bothered to tell me that he was moving!!!! Â I don’t mind telling you that I was crushed. I had trusted that little pecker-head! I had written out my thoughts, fears, etc. on paper and given them to that tiny troll! I no longer thought of him as my little poc-doc but, instead, considered him a mean, uncaring munchkin! Asshole!
Even today, I wonder what the hell he did with my notes and letters. I keep expecting to see them posted on some website like “Crazy Mute Patients” or the like.
Another doctor was in his place. Now, this was not just any doctor. He was the president of my state (I don’t want a lawsuit so I’ll just say my state starts with the name of a direction….as in south, east, west, north) psych association. He had, also, served in some capacity on the board of the Association of Pysch Medicine (I might have that name wrong but you get the idea). So, I thought…”OK, this guy must know his stuff”.
WRONG!!!!!
Instead of being held in high esteem by his psych doc peers, he should have been named #1 Peddler of Psych Pharmaceuticals. The guy was nothing more than a licensed dealer.
But, once again, I admit that I should have known better. I should have listened to my common sense instead of choosing to believe his bunch of bullshit about how much I needed to take this shit or that shit and how none of it was addictive.
And, even though, I readily admit that I didn’t take responsibility for myself and what I put in my body, I was stilled lied to and in a very convincing matter. Yes, I should have researched every prescription. But, it shouldn’t be that way at all. Don’t doctors still take an oath to do no harm? When did the time arrive that we could no longer trust our doctors? Because, ya see, I WANTED to believe him. I desperately needed to believe him….that he could make me better. That he had the answer…the magic pill. I was not 100 percent mentally stable. Fuck…I probably was not even 50 percent mentally stable. I was hurting and in hell. I thought that he was my lifeline back to a “normal” life.
So, when he prescribed Ativan for panic attacks, I took the prescription from his outstretched hand. . And, when they didn’t work any longer and he wrote a RX for a higher dosage, I took them, too. And, then that amount didn’t work…..
I became addicted. And, I didn’t even know it. Afterall, I had had the presence of mind to ask him if the pills were addictive. Maybe, I knew it in the back of my mind and that’s why I asked him. I’m not sure if I wanted him to tell me that they were addictive or lie (as he did) and tell me they were not. I have to be totally honest, I really don’t know that I wouldn’t have taken them if he had verified their addictive properties. But, dammit, I’m not going to bear total responsibility here. HE was the doctor. HE was the one who wanted to portray himself as my Saviour.
After a not very long period of time, I was turned over to a psychian’s assistant. A very nice but naive young lady. I believe that she (in her virgin psych treatment period) wanted to help me. But, she didn’t know what to do except to keep prescribing the drugs and/or occasionally changing my anti-depressant.
Finally, I had enough and I quit going. All those years of treatment and what do I have to show for it? An addiction to Ativan. However, it is an addiction that I am determined to overcome. So, I found a regular family doctor and made an appt. I told her that I did not want to need benzos for the rest of my life. I asked to help me come off of them by lowering my dose using a gradual reduction method. So far, I’ve reduced in the first month by 25 percent. This is not a recommended reduction. It actually should have been less of a reduction. I did not know this until I read it on a benzo forum and other benzo withdrawal websites. But, by the time, I read that info, I had already reduced by that amount for over two weeks and was not willing to take a step backwards. I have had problems. Besides, the withdrawal side-effects, which can be hellish, I may have once again chosen the wrong doctor. She is pretty much unavailable and when I called last week for another reduction, she called in a RX for the same amount that I had been taking.
Dammit….I’m determined. I will be benzo free by the end of the summer! I bought a pill cutter and have researched the amount of safe reduction. Benzo withdrawal is not only hellish, it can be dangerous (and even deadly) if not done properly.
At times when I feel like I am going to explode or my skin, I wonder where my little poc-doc is right now. And, I wonder if any other trusting silent patients sit across from him and hand him notes. And, what does he do with those notes, anyway?
And, I, also, wonder about the millions of people who are in psych therapy now and are being prescribed drugs that make them junkies and never question the person handing over the RX just because they have a framed degree hanging on the wall.
LYIN’ ASS PYSCH DOCS MAKE ME WANNA PUKE!
just a note….I write/blog like I’m vomiting. I don’t usually edit. I’m terrible about not proof-reading. And, I tend to get tired towards the end of a long post such as this one. So, forgive any misspellings or improper usage of words. I know that a good blogger goes back and checks everything. But, who the fuck ever said that I claimed to be a good blogger?
one more thing…I noticed that one of our search terms was “snappy attire for a woman”….bwahahaha…now that’s funny shit!