I Was Drugged Because I Am Human.
Until I found the right person that helped me--help myself.
The prescription bottle was hard and cold in the palm of my hand—much like the look of the therapist I had been seeing, when she told me point blank “Think of this like diabetics with insulin, you will have to take these for the rest of your life.”
Bullshit.
I read the bottle through blurry eyes, a love affair with death, a mouth as dry as Death Valley, and a brain so sick from poison that was prescribed to make me “better” that it felt like ice had replaced my brain and was slowly melting and dripping out of the corners of my mouth like drool.
My hands shook as I popped the white lid off the bottle, and shook one into my hand.
Seroquel.
Ah, yes Seroquel, an anti psychotic prescribed to me because I was just too fucking sad because I was sexually abused as a child by adults that should have loved and protected me.
On to the next one.
The bottles were all lined up like prison guards—reinforcing my sentence—that there was something wrong with me.
“Hello Celexa, how are you today?”
I popped that lid and swallowed them dry.
Next Guard.
“Sir Xanax, how's it going?”
Swallowed with a promise of caring about nothing—including myself.
“Trazadone, oh no pal, you're for night time, go to the back of the line.”
“Buspar, what's up old buddy, old pal?”
I opened my desert dry mouth and dumped a couple in directly from the bottle, tasting the bitterness of my entire existence slide down my throat, and fill me up, the childhood of abuse jumping around in my belly, seeping into my insides until I could taste the reprehension resting on my tongue like something heavy.
I could hear the ice sloshing around in my head, like how it sounds in a blue Igloo cooler after a day at the lake—and half has melted after losing the battle to the sun, but promising to keep that glass bottle of beer just cold enough, that you could swallow it without tasting the heat.
I tripped over my own feet as I walked out of the office into the milk house—and landed face first on the concrete, and instantly tasted warm blood that reminded me I was alive—that slow danced with the bitterness of all the pills I just swallowed.
Fuck me.
Helplessness covered me in a heavy blanket. I could not see. I could not feel. My breath was running away so fast, I sure as hell couldn't catch it.
As I laid on that concrete floor, with blood spelling words from my nose and mouth, and Ice in my head—that was half melted, dripping out of the corners of my mouth like drool, silver tanks full of milk gleaming like stars I forgot existed—I realized it was time for a change. Death was knocking on my door looking for a kiss to seal the deal.
I knew you couldn't just quit taking all those psychiatric medications cold turkey. I had been on an assortment of them for seven years, they were handed out like you change your clothes—flawlessly and in different colors—much like the section of nail polish at Target—blue-check—yellow-check—red-oh, yes—the list goes on. I am surprised they don't give you a pez dispenser to take them in, because that is how they treat you—like a small child. Be a good child, take your pills—because there is something wrong with you. When you pick up your Seroquel prescription—the pharmacist asks “Would you like a Scooby Doo dispenser or a Shaggy dispenser?
Oh wait.
They would dictate that too—because you're not a human with normal feelings— that had bad shit happen to you.
No.
IT'S YOU.
THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU.
Holy fuck. I can't believe how angry this makes me, so many years later.
But. But. That's GOOD! Feelings are good!
So. Anyway. Enough rambling. I knew I couldn't just quit the medications, and somehow through all of that fucking ice in my head I remembered I knew of someone that maybe could help me.
I met them at that diner that was written amongst cornfields, and kissed by the shores of the lake—all those years ago.
I pulled out a thick, dusty yellow phone book (that was still a thing then) scrolled through with my finger until I found their name, and tapped on it with my right index finger as I nervously punched in the numbers.
An answering machine.
I left my name and number, and why I was calling—through breath that escaped me—and hung the phone up like a promise—if only to myself.
The clock didn't change much when they called me back, and though this was fifteen years ago or so—I sort of remember, it went something like—
I told them my name—”Don't know if you remember me from the diner?”
“Oh, yes, I remember you of course. What drugs are you taking?”
“Seroquel, Celexa, Xanax, Buspar and Trazadone.”
“You want to stop them?”
“YES. Definitely.”
“Ok, let's make an appointment.”
“OK, yes. Please.”
This is the prelude to the story of working with my therapist—that continues to this day.
My therapist is so fucking awesome. It is hard to find accurate words that make up the colors that paint the being and soul that they are.
Hi Therapist! Yes! That is all true!
My therapist helped me taper off all those drugs successfully, and I haven't taken any in well over fourteen years.
There is nothing really wrong with me. I had and have NORMAL human reactions to things that were done to me, including PTSD hallucinations. A lot of them are a replay of the abuse that was inflicted upon me as a child, and my therapist would be pleased with me for asserting this because I still lose track of this at times.
Until I started working with my therapist, I never really had anyone find, I don't know—maybe it's value? Value in me. I haven't always been easy to work with, I have faults, I am crazy sometimes, and for awhile—it was a lot of the time—nowadays, it's not so often—it's more like some distant memory of someone I used to be—that looks back in the mirror—and it's been so long since I've seen her face—I almost forgot she was there.
My therapist has stood by me through all of this, and a lot more. They are the reason I started writing—it was their suggestion. They are truly my lighthouse in the darkness of life, pointing out the stars that whisper promises of light into the ear of the sky—shining a path through water that is so deep—I sometimes fear I will drown, and in the times I do go under that icy water—as long as I look up—I can see their light—I can feel it—I can find my way back, and I am beyond grateful.
So, Dear Therapist—when you read this—know you are such a bright light, not only to me, but to many—and through all the darkness in this world—the light you shine, will always lead the way.
It's so good to know you have a trusted therapist who's truly listening and supporting you. They're a gem within the system!
I was once dismissed from therapy because they concluded my birth trauma is so severe they didn't know what to do with me. Great tactic, just abandon the patient... I was foolish enough - or more precise, desperate enough - to quit my meds cold turkey. The next few weeks were hell, but in all honesty, I'd do it all over again. I refuse to be drugged for being human and having a normal response to harm someone else inflicted on me.
I am so glad the therapist helped you so much, became such a light. And now….you are a light to others. How light spreads, my friend xx🔥❤️😘