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.