That's me, circa 2006. If I could go back in time, I'd give that younger man a big hug. He deserved better. He still does. I'm fortunate in many ways. I hope to elaborate on this in the future. Life is better now. So much better. I'm glad I stuck around to see its beauty. Today is a gift.
"In the Same Room" by Jon Statham
Tapering off psychotropic medications on my own saved my life. It also could have killed me. As I heal, it's apparent that there may be some irreparable damage. I'll accept whatever prognosis I'm given. It's not a choice for me. My long-dormant passion for writing has been rekindled. So has my love for making music. I've included the above link because this song has inspired me profoundly. At first listen, my eyes welled up with tears. Jon shared this song 13 years ago. I hope he has been able to live the happy, unmedicated life he sings about. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little envious. I wish I had written the song myself. That's a high compliment coming from one songwriter to another. Jon is a professional, Berklee-educated songwriter in Nashville though. I'm just some guy with a guitar and a 5-year-old Walmart-purchased laptop. The audacity of believing I can create meaningful content is mainly derived from having a lot of free time. I need to fill the void with something.
How I Started Writing Again:
My renewed confidence and interest in writing originally spawned from posting/commenting on Reddit. It didn't take me long to become a controversial figure on the platform. I was new on the scene and didn't understand the inner workings of r/(insert diagnosis) communities. I'm old and passionate about the subject of mental health and its treatment methods. This proved to be a volatile mixture. That's a prompt for a future post. It's an interesting story. For now, I'll focus on the title topic (I'm prone to indulging in rant tangents). I'll only share that through my participation on Reddit, I gained a lot of applicable knowledge. My writing almost got me banned permanently.
I'm not a contrarian without a purpose. Others might disagree with that statement. They haven't lived my life either. Pacifism has served me poorly. If I am a provocateur, it's because life has taught me that I need to stand up for myself and others like me. I believe in my causes.
If you feel you've been harmed by pharmaceuticals or mental health providers, I strongly suggest checking out r/antipsychiatry and r/radicalmentalhealth on Reddit. I found information and true peer support in those communities. I will never endorse any of the other subreddits that claim to be mental health "peer support" forums. I have my reasons.
Reddit users usually (me included) post and comment under pseudonyms. I suggest you do the same. There are some strange "hidden rules". My Reddit participation did provide me with a launching pad. It also helped me sharpen my writing skills. This blog is the next step in my process. The ultimate goal is to write a memoir about my life and get it published. For now, I'll focus on my blog.
I haven't posted much to Reddit recently. I have too many new creative projects in the works. One is a new album of original music. I can't manage them all at once. That statement feels damn good to make. I'll eventually get back to Reddit. When I do, I now feel healthy enough to offer support and information to others. I found my mental health tribe there when I needed one. Reciprocity is important to me. I feel compelled and even obligated to give back.
Disclaimer:
I state the following clearly and emphatically: I will never offer medical advice in this or any future blog posts. This is about my personal journey. I fully understand and respect that everyone has their own unique story to tell. I am, in no way, endorsing the idea that everyone should stop taking pharmaceuticals to treat their mental health disorders and/or symptoms. That would be recklessly irresponsible. While I can write from the perspective of a mental health peer, I have no working knowledge of credentialed clinical practices. I stay in my lane, always.
My Original Diagnosis of Bipolar:
I was diagnosed "bipolar" in 2006. This was after my first arrest for drunk driving. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be my last. I voluntarily entered a dual diagnosis, inpatient rehab facility. My inability to maintain permanent sobriety has nothing to do with a subpar effort. It's better described as a lack of self-awareness. Hindsight is pretty worthless, really. I didn't know then, what I know now. If anyone builds a time machine, I will pay top dollar to utilize its services. Until then, I need to live in the present.
Reflection is a positive exercise with many benefits. Self-loathing? Not so much. I'm currently working out the kinks of harnessing the lessons of my past constructively. My anger is not restricted to other people or even clinicians. There's a lot of the blame to place upon my own shoulders. I'm also a victim of my own naivete. With my life experiences fully considered, I'd still assess myself as more "book-smart" than "street-smart". Pain and suffering can be wonderful teachers. I wish I could have learned an easier way. That just wasn't to be in my case.
Like many individuals, I questioned the validity of my initial "bipolar" diagnosis. Because the rehab center was a dual diagnosis facility, I had access to a variety of mental health professionals while I was an inpatient. It was a State facility. Quality control wasn't a high priority.
The resident psychiatrist who diagnosed me with bipolar disorder took approximately ten minutes to vomit out his life-altering conclusions. He probably didn't remember my name for the full ten minutes. Minor details. His assessment was based on my answers to a short questionnaire derived from the DSM. I smelled a rat. Never should I have plugged my nose. The stink lingered for a very long time. It's still in the air today.
Not My Advice:
I didn't feel comfortable with the psychiatrist's evaluation of me or his diagnostic methods. My visit just felt rushed and shoddily executed. I needed to dig deeper. Bipolar disorder is considered a lifelong, incurable affliction. I falsely believed I was practicing due diligence by making an appointment to see the resident psychologist at the facility.
This is a prime example of my naivete. I was just a nerdy country bumpkin with a tendency to self-medicate unresolved traumas, depression, and life's many adulthood disappointments with various substances, mainly alcohol. At the time, I was 33. That is (technically) old enough to know better. I've since come to the realization that mental health professionals do cover for each other (in most cases), even at the expense of patients, especially if they work for the same institution or agency. I was oblivious to this dynamic in 2006. The consequences of naivete proved to be dire.
The staff psychologist and I discussed my new diagnosis at length. That guy was extremely amicable. He had that cool high school teacher vibe. A rapport was established quickly between us. He then spent about an hour selling me the very diagnosis I was questioning. It was a big step up from the ten minutes I got from the old psychiatrist, who was far past his prime, tired acting, and abrupt. He didn't come across as personable in the slightest.
After an interesting conversation with the psychologist, I eventually bought into the diagnosis of bipolar disorder. Now I see him more like a sleazy used car salesman than a cool teacher. I then spent the better part of 18 years paying dearly for my investment in installments, which carried with them insufferable interest rates. My currency was my mental and physical well-being. It was all a scam. I'll explain.
What I see plainly now, I was blind to then. First, there really is a deeply engrained "CYA" (cover your ass) culture amongst mental health practitioners. It's very similar to the "thin blue line" understanding among cops. Even more obvious (or what should have been) was the "great swindle" unfolding in plain sight. The law enforcement/mental health industry parallels don't end there.
People with substance use disorders can be very deceptive. We also speak freely amongst ourselves. Many of those I connected with came into the facility with no mental health diagnoses. I was already being treated for major depression and anxiety disorder at an outpatient facility back home. These were situational ailments. All too often, people look for quick fixes when decisive life changes are more appropriate remedies. This societal trend has increased in intensity over time. The "fix me" mentality among modern humans is trending upward. Every other TV commercial now is for some "miracle" drug. My attention while watching focuses on the caveats, which are always rattled off at auctioneer speed. We have become a nation of pill poppers. I don't believe this herd mentality will age well.
My rehab buddies informed me that a bipolar diagnosis was good news because: 1) It's an easier path to Social Security Disability than anxiety/depression. 2) With that diagnosis, one would almost always prescribed Seroquel while in rehab. Seroquel has a euphoric effect similar to cannabis. They were handing it out like Chiclets in there. Some people were also given it for insomnia. All you'd have to say in that case was that your Trazadone wasn't cutting it.
The "unfortunate" souls who weren't prescribed Seroquel tried to barter for it. During free time, the place had the feel of a stoner party. We sure did love snack time. Most of us gained a significant amount of weight. I put on 20 pounds, even more after I completed my 28 days. Lethargic people are easily controlled. Correlation?
I'm no con artist. I'd suck at it if I tried. My purpose in rehab was to figure myself out and move forward, living the life I desired before my arrest. The future plan included employment. I've been career-driven most of my life. I didn't want to live on benefits like I do now. I don't have a choice anymore.
Every single person I spoke to in rehab on this subject, walked out newly diagnosed "bipolar", and carrying a script for Seroquel. It was a running joke amongst us. I did acclimate to the culture inside. Of course, my foolish ass believed I was different from the scammers. I was genuinely pursuing real answers. Surely, my diagnosis must be correct, I thought. I wasn't playing games. I didn't have a clue.
My voluntary stay in rehab, with the sole purpose of getting clean from alcohol and hopefully receiving quality mental health treatment ended with a new addiction (Seroquel) and a diagnosis that would lead to 18 years portraying a medicinal guinea pig. Clinical trials are voluntary, and the participants are compensated. I paid to be experimented on. That was a shitty deal. I would have been much better off if I had never gone to rehab. I wasn't even mandated. What I was: street-stupid. I can own that now.
I can't tell an 18-year-spanning epic tale within the parameters of an already lengthy blog post. Those true horror stories are best reserved for my memoir. I'll offer a quick summary: I've carried that bipolar label around with me, like stolen luggage, to every agency and clinician I've met with since 2006 until yesterday. I ignorantly self-disclosed what I accepted to be a valid diagnosis on command. By doing so, I inadvertently played a major role in my own terrible suffering. It was similar to Stockholm Syndrome upon reflection. I regret the hell out of the poor, misinformed decisions I made. They led me down the road to total disaster many times over.
*I suggest reading the article I posted above for clarification. The shrinks who followed should have re-evaluated me. It was considered proper protocol. None of them did.
I maintained the "fix me" mindset. My self-disclosures allowed all of my new providers an opportunity (which every one of them took) to lazily treat me with dangerous, toxic medications, without ever performing a new assessment for diagnoses. Those perpetrators are many. I did the work for them. My over-sharing does not absolve a single one of them from accountability. They all knew better. I'm aware of this now too. Over-sharing would come back to bite me again recently.
Despite my horrifying experiences with psychotropic medications, I didn't question the veracity of my bipolar diagnosis and was willing to swallow the, "I think this new pill is really going to help you", diatribe over and over again until the fall of 2023. The right drug or combination of drugs never came to fruition for me. I am well versed on the subject of negative side effects now, even the "rare" life-threatening ones. I'm able to list 20 different medications I have taken over that span, often as a cocktail of 2 or more. I'm actually probably forgetting a few. I'd like to forget them all.
Most of my adult life exemplifies Einstein's classic definition of insanity. Everyone in recovery knows this phrase well. It gets drilled into our heads during treatment, mostly in 12-step programs. Einstein wasn't stupid. Apparently, I am. Of course, Einstein's definition of insanity only applies to substances that society deems dangerous in clinical addiction treatment circles. A lot of addiction treatment professionals believe strongly that they are doing good deeds for clients by suggesting mental healthcare options, in addition to substance use disorder treatment. In most cases, they are following the correct protocol. Mental health and substance use are very often intertwined. Mine is a case of this being true. While I do claim to be misdiagnosed with bipolar disorder., I'll never state that I'm not mentally troubled in other ways. That wouldn't be honest.
My Catalyst for Major Change:
When I made my decision to taper off psych meds, I was at rock bottom. That term may be a cliche, but it does apply to where I found myself last fall. My situation could have been considered the textbook definition of "rock bottom". I am currently available for paid consultation roles (Hint, hint). My life during that time could also serve as the subject of the darkest country song ever written. I can even throw some cancer into the lyrics, as country music fans (for whatever reason) seem to gravitate toward cancer songs. My truck ownership will have to be fictional though. I used to drive a Honda.
I'll shamelessly monetize my struggles in any way possible. "Selling out" never appealed to me in the past. My pride has dissipated. It's not like I'm capable of succeeding in traditional employment settings anymore. Credit to Olanzapine for that. Other life factors certainly played a role. I'll keep this post about prescribed harm.
That was a tangent. I left it in for laughs. If you can't find some humor, even in the darkest of circumstances, life is just going to suck for you. Ultimately, the point I'm trying to make about my taper is that trusting myself to make any decision during that period was foolish and incredibly dangerous. I put my fate in the hands of an insane person (me). That is not advisable. I don't recommend following my path to anyone else (refer to disclaimer). My writing offers more of a negative example than a positive one in terms of who or what to emulate. I'm a wonderful role model for opposite action. That's a term I learned last week. In my defense, I didn't have much, if anything to lose at that time.
For specific reasons (both malicious and practical), I am still connected with the provider who prescribed Olanzapine to me (the very medication that nearly silenced me forever). I won't divulge much about that now. This may have insurance/billing consequences since I am working with my current psychiatrist too. I'll have to accept those eventualities and react accordingly. It's part of my long game. I'll make changes as needed.
I asked that ambiguously cheery, but covertly sadistic prescriber to help me taper off Olanzapine and Fluoxetine (Prozac). She refused. In typical psychiatric, abusive parent, gaslighter fashion; she told me that bipolar disorder was an incurable, lifelong condition. I freed myself from chains of Olanzapine by myself, the best way I knew how (I didn't know shit about it). The Fluoxetine, however, I kicked "cold turkey". Either of these misguided actions could have proved fatal, or at the very least, more damaging. Continued use would definitely have ended me. I honestly believe that.
My motivations weren't exactly pure in their intentions. It's not in my nature to portray myself as a protagonist, even in my own story because I could never do so in good conscience. I'm more of an anti-hero. I'm comfortable in that role and play the part well. I guess that loosely qualifies as strength-based peer support lingo, using the implied literary license to paint with broad brushes within the confines of my own blog. I'm reaching pretty far by taking such liberties.
In the spirit of authenticity, I was on a fatal alcohol bender with suicidal intentions. My concerns were more with the scary interactions between my medications and alcohol. It wasn't just about wanting to get off prescribed drugs for the sake of my own welfare. I just wanted to drink myself to death quietly, without the specter of drug combinations and the unhinged behavior that had already manifested itself in the form of felony DWI charges and a five-day vacation to the ICU after puncturing my lung. I can elaborate on those events, but that's an entire post by itself. Stay curious though.
That was my true motivation for tapering off psych meds. I had been in a state of iatrogenic, Tardive Psychosis for months. Just to be clear: people in psychosis have no idea when they are psychotic. I wouldn't have listened if someone suggested I was in that state. More than likely, I would have gotten pissed off and then isolated myself from that person. I now know I did that on several occasions. My actions hurt the people I love. I'm keeping it real here. I wasn't reachable. *I wrote this in April of this year. As I've healed and made new connections, I'd say that the effort could have been much better from those in my life who claim to care. I'm working through these thoughts and emotions now. I'm still not absolving myself. (edit: 9/7/2024)
It's a big word and one I didn't know the meaning of until recently. I read it in the book, "The Zyprexa Papers" by Jim Gottstein. Olanzapine is an off-brand version of Zyprexa. Yes, I look up words I don't know when I read. I'm still a nerd. Iatrogenic is a word worth knowing, along with its definition, for good reasons. It simultaneously serves as fancy vernacular one can utilize to impress their snobby-ass friends at dinner parties (yes, I still have a sense of humor). You're welcome.
The Olanzapine Effect:
Recalling events in vivid detail between 2021 and 2023 is extremely difficult for me. My recollection of that period is extremely fragmented, to the point of uselessness. I'm now paying heavily for my criminal actions (DWI) without the factual recall skills required to offer any decent explanation for the "how" or "why" factors of my own erratic behavior. I know it's frustrating for those I'm close to. People rightfully want answers I cannot provide. Imagine how I feel. I'm confused right along with them. Those questions will never be sufficiently satisfied with concrete answers. I'm keeping my focus on the present.
New Connection and New Lease on Life:
*Even in psychosis, I was somehow, inexplicably aware of my impending downfall enough to seek professional help. This (as I remember it) was a bit of a "happy accident".
I stumbled upon my current therapist and psychiatrist by wandering into their agency while I was in crisis. I'm pretty sure I left work early that day, with strong suicidal ideations, my life in chaos, and total disarray. Unfortunately, my spiral didn't stop that day. Rock bottom came long after, unfortunately. The connection I formed then would prove vital to my existence and healing process. I just didn't know it at the moment.
It puzzles me how many times I've managed to navigate through the urge to take my own life. It has happened a lot in my lifetime. The only explanation I can offer, with any sincerity, is that my survival instinct must be stronger than my desire for death. I have a semi-colon tattoo on my right wrist. I was starting to feel embarrassed by it as I proceeded to get healthy. I don't feel that way anymore. It's an important clue for solving the mystery that is me.
My will to live is stronger now than ever before. Life isn't exactly ideal right at the moment. I'm grateful to still be among the living. I've gotten to feel the beautiful experience of becoming a grandfather. I don't recall such a lust for life coursing through my veins before now. It's just amazing. Wellness is a state of mind I can't describe adequately. I want to hold it close forever. That is one of my true purposes going forward.
After seeking help in managing my last suicidal episode, I was referred to my current therapist. I have a lot of respect for her. She shows me respect in return. Her patience and kindness have surprised me on several occasions. I told her at the beginning that I would be a hard case. My insistence on being in charge of the treatment I receive can be overbearing. This stems from negative past experiences. I'll give credit where credit is due. She has a genuine concern for me, even though her caseload is cumbersome. She took the time to call me on the days before and after my recent surgery for Kidney Cancer. I consider her a wonderful person, who goes above and beyond her job description. She's a keeper. My therapist referred me to the psychiatrist I'm writing about today. I admire them both.
*My therapist left her position at the agency in May of 2024. Things haven't been the same since. I no longer feel the need to be enrolled in therapy, unless it is specifically focused on trauma processing, and neurodivergent diagnosis (autism and ADHD). (edit: 9/7/2024)
With all of my stories of suffering and despair, I'm also aware that I've been the beneficiary of dumb luck too many times to quantify. No, I don't believe "things happen for a reason". I'm an unapologetic nihilist and an atheist. I will never believe in divine intervention, higher powers of any kind, astrology, or even the invisible hand of the free market. Everything I consider plausible is evidence-based. If you follow this blog, this will be a recurring theme. To those who prayed for me, I appreciate the gesture. I can express gratitude for even that now.
I am thankful to my surgeon for discovering a second cancerous mass on my kidney that wasn't revealed via any of my scans. I also have gratitude toward my new psychiatrist for her part in saving my life, not once but twice. This will be the only time I refer to psychiatry in the same sentence as other forms of medicine, such as surgery; unless I'm referring directly to her. My previous mental health treatment had been anything but scientific. It's been more like a pseudo-science akin to Dark Ages alchemy.
This psychiatrist is a game-changer in my life story. Her agency is just a different beast overall, in the best possible manner. When I originally went there in a full-blown crisis, it was never suggested that I go to the psych ward. I'll use my other platforms to endorse this agency. They are deserving of my praise and gratitude stated publicly.
While my original prescriber is, and has conducted her practice like pure abusive human trash, my new psychiatrist had already established major credibility with me before yesterday's appointment. If I were, in any way, a believer in supernatural phenomena, I would consider my ascension back into the world of the living miraculous. Self-tapering, however dangerous it was, lifted me out of psychosis. People in my situation sometimes don't recover at all from that. I'm one of the fortunate ones.
My foolishly administered, self-directed taper changed everything for the better. One day, I just woke up under the care of a dear friend and said, "What in the actual fuck, Shawn?". I knew I needed to change everything. While not really believing I could repair the many damages I had caused to myself and others (including the person who took me in when no one else would have), I decided to at least give it a try. I could always "off myself" if I failed. Yes, I was once known to use the option of suicide as a coping mechanism. I've developed better ways of coping since.
It just so happened, by coincidence, that I had a virtual appointment with my psychiatrist the next morning. When I spoke with her, I asked to be referred to a detox center for alcohol withdrawal. I've been on more than a few bad benders in my past. This one was very different. I couldn't go more than two hours without drinking or I would get the shakes. I took a few beers to bed with me and woke up to drink in the middle of the night. I was truly knocking on death's door. I knew that the withdrawal would be life-threatening without assistance. Instead of referring me to a facility, she offered to prescribe Ativan for assistance with alcohol withdrawal. She only made me promise that I wouldn't drink while taking the medication. She trusted me! Hell, I didn't even trust myself. I kept that promise. I haven't had a drink, nor have I felt any desire to do so since.
Unnecessarily High Stakes:
Yesterday's appointment was a moment I agonized over in my mind for days. I made the "street-stupid", rookie mistake of over-sharing with my drug court case manager. It was my fault. The subject of iatrogenic harm from psychiatric interventions remains a societal taboo. I have a ton of supporting evidence. That isn't the point. I should have kept these assertions to myself. I am still an over-sharer in comfortable situations. This is likely an aspect of neurodivergence.
My blabbering resulted in the judge requesting that I get a psychiatric evaluation. Whether it was a twisting words or an insult to my credibility, I will never be certain. It was probably a bit of both. The reasons are inconsequential. That request scared me. My experiences with psychiatrists have been explained in detail already. Looking at my life from the lens of the justice system, I can understand why my credibility could be questioned. I'm not agreeing with the conclusion. Acceptance was mandatory.
*I had requested such an appointment on my own, months before the court ordered me to get evaluated.
My purpose for requesting my own, voluntary "psych eval", months before being ordered by the court was specific. My therapist facilitated it for me after one of our sessions. One of my most important life goals is to finally shed the "bipolar" label. I do not, nor have I ever met the criteria for that diagnosis. Getting evaluated is just the first step. I will eventually have to retain a lawyer and fight the diagnosis in another court. The mental health industry bears no legal resemblance to other healthcare practices either. It's often used as an instrument of law enforcement. That needs to change. It's a major component of my current activism. Coercive intervention should be considered criminal in many cases. Public opinion is far too kind to our mental health system in the United States.
I have made such amazing progress since discontinuing my consumption of poison pills. The last thing I would ever want is to be "coercively medicated" by court order. I don't fear many things these days. That scenario would be my worst nightmare come true. It would destroy my progress, my positivity, and everything I value, including my sobriety. I would literally consider it an attempt on my life.
I went to my appointment with a written agenda. Staying on task was imperative. I've already shared my propensity for going off on tangents. My time was limited. After court, I considered this a life-or-death appointment. I have had only positive experiences with my psychiatrist. The court aspect brought heightened anxiety.
Relief and Vindication:
My psychiatrist didn't disappoint. I asked for a new summary of diagnoses. I really wanted the "bipolar" label removed immediately. It's like an albatross hanging around my neck. I now felt desperate because it had become a legal matter.
She didn't give me everything I asked for, but I respect the reasoning behind her decision. She explained to me why she wasn't comfortable making such a drastic change to my record until I had a full year of abstinence from alcohol under my belt. I couldn't have gotten sober at all without her assistance. Her conditions were more than reasonable. I felt reassured when she told me I wasn't exhibiting any symptoms that would warrant prescribing medication treatment without my direct, informed consent. My anxiety lifted immediately.
*I was originally diagnosed with "bipolar disorder" with less than 30 days of alcohol abstinence by the quack at the rehab (well within the Post Acute Withdrawal period). That was negligent as fuck.
My psychiatrist left my bipolar diagnosis as "pending/unspecified" as its official status. It's neither considered to be true nor false right now. I can live with that assessment. I don't mind waiting another six months for a final answer. If I relapse, I'll be incarcerated or dead. No reminders are needed there.
I've been given another opportunity to prove myself. I won't squander it. Betting on me is a solid wager now. I've already endured 18 years of insufferable pharmaceutical torture. I've learned patience and perseverance along the way. Six months is nothing, just as long as I'm allowed to remain unmedicated. I respect my psychiatrist even more for not allowing herself to be manipulated by me. She holds herself to a high standard of ethics. Most psychiatrists have no standards or ethical sensibilities to speak of. They are a disgrace to the Hippocratic Oath.
This psychiatrist has become an important member of my support team. Coming from me, that's a huge endorsement. She has earned that level of trust.
The Diagnostic Summary:
This summary of diagnoses was received by email at 10:41 PM last night. I was asleep. I couldn't open the document using my phone. I opened it on my laptop at around 6:00 AM the following morning. I was on pins and needles waiting for it to load! She was up pretty late working on my behalf after business hours.
Here are my current official diagnoses (descriptions paraphrased for terminology and privacy):
Alcohol Dependence, Severe: No questioning that one. I own that shit.
PTSD: Also, very obvious. This one wasn't new. My traumas are numerous and disabling at times. I have requested EMDR therapy to help me process my traumas at the same agency. My desire is to get past these barriers, in the interest of living my best life. Self-reliance and accountability have moved mountains for me in the last six months. I do need help with the trauma issue. I understand that.
Adjustment Disorder: This is a new one. I have never heard of it, so I looked it up.
"Adjustment disorders are excessive reactions to stress that involve negative thoughts, strong emotions and changes in behavior. The reaction to a stressful change or event is much more intense than would typically be expected. This can cause a lot of problems in getting along with others, as well as at work or school.
Work problems, going away to school, an illness or any number of life changes can cause stress. Most of the time, people get used to such changes within a few months. But if you have an adjustment disorder, you continue to have emotional or behavioral responses that can make you feel more anxious or depressed.
Treatment can help you regain your emotional well-being."
This is the Mayo Clinic's definition. She came to this conclusion after our appointment had ended. I can accept this conclusion.
Conclusion:
I have no negative responses to these assessments. I can hand this to the court with a smile on my face if asked. If it had included bipolar disorder, I wouldn't be smiling at all. That diagnosis denotes medication as a necessity for treatment. I walked away from my appointment with NO prescriptions. This allows me to continue living my unmedicated, mostly happy, sober life. Crisis averted.
Like the Jon Statham song at the beginning of my post, that summary of diagnoses brought happy tears to my eyes. And yeah, I do cry. I do it often actually. A year ago, I couldn't feel anything. I was dead inside; just a shell of a human, droning through life with no emotions. Maybe it's best to not remember much from that period. I have enough traumas to process already.
For me to trust a psychiatrist is something I didn't believe possible until today. Don't get me wrong, I still loathe the practice in general, but I am fortunate enough to have found the exception to the rule. I really don't know how to thank her. She was just doing her job correctly. The way I see it, she's saved my life twice...so far.
What impressed me even more was that she referenced the ICD 10 in her summary. The ICD 10 is the international standard for psychiatric diagnostics. She is required to reference the DSM 5 TR, which is necessary for billing purposes. Believe me, I have mad shit to talk about the D$M, a corrupt, pill-pushing rag only referenced in capitalist Scamerican healthcare. This post is long enough though (I learned the meaning of TL;DR on Reddit)
This is my mental health song. It is not as inspirational as Jon Statham's. I didn't go to Berklee for songwriting either. I'm proud of my own work, just the same. That includes "The Journey". Thank you for taking the time to read.
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