Tuesday, October 20, 2020

Comments by Janebeth

Showing 5 of 5 comments.

  • Agree. Psychiatry is not medicine and not geared towards any kind of health. There is no “science” to it, and the entire industry is based on fraudulent and theoretical nonsense. What psychiatrists do is criminal — they are perpetrators of abuse and should be called to justice and required to pay for the harm they do. I understand there are hurting people who do need help for mental distress and emotional pain, but psychiatry has foisted a huge, false narrative (hmmm, could that be called “gaslighting” — I smell gas) on Western civilization in particular, and they are not helping the vulnerable, suffering people who go to them. People need to be heard; the pain comes from somewhere, not from chemical imbalances and because of “anger patterns stored in your amygdala.” Sheesh, how reductionistic can you get? My synapses = me. My chemicals = my mind. My thinking = biologically determined. It is insulting, not to mention absurd. I cried when I read the last sentence of the above article by Ms. Antonetta, where I heard of Dorothea Buck, who just died in 2019, at age 101. I would like to have met her, because I have recently become despondent as to “Why did I have to suffer so much and for so long? I was going to “treatment” like a good, compliant victim of domestic violence and other crimes that left me unable to function; and, so, I sought “help” where people said to go to “get the help you need” and got swept into the “mental health” (a non-sequitur, for sure) system, and have per force lived a marginalized, unhappy life in the care of psychiatrists and psychotherapists who were at best inadequate and at worst narcissistic abusers, themselves. If she could live that long and continue to be an activist against injustice, then maybe there is a purpose and a reason for my having survived to age 65, because it has not been fun. No one promised me a rose garden, but, wow, no one told me anything about the thorns, either. I have been wanting to die while looking back on the waste of my life, which I had not intended to waste. I mean, I sought help, didn’t I? At one time, I had known a “me” that was “the real me” — who was a lover of life, had high hopes for overcoming obstacles, was physically active and even quite humorous. Sit that in a psychiatrist’s office for 40 years, and it will all be gone. They are sadists. I call the state of being that psychiatric treatment put me in for several decades, in the name of helping me to — what? — feel better? be safe?? understand what happened to make me so unemployable and socially frightened??? Duh, NO. I digress. Anyway, I call it: Drugged Up-Dumbed Down-and-Numbed Out. Haha, isn’t that psychiatry in a nutshell? (See, I told you I was funny!! In a bleak way . . . .) Thank you for listening. I finally began to remember who I was, just in the last few years, when I found a friend who simply listened to me while I told my story. She wasn’t assessing me through the psychiatric paradigm (medical school training, lenses, framework, whatever you want to call it; mishegas comes to mind) of “you are simply not aware of how sick you are; you lack insight into your illness and will need continual treatment and to stay on drugs for the rest of your life.” (That is what I was told — how very hopeful that was to hear — NOT.) No. She just listened, just listened and believed me, trusted that the human being sitting in front of her was presenting a truthful depiction of her own experience of suffering. Yep. That has been very healing, and I am starting to recover from a lifetime of emotional abuse, which is what caused my functional disability, and, yes, depression. I admit to depression (who wouldn’t be depressed if they went through what I went through?? But the shrinks don’t want to take that into consideration — your “story.” They want to blame YOU — I smell scapegoating and gas, again). My emotional and significant life troubles were never due to a freaking “chemical imbalance” or any of the bogus, DSM-depicted diagnoses. If only someone would have listened. Sooner. Oh, well.

  • Dear Rosalee, Many thanks for your kind thoughts. I have at least found help for today by blogging out my feelings as comments here. I just finished a lengthy post while you were sending your reply. I really appreciate what you said. God bless you, too, and all the best. Janebeth

  • Thank you, kindredspirit. Appreciate your reaching out. Unfortunately, I’m not at a point where I can say I am a fellow survivor; because, basically, I feel like I was destroyed. I did not survive. I am still here, but I might as well have been dead for all those years, and the injustice of it is more than I can handle. I am one of those “Highly Sensitive” folks, and the cruelty of the double damage and all the loss is more than I can bear. How much is one person supposed to take? PTSD on top of PTSD (but diagnosed as Major Depression evolving into Bi Polar Type II, going to Borderline Personality Disorder and — you get the idea). The cruelty of a traumatic childhood that I was seeking help and recovery for; cruelty from the fact that the agencies I went to for help were incompetent; cruelty from the drugs that are neurotoxic poisons and harmed my brain and led to high blood sugar, hypertension, high triglycerides and a gain of almost 50 pounds. Nobody cares. They tell me it’s genetics and age. Yeah, well, sure, my mother had bad lab numbers, too; so, they say “genetics,” but GUESS WHAT? My poor, dear, abusive mother (who I have forgiven because I can understand her pain and suffering) was the first generation who got drugged for their entire lives. So, all you very smart genetic scientists — it was poisoning, not genetics. She sought help for depression and got, I guess, tricyclics and Valium — the old stuff. But for forever, of course. In her 80’s they treated her with ECT at Shepard-Pratt. She hurt me, but I loved her anyway. She was my mother, and they should all be lined up against a wall and shot. I know I should not post that on a public page; but, due to my “mental health” records, my Second Amendment rights are gone, and I will never be allowed to bear arms, which sucks. I used to be slim, trim and athletic, and the quick and scary weight gain was extremely humiliating and caused me great sadness. I told the shrink (1990-1999) that I had got fat and was upset (on Zyprexa, a drug which should be banned not only as a neurotoxin but also for its destruction of the endocrine system). His response, “Welcome to the club.” Now, am I oversensitive, or was that not cruel? The shrink I went to from 2000 to 2018 (he retired exactly one years ago, so, hurray!! it’s my anniversary of good riddance of him!!), asked every session about my attempts to lose weight. (It started to really anger me and get on my nerves because I’m sick, don’t you know, my emotions are all WRONG). Although he so kindly asked (slight sarcasm, here), I never lost weight because I was pumped full of drugs that were antagonistic to that endeavor. When I quit taking antipsychotics, I immediately lost weight without even trying. He was playing expert psychopharmacologist — dumping my mood down with one drug so he could bump it up with another and add Gabapentin over top of everything for what reason I could never determine. Maybe to please the drug reps by handing out boatloads of prescriptions? At present and due to my own efforts entirely, I am only on one SNRI. It will take significant effort to discontinue. I learned the hard way about the dangers of going cold turkey and spiraled down into a suicidal sewer lagoon, so I had to reinstate the “medicine.” Another cruel joke — that withdrawal symptoms are worse than your supposed “illness” ever was. I never, ever raised a hand against myself in all those years; constantly sought ways to bring enrichment, life, into my stalled-out existence. But the eye-opening, astonishing and dismaying facts that I only became aware of recently, weigh too heavily and may cause me to simply quit trying. Sincerely, Janebeth

  • Hi, Jane, Thank you for telling your story. I identify IN. I was taken hostage by the “Mental Health System.” I had no job, no home, no money and no support or help coming from any direction when I returned to my home town after years trying to “launch.” I was reaping the “rewards” of having been raised by TWO narcissistic people (there is usually ONE available for SOME protection; I had NONE), having run from their dire predictions of my “need for psychiatric care including hospitalization” until I was 31. Then I caved and fulfilled their wishes to become a chronically mentally ill and permanently disabled ward of the State. I kid you not. My mother joined the despicable NAMI, and I was shunned. Getting a “Diagnosis” was the end of life as I knew it. Being drugged destroyed my ability to advocate, to think, for myself, to be myself. I became docile, submissive, compliant, very unhappy and depressed, unable to do anything fun or creative; reading was curtailed because I would read the same paragraph over and over and still not comprehend it. I lost decades of my life just doing what I call DRIFTING, going to psychiatrists, one after another and getting help from none — most are narcissists, too, so it was like going home for me — they didn’t understand the pain and suffering I had endured and just cooked up “Diagnoses” that labeled me and showed I was “sick.” I was drugged further and forced into DENIAL of my sense of what had happened to me — for their convenience. I attended psychotherapy sessions for years on end (useless idiots for the most part, too; I am sorry, maybe I just got a string of bad ones as I could only go to those who took Medicare). SO, here I am, my 64th birthday coming this month, and last night I looked at my most favorite kitty’s old collar (he’s been gone since 2004), and I just want to go see him. I am ready to die; I don’t have the resilience I used to have where I wanted to “get better” and reclaim my life with some hope for the future. There used to be a future, but it’s gone; I don’t have years left anymore; I got old in the system; my life was ruined and wasted. It has been too long and exhausting. With psychiatric treatment, they don’t mention it, but you NEVER get time off, or a vacation; you are always under PRESSURE. Who wants to live like that? I don’t, but I DID. They stole my hopes and dreams, my life. I’m done. Help from resources like Mad in America, Cymbalta Hurts Worse, and Narcissistic and Emotional Abuse of Children has come too little, too late. Yours truly, Janebeth Shulman, Bethesda, Maryland