This photo is from "A Day of Hope" in Watertown, NY. I was asked to perform at this event, which took place on 6/1/2024. I met some very cool people who connected me to live performances at recovery-based events. As Mental Health Awareness Month ended, I became more active within the recovery community. This is a great photo. I truly enjoy it when children show an interest in my music.Great stuff!
I spent a great deal of time earlier today writing a post only to scrap the whole thing. It's not gone forever. I copy/pasted what I wrote into a Word document and saved it in my "Memoir" folder. Those hours were not wasted. What I wrote will serve as a prompt, maybe even a rough draft when I feel ready to tackle the monumental task of writing a book about my life. I meant this post to be short and to the point. It evolved into a chapter. My decision to start from scratch came after walking away from my computer and rethinking the message I wanted to convey.
Mental Health Awareness Month meant something different to me this year. With current goals and present realities prioritized, I decided to save the back stories and emotional tangents for a project in the future. For now, I'll focus on the positive things I accomplished.
The Jefferson County Mental Health Awareness Walk was on May, 15th 2024. Writing about this brought emotions out of me that I didn't expect, a mixture of positives and negatives. I have past ties to the event. I used to chair the committee that planned it. It was a work thing. I strongly considered not attending for that reason.
I've committed the remainder of my life to specific causes and to activism. Sitting it out wouldn't have aligned with my sensibilities or aspirations. Feelings about the past, the employer, or the people involved couldn't be allowed to interfere. A lot of that was based on pride. I attended on my own terms.
Representing the #prescribedharm community was my only objective, even if I did so in silence. I originally wanted to be considered as the keynote speaker for the opening ceremony. I scrapped the idea after speaking to a couple of committee members about it. Let's just say the reception was a little less than lukewarm. It was a lofty perch to aspire to. I'm probably better off for backing out.
My standing within the not-for/non-profit industrial complex of Watertown wasn't exactly stellar. My catastrophic burnout, which led to my exit, was the stuff of local folklore. I can own that without acknowledging the sentiment as valid. Some of the stories about me are true. All are told without context.
As expected, I was uncomfortable on arrival that morning. So many familiar faces...yeah, "familiar" is the correct word. I smiled and offered salutations, repeating in my head that the opinions of others don’t matter. Their opinions aren't even known to me. Projection isn't healthy. I am working on my propensity for catastrophizing.
I made my way to the auditorium and settled in. I listened to proclamations and keynote speakers. I was annoyed by much of the content and subject matter of those speeches, but I didn't regret my decision to be present. It wasn't so bad, but someone like me should always expect the unexpected.
Without warning, one of the committee members asked me if I wanted to give a testimonial. I froze for a moment. I couldn't turn down such an opportunity and simultaneously call myself an activist. Activism isn't meant to be comfortable or even to feel safe. If it does, it's probably not effective. I couldn't waste an opportunity to speak to an auditorium full of people. There were roughly 200 in the audience, many of them clinical professionals. I knew I had to accept the invitation, not just for myself, but for the non-clinical people who receive mental health services. People like me.
I listened to many testimonials before giving my own. They were all similar, mostly stories of perseverance, hope, and triumphant metamorphoses while living with chronic mental illnesses. Every other speaker self-disclosed their respective diagnoses. I had no plans to do that.
A few of them were also in recovery from substance use disorder. I can check both boxes. The speakers thanked the agencies that helped them along their mental health journey. It didn't go unnoticed that they were all far more prepared to speak than I was. Their testimonials were either written or typed out. There I was, frantically preparing to shoot from the hip (usually not a good plan for me).
I don't often feel high anxiety levels anymore. At that moment, I was trembling. I don't speak publicly as a rule. That’s another reason I didn't sign up to be the keynote speaker. I hadn't fully considered my aversion beforehand, and there I was. I let another speaker cut ahead of me in line. The adrenalin was pumping. I felt intimidated, totally unprepared, and very aware that what I wanted to say would be controversial.
I was ruminating when I heard my name called. I put one foot in front of the other and grabbed the microphone. I took a moment to scan the crowd before introducing myself.
"Good morning, my name is Shawn and I feel great today!" Applause. It was on.
What followed was cautiously improvised. I spoke about the increased funding the County had recently been awarded by the State to increase the availability of mental health services in the area. This was previously announced to an ovation in the opening remarks. My anarchism kicked in. I praised the increase in access but made a strong statement about the importance of quality over quantity in mental health care. I absolutelymeant to step on some toes by saying that.
Other topics included:
-Active participation in one’s own treatment plan and setting your own goals as a recipient of services.
-Insistence upon person-centered treatment methods.
-Informed consent! I know that was an uncomfortable term for practitioners to hear. I sure hope it was. Informed consent is almost non-existent in mental health treatment. I went a step further. I urged patients to ask for counseling from a pharmacist before ingesting psychiatric medications, to discuss potential side effects and drug interactions up front, and to initiate a detailed conversation about comorbidities pre-prescription.
My improvised testimonial was interrupted several times by rounds of applause. I talked about my cancer battle and my addiction recovery status. Those were hits. I knew they would be. I said "um" a lot, so I made a joke about it. People laughed. I don't recall everything else I said, but those are the key points. My nerves were on edge throughout.
"You know yourself better than anyone else does." That was my favorite line in my speech
I said most of what I wanted to and then wrapped it up. I don't really remember what I closed with. Something meant to inspire, I'm sure. Afterward, I was proud of my message. Some people who know me well told me I held back. Of course, I did. I knew my audience. I hope to partner with some of those professionals in the future, in the interest of implementing positive changes to a broken system. I suppose I could have indulged my own selfish urges and verbally bashed the hell out of mental health treatment practices and practitioners, but I didn't make it just about me for specific reasons. I put the cause first. No regrets.
With the difficult part behind me, I happily participated in the walk and the picnic that followed. Many strangers approached me and complimented my testimonial. Some thanked me. Others shook my hand, mostly patients. My people.
Some of my former colleagues spoke to me at the picnic. I received some hugs. It was a little weird, but less awkward than I predicted. I'm assertive as fuck these days. When it felt weird around others, I made things even weirder. That seems to be one of my superpowers now. I used to believe my weirdness was a detriment. It isn't. I just needed better people in my circle. Weird people, like me.
A hotdog lunch, a drum circle, and some more conversations followed. It was a good day. I introduced the "new me" to the mental health awareness community. I'm just getting started. I hope to demonstrate more activism. I unexpectedly became a public speaker that day and welcome future opportunities to speak. Lookout world...I have shit to say.
This is not the concise post I planned on writing. I have a lot more to say on the subject of mental health, with its draconian, profit-obsessed methods of treatment, sketchy diagnostics, and propensity for iatrogenic harm. So many stories to tell...
*This is the video for a brand-new song I wrote on 5/24/2024, inspired by my granddaughter, Ivy June Hills, born 11/7/2023. It's not a finished song. This video was made minutes after writing. In the video, I'm reading the lyrics from my notepad as I perform.
“I have one of two choices—stay in the post office and go crazy…or stay out here and play writer and starve. I have decided to starve.” - Charles Bukowski
As I embarked on this journey of mine, I tended to look for inspiration wherever I could find it. Not every day is filled with confidence and victories. I post inspirational anecdotes about myself on social media. None are disingenuous. My stories and the emotions they evoke are totally real. However, I often choose to keep my feelings of doubt, frustration, and the accompanying setbacks to myself.
I've realized that complaining isn't marketable. As purist as my sensibilities about creativity are, it is not lost on me that this is a business. Whether referring to music or writing, the hard truth is that art is not only a business but a cut-throat one at that. My distaste for this reality does nothing to make it less so.
I've developed a deep affinity for the writings of Charles Bukowski. The quote above is from a letter he wrote to John Martin, a publisher. Martin offered Bukowski $100 a month to quit his job and spend the rest of his life writing. The quote was his response to the offer.
Charles Bukowski did just that, publishing six novels, countless poems, and many essays. I find his writing so relatable that I read his work whenever I'm reminded to, usually by some meme that pops up in my Facebook feed. That's a low-brow admission. Social media is trashy, overstimulating mind-control. I'm on it a lot, too. My feed probably looks quite different from most. Do you get a lot of Bukowski?
Different platforms, different personas. At least that's the case for me. On X (Twitter) the algorithms show me posts from people like me. These people have been deeply damaged by psychiatrists and their toxic medications. My skin in this game does not call for any further explanation. What's interesting is that some of the interactions I've had regarding this subject have been with professional people, not just patients with horrific stories. There are plenty of MDs, psychiatric nurses, and even a few psychiatrists who reject the current status quo in psychiatric "care". While this is all fascinating, I have over 5500 followers, but I’m getting absolutely nowhere by promoting my music online. I'm getting nowhere with that venture in general.
These statements should not be misconstrued as bitching. Like Bukowski, given the choice between wage enslavement or starving as a creator, I too choose to starve.
While I will never compare myself to Bukowski in terms of talent, the life parallels are numerous between us. He was a drunk too. He also suffered major depressions and was completely disgusted by a life of meaningless drudgery, working at a postal job he hated. He was 49 when he received the offer from Martin. I'm 50. Nobody has offered to be my benefactor yet though.
My partner is likely more nervous about my choice of starvation than I am, although she doesn't express it, at least not verbally. If things go well, my Social Security Disability claim will be approved, making the government I despise my benefactor. It's not a done deal, but I would consider it poetic justice if it does get approved. Before anyone jumps to the conclusion that I am pulling a scam by applying for disability benefits, I will offer a caution.
As stated in part one of this series, I never initiate conflict. However, I don't cower in the face of it either. I can hold my own in any situation.
Disability
I am disabled. With that information out in the open, let's clarify something at the beginning: being disabled does not mean being unable. I have abilities and skills. I would like to believe that writing is one of them. That remains to be seen. I will claim making music as a skill I possess, but only because I've made enough money over the years to be comfortable making such an assertion. Has it ever been enough to live on? No. Not even close.
I've done a lot of hard physical labor in my lifetime. I'd rather not go into detail about these professions, because frankly, the duties are boring as hell (I touched on that subject in part one). I'll just state that I did (in the past) have an ability to break my back in order to obtain adequate shelter and food for myself and my family. I no longer have it in me. After being diagnosed with cancer for the second time in my life, I'm quite physically broken. I don't have the endurance to be on my feet for eight hours, much less lift heavy objects, bend and twist repeatedly, or even crouch, reach, climb, push, pull...you get the picture. I'm as active as I can handle being, even more sometimes. My abilities, in their current state, don’t come close to making me employable as a laborer.
I'm sure some, if not all readers may be thinking, "Well, you can write. I'm sure you can find less physically strenuous work in an office or something." That's fair, I guess. The reality is that I have worked in an office setting before and was reasonably proficient at it. I'm not going to claim that I've ever found any type of work enjoyable or even close to being worth the time and life experiences I've exchanged for it, but I've certainly done a lot of shitty tasks for minimal money, in order to enrich and advance the careers of more privileged people than myself.
That brilliant office idea you may have in your mind is no more realistic than doing heavy lifting for me. I'll explain.
I've mentioned my interactions on X (Twitter). When I connect with others in discussions about iatrogenic pharmaceutical harm, it's because I live with tardive dyskinesia and mild akathisia. I also have symptoms of PSSD. Worst of all, I have clearly lost a fair amount of executive function. I will be asking for an evaluation of the damage when I meet with a new doctor on Thursday of this week.
Neuroleptic medications (anti-psychotics) have been shown to cause cortical thickness deterioration in the brain. I have deficits in cognition. My creativity seems to be unaffected, along with my ability to rationalize and think critically. I can read and comprehend written information as well as I've always been able to. That's the good news.
The following are life/occupational skills that have been deeply damaged by the poisons I was prescribed (considering my symptoms, these were acts of gross malpractice):
-The ability to make quick decisions in fast-paced situations: Although it is already illegal for me to drive a car due to multiple arrests for drunk driving (I mentioned that I was a drunk previously in this post), I would be terrified to get behind the wheel of a car these days sober. Even if I was able to reach my destination, the chances of me getting confused and putting other motorists and pedestrians in danger would be very high. I'm not testing this theory. I will never drive again.
I am in recovery from alcohol addiction and have committed my life to staying sober. I am active in the recovery community.
-The ability to complete multi-step tasks: I do try to be helpful around the house. The upkeep of one's living quarters is not the same as wage slavery. Doing these tasks is beneficial to my own well-being.
Tyrannical employment situations give bosses the power to decide what level of well-being a person is entitled to, after trading the better part of existence for a stipend, which is also determined by the boss. Before I go off on that tangent, I'll stop myself and continue on the topic. My feelings about "the 9 to 5" are in alignment with Bukowski's.
Stand me in one spot and tell me that a basket of laundry needs to be folded, and I'll perform the task in a semi-timely manner, usually with reasonable proficiency.
Conversely, ask me to collect the trash and put the large cans by the street for collection the following morning, and I'm going to struggle. This involves many small steps, such as finding the cans in each room, scooping the litter boxes on two floors, gathering the training pads for puppies on two floors, and replacing the liners in all of the small trash cans. Two years ago, this was a 15-minute job for me. Now, it's about an hour and a half. I'd prefer this not to be a duty I am asked to perform, but I usually wind up doing it anyway. I cannot complete the job without great frustration, and there has been zero improvement with repetition.
-I have no short-term memory: None means none. I am often wandering aimlessly. It's sometimes frightening when I walk the city streets. There is no need for further elaboration.
-My attention span is extremely limited: I can focus on reading, but I have not been able to follow the plot of a movie in its entirety for many months. I usually forget what I'm doing while I'm doing it. I was diagnosed with ADHD before being harmed by the medication. It has gotten far worse.
I used to help people with disabilities complete applications for Social Security Disability, Social Services, and Unemployment Insurance as a profession. My last job title was "Mental Health Peer Advocate". I have needed assistance with all of these applications recently. Luckily, I have a wonderful recovery coach who has patiently worked with me to complete these applications. I could not have done it on my own. I tried and failed.
Could alcohol abuse have contributed to this condition? It's possible, but unlikely. So what if it did? It doesn't change the fact that I have a traumatic brain injury. I've also had several concussions, one resulting in a brain bleed. My brain is complete mush in many respects. I'm just glad I don't piss my pants regularly or need a bib to eat. A helmet is probably not a bad idea.
*Psychotropic medications are not completely safe. I wish the general public would wake up to this reality. In case anyone was thinking I was full of shit about the cortical thickness deterioration, I'll drop a link. Feel free to educate yourself. I spent two years on Olanzapine (the drug used in this study vs placebo).
I don't wallow in despair. Yes, I'm disabled and in a fight for financial stability, but I love my life. I have 3 beautiful, healthy adult children. My 7-month-old granddaughter has captured my heart. I have a decent relationship with my family, despite being a 50-year-old screw-up. I have a small circle of friends, but they are all high-quality people.
My involvement with the recovery and mental health communities have provided me a platform for activism and opened up new musical venues. To be writing music and performing live after a three-year absence is so amazing that my level of humility and gratitude cannot be overstated. I'm very fortunate to be alive. I'm doing things!
Writing this blog has been therapeutic. Before every post, I tell myself that I'm going to be more disciplined. The plan is always to start with an outline and write with structure. That hasn't happened yet. The posts are all just streams of consciousness. At least the Bukowski quote was planned for this one. Baby steps.
*I didn’t complete this series. Life changed dramatically just a few weeks after publishing this post (updated 1/5/2025)
It's impossible to meet new people without the conversation ultimately veering in the direction of occupation. While I would never use the words, "So, what do you do?", I understand that this is (usually) merely an attempt to get to know someone better and is just standard, boring banter. Discussing politics or religion is considered a taboo when being introduced to new people. It’s probably for the best. These topics should be open season, but will usually lead to undesirable consequences. Therefore, "what do you do?" has a more innocuous tone. I understand these dynamics, I just don't particularly care for them.
Admittedly, I'm not much of a group person at all. In some circles, the current version of "me" would be seen as feral, or at least undomesticated. I don't shy away from these opinions. My honesty can be brutal at times. If asked this inevitable question, I'll probably give an answer that is completely unexpected. I hate small talk, don't give a damn about my image, and frankly, I become bored easily.
This particular awkward social situation presents itself most often at gatherings. Regardless of the setting, people are usually brought together by a common friend or family member. For me, trying to find commonality with complete strangers can be an arduous task. Unlike many, I don't force conversations and I never find silence awkward. I have been accused of being standoffish in the past, but recently I have become quite fascinated by people, even complete strangers. It's just not interesting to me what sort of toil people engage in order to justify access to basic necessities like food and shelter. Do they really believe their job duties are interesting to someone they've just met? Is it nervousness?
Thinking the worst of strangers is a game I will no longer play without evidence. Still, I can't help but wonder sometimes why people talk about their job during leisure time. Sure, it's customary, but why? Am I the only person who cannot help but ask such questions internally? Maybe. I find myself being "the only" in most social situations.
I used to try to acclimate to a group. This behavior was detrimental to me in every instance of my past experience. Authenticity has improved my self-esteem, and has reduced the volume of anxious, intrusive inner monologues during social situations to a whisper (they were once a roar). So, if I'm considered "weird" by strangers or even people I know well, it doesn't bother me. I am weird. It's cool by me. I'm never intentionally offensive, but I don't put on faces either.
Vibes are something I’m sensitive to. I've found that the best method for handling toxic situations/people is making every attempt to remove myself from the negativity quickly. Sometimes, it’s not practical or even possible. When encountered with these unfortunate predicaments, I always stand my ground now (also an essential element of my healing process).
Sometimes the "WDYD" question is asked with insidious intent. It's more than small talk. The true motivation is to establish some imaginary social hierarchy. "Imaginary" being the operative word. That's when things get tricky. In these moments, I have certain demands of myself. Passivity has been a personality trait which has caused me great emotional and mental distress throughout my life. I've discontinued this practice in the interest of my own well-being. No, I do not initiate conflict, but when faced with it, I have become extremely assertive. I'm not the kind of person anyone should provoke and not expect a strong response. Respect is a two-way street.
My sensitivity to social norms is nothing new. For as long as I can remember, the feeling of not belonging has been a constant. When I reflect on the many times, I contorted my personality in attempts to fit in, it makes me nauseous. I have never once felt the freedom of total acceptance in a group setting. Well, maybe for a while back in college.
I was fortunate enough to connect with a tribe of outcasts at NCCC in Saranac Lake, NY. We didn't have much in common as individuals. What made us friends was that feeling of not belonging. Being a year older than most of my friends, I look back and see myself as the common denominator; the one who brought the weirdos together. That distinction isn't mine to officially claim though. My friends may view things differently, and that's just fine. It was never a competition. We were more about getting wasted, roasting each other, and laughing our asses off. There was an unspoken rule of “seriousness not allowed”.
Last week I was approached by a couple of young guys while playing street music (busking) on the Square in Watertown, NY. They offered me a hit from a dab pen, stating that they didn't have any money to give me. I had to decline, as taking that hit would have had dire legal ramifications. That's a different story altogether. The actions which led to my current legal situation are the reason behind my daily presence in Watertown during the week. That's an example of me turning a negative situation into a positive one. It’s what I do these days. Allowing myself to slip into pessimism would be unhealthy, so I make the most of any situation. I guess it’s training.
I describe this encounter for a specific reason. First, it was cool of those two young men to understand that street performers often get tipped. Let's face it, Watertown isn't anything like Battery Park in NYC. Second, one of them asked the question, "So, what do you do?" My answer was important. It was an admission, stated out loud, that I have never offered to a complete stranger before. Actually, I have never spoken to anyone with such unabashed honesty in reference to my current profession. So, of course, now I’m doing so on a public platform, because it sense to me.
My reply to the young man was this: "You're looking at it."
The Roots of My Passion
My short answer to the young man's question was an enormous oversimplification of my vocation as a whole. While street performance is an integral aspect of it, there are many more elements and layers to exactly what it is that I "do". Grandiosity doesn't mix well with my sensibilities. My philosophy is egalitarian. I don't brag, because I find bravado disgusting.
This is probably a big reason why I don't usually make fast friends with other musicians. Sure, I do make connections, but as with any other bond I forge with others, humility is a required trait in a friend. That's justohow I'm wired.
I have met plenty of musicians who view the art-form like a sport, or some other form of competition. To me, this is vile and disrespectful to the medium as a whole. Musician talk can involve a lot of dick waving. This is why I find the marketing aspects of music tedious and uncomfortable. I can only see and hear music as an art-form. It’s subjective. My preferences are not going to be the same as anyone else's. Who am I to claim that my music is "good"? Self-promotion is an unfortunate reality for independent artists. I accept this. I don't have to like it.
*I will offer a tip to those who made the questionable choice of reading my blog (thank you, by the way): music, writing, art, jewelry making, sculpture, poetry, etc. are not HOBBIES. They are not "side-hustles" either. When creative people work regular jobs, it's a survival thing. Please, do not ever refer to artists as hobbyists. It's disrespectful, especially coming from a person who is not creative. Not only is it disrespectful, it's ignorant. Every one of us longs to (insert creative medium here) do this full-time. Survival jobs are a detriment to creativity, without exception. Collecting figurines is a hobby. Creating original art is a vocation and a passion. Don't confuse the two.
Self-aggrandizement is a game I refuse to play, but I would like to offer a snapshot into what goes in to what I do, the estimated time it takes, and how I became who and what I am. It's strictly anecdotal. My mindset is one of continous evolution. I will never be satisfied with myself as a creator, or as a human. My only competition is yesterday’s version of me.
Inspiration comes in many forms. Everyone has influences. I’m no exception. That list expands with time and I'm pretty old. I'm still adding to it. When I hear other musicians talk about influences, they usually reference celebrities. I'd be lying if I said that I didn’t admire, and even attempt to emulate famous musical creators. It's actually what sparked my interest when I was young. My father had an expansive vinyl collection. This love for music didn't spawn from anywhere foreign.
My father is an incredible vocalist. He introduced me to artists like Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, The Beatles, Janis Joplin, and many more of the greats. As wonderful as those mentioned are, my real desire to be a musician came from Dad taking me to his band rehearsals.
I was just a young child. Listening to their band was like something out of a dream. To this day, my biggest musical influence is probably still him.
Early on, while watching my father and his band rehearse, my young mind began to fantasize about being of part of this glorious thing; something I couldn't completely understand.
It was loud! The parents of today would find exposing a young boy to that decibel level irresponsible, maybe even a self-justification for becoming a CPS rat. That’s unfortunate. These experiences shaped me. Without them, I wouldn't have found my passion...well, at the very least, it would have been less probable.
Loud music can be a full body experience. If you've never felt that deep bass punch you in the chest, you really haven't experienced music properly. Technology has worked against the quality of modern music (opinion). My gripes about it are too many to list. As I type, my Bluetooth headphones are draped around my neck. I enjoy them, but they aren't nearly loud enough.
I was born in 1973 with music in my blood. In addition to Dad, my grandfather, Gorham Allen, on my mother's side, was an accomplished big band and jazz trumpet player. About a decade ago, my father played me a very old (1930s-40s?) vinyl record of my grandfather's jazz band. Grandpa had chops! I won't claim to be any sort of jazz expert, but I can hear talent and ability ring through in anything.
My grandfather was obviously formally trained. He was an only child in well-to-do, small-town family who owned and operated a successful sand and gravel business. He was the gentlest man I have ever known. As a human, his example inspires me most.
Like my father, my musical skills are self-taught. Yeah, Dad showed me a few “cowboy chords” on his guitar when was about 12 years old. I'll offer no credit to anyone, other than that, for teaching me how to play music. It was all self-directed.
I learned to play guitar by ear, trying to emulate my favorite songs while blasting my cassette tapes in my room. I later learned to read tablature (sort of). School activities like Band and Chorus never appealed to me. I developed my singing voice the same way, by belting it out (badly) to my cassettes. I was shy about my singing voice because my father was/is extremely intimidating and critical, not just about music.
A few inborn traits are required for my method of learning: a natural sense of rhythm and timing, near-perfect pitch, and most importantly: the willingness to suck out loud.
So, I guess I'd say my musical acumen is a combination of nature and nurture, perfectly complimented by a propensity to be unapologetically annoying to all within earshot. I'm still annoying people.
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.
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 (myself included) post and comment under pseudonyms. I suggest you do the same. There are some strange "hidden rules". My Reddit participation provided 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 subpar efforts. 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, but it 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, taken 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.
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 reluctantly 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 rehab with no mental health diagnostics. 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 goodnews 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 our snacks. Most of us gained a significant amount of weight in rehab. 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 for me 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 about this subject, walked out newly diagnosed "bipolar", and carrying a script for Seroquel. It was a running joke among us.
I acclimated 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 of portraying a medicinal guinea pig. Clinical trials are voluntary, and the participants are compensated. I paid to be experimented on. What 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. 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. The perpetrators are many. I did the so-called work for them. My over-sharing does not excuse 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 would never come to fruition for me.
I am well versed on the subject of negative side effects now, even the "rare" life-threatening ones. I was 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 interwoven. Mine is such a case. I do claim to be misdiagnosed with bipolar disorder., but I'll never state that I'm not mentally troubled in other ways. It 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) on the subject of fucking up. My life during that time could also serve as the subject for 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. This post is about prescribed harm though.
That was a tangent. I left it in for laughs. If you can't find some humor, even in the most awful of circumstances, life is going to suck for you. Ultimately, the point I'm trying to make about my self-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. It 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 I 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 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 during a blackout. 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 that 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 that 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 was chaos and in total disarray. Unfortunately, my spiral didn't stop on 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 that 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 began 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, but 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.
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 exploring a 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 that "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.
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 via a public statement.
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 my promise to her. 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 through the lens of the justice system, I can understand why my credibility could be questioned. I'm not agreeing with the conclusion, but my 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 most 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 is “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 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.
*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 has 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.
