PITY PARTY WITH NO GUESTS

https://www.gofundme.com/help-produce-antipsychiatry-music

About me:
My name is Danny. I created End Psychiatry. I’m also a musician. I play guitar, write, sing, scream, and rap. If you want your voice heard, please donate so I can scream it from the mountain tops.

Funds will only be used for:
20k recording
20k producing
10k marketing

If you’re not familiar with psychiatry, here is my story very briefly; I was forced brain altering chemicals that take away the ability to self regulate dopamine, and inhibit the ability to experience life, happiness and dignity. I was not suicidal, I was not guilty of a crime. (Message me at End Psychiatry if you have a question). Welcome to dystopia.

FORTY DRUG NIGHTMARE

Doctors put me on 40 different meds for bipolar and depression
« on: June 02, 2016, 05:30:28 am »

[Buddie]

Source: https://medium.com/invisible-illness/doctors-put-me-on-40-different-meds-for-bipolar-and-depression-it-almost-killed-me-c5e4fbea2816#.7kfi3px5m

Tears were flooding down my face. Textbooks, highlighters, and my laptop were strewn across the bed, along with my crumpled body. I sobbed into my pillow, in hopes that it would all go away. Deep, low depressive swings had once again returned to my life. Despite my outward appearance as a highly motivated 21-year-old college student, my energy was sapped. It was getting harder to concentrate, harder to get out of bed, harder to get through the day without weeping.

My psychiatrist had been changing my medication in hopes of finding an anti-depressant combination that would help me to feel like my passionate self again. It wasn’t working. That night I called my friends and family crying. I needed to vent and release some of my pent-up sorrow. I needed to connect with people who would understand. I needed loved ones to help me hold a bit of the gut-wrenching, depressive pain that flowed through every inch of my body. After I hung up, I felt a bit better. I set my alarm for an early morning wake-up to get in some studying before finals the next day. I hazily drifted off to sleep, salty tears drying on my cheek.

A couple of hours later, my heart erupted with panic as two armed police officers burst into my tiny dorm room. I was half-naked, shaking my head in terror as one cop ripped open drawer after drawer, barking “Where are your pills?” Another police officer got in my face and demanded an answer to the question, “Are you going to kill yourself?”

One of the police officers shoved a phone in my ear. On the other end was a psychiatrist I’d never spoken with before. With terror in my voice, I told him I wasn’t going to kill myself, that I was just letting off some steam. I pleaded and begged with him to tell the officers to leave — not to handcuff me and take me to the psychiatric ward that night.

I was lucky. Something I said convinced the doctor I didn’t need to be placed on a mandatory involuntary hold in a mental hospital. But if the color of my skin wasn’t white, or if I wasn’t cisgender, or at an affluent college, I may not have been so lucky. People of color face disproportionate risk of violence in police encounters — and police are the first responders in mental health crises.

I didn’t make it to my finals the next day. I had stayed up most of the night, trembling with fear, so when the sun finally rose, I took a long, warm shower. Sitting on the bathroom floor, back pressed against the wall, fingers shaking, I dialed the number of my psychiatrist. I wasn’t sobbing this time. My tone was distant and my gaze was glassy and vacant. She convinced me to check myself into the psychiatric ward. In a haze, I slowly packed items into a bag and a man I’d never met before dropped me off for my first psychiatric ward visit.

Within an hour of checking into the hospital, I knew I needed to leave. The air was thick with pain. People wandered the fluorescent lit halls. Like mine, their eyes were vacuous. When someone erupted in an expression of intense emotion, doctors swiftly followed the outburst with sedatives. There was no wellness here. After several hours, I packed my bag, walked up to the front desk and told the secretary:

“I’d like to check out.”

“You can’t leave.”

“… I came here voluntarily.”

If you walk through those doors, we’ll place a mandatory involuntary hold on you and put you in there,” she motioned toward the ward next to mine, where I would’ve been taken last night.

My breath grew heavier and my eyes darted back and forth. I was trapped. Still reeling from the previous evening, my heart was beating out of my chest. I slowly curled in a fetal position on the hospital floor. I was having a panic attack. Two doctors in white coats and clipboards hovered over me. After a few minutes, they medicated me and I drifted into sleep.

I had never been suicidal before being locked in a mental hospital.

Much of my stay there was a blur of medications. I laid on my back in a cold bed for days, for the first time wanting to die. I shuffled off to group therapy in my gray hospital socks, listened to the screams of my neighbors, peered into the ward next door, and obliged when student doctors and clergy came into my room and asked if I wanted to pray or take long surveys about my mental health. I took the surveys but declined the prayers.

Sometime during my stay doctors etched the diagnosis “Bipolar Disorder” onto my chart. My brow furrowed with confusion. I had managed intense OCD and anxiety since I was in elementary school, and yes, over the last several years, I had waves of depression, but otherwise I was high-functioning: I took the maximum course load, got straight A’s, worked multiple jobs, led several campus organizations, and performed in numerous plays simultaneously. I thrived off the adrenaline of being busy. I crackled with ideas and buzzed with creativity. My energy and passion were my greatest assets, how could that be an illness?

The diagnosis was the first time I really tried to understand myself in the context of pathology. Someone who barely knew me combed through my traits and behaviors and labeled it as a disease. Bipolar Disorder. Grappling with this new way of understanding my identity, I felt my brain begin to slow with each fistful of pills I dutifully swallowed. I wasn’t on merely a drug or two — I was on four or five and counting. Antipsychotics, mood stabilizers, antidepressants, sleep drugs, anxiety pills, each addressing a side effect brought on by the last one. My energy, passion, and strong-will began to fade away as apathy and lethargy settled in. I said “yes” more. I didn’t really care what happened.

The psychiatric ward released me to a halfway house for people with mental health challenges. The doctors at the house sat my worried parents down and told them that I was ill. That my academic and personal accomplishments were not something to be proud of: They were a product of my bipolar mania. The doctors’ answer? An expensive combination of pills that would help me be happy, stable, and “normal.”

After awhile I somehow managed to get back into the swing of school. On the surface it appeared like I was thriving, but people close to me knew I was very unwell. My health declined rapidly. The medications made it almost impossible to wake up for class in the morning. My father, recently laid off from his job at a car dealership after being diagnosed with cancer, drove 45 minutes to my school everyday to wake me up and drive me across campus to class.

My once sharp memory dissipated. I used to be an actress, performing in multiple shows at a time, easily remembering every single line. Creativity was a core part of my identity and wellness. Now I would read one line over and over again, unable to retain a word. I did my last performance with a script in hand. Each time I left the stage, I vomited profusely before coming back on again — another side effect of the medications. Eventually, I stopped performing altogether.

Over time, I developed dependence on the anti-anxiety drug ativan, which I was prescribed to take every day, multiple times a day. On top of my other medications, my doctor prescribed me 20mg adderall to help get me up the morning, followed by 2mg ativan to reduce the teeth-chattering anxiety brought on by the morning’s strong upper. Then I would take another adderall mid-day to bring me up, followed by another dose of ativan. When panic attacks hit — which they frequently did — I would take multiple ativan at a time. Once, I collapsed on the floor of a campus building. A woman working at the front desk found me passed out cold on the floor and called my partner to pick me up.

“I’m just really tired,” I told her.

I gained 125 pounds and was diagnosed with sleep apnea. I started taking a daily hormone to treat a thyroid disorder, which I developed from my mood stabilizer lithium. (The damage from lithium was permanent, I still need to use the thyroid hormone to this day.) I started experiencing severe, incapacitating migraines where I would need to lay in complete darkness for days at a time, vomiting relentlessly, occasionally making a trip to the ER. Migraine preventatives and painkillers were just another addition to my daily fistful of medications.

I barely survived those two years, but still somehow managed to graduate with two degrees, honors, and a Fulbright Scholarship. I even received several academic awards that came with monetary prizes. But my money was gone in the next several months, every cent going to out-of-pocket medication expenses. Lithium alone was $300 a month.

My family didn’t have a lot of money, but we made ends meet. I was better off than most. When I didn’t have an income or home, I stayed with my supportive parents in a safe place. Unfortunately, many marginalized people with mental health challenges don’t have access to this kind of luxury; for many, comprehensive mental health treatment is prohibitively expensive. My family went into debt to pay for medications and treatment because my doctors told me I was sick and needed them. We complied without question.

I never went on my Fulbright scholarship. As my medication count climbed, I slowed to a halt. I stopped being able to drive. Despite my costly treatments, panic and depression still overwhelmed me. I was unable to function. I didn’t feel anything anymore.

Over a five-year period, I was on more than 40 medications. The side effects brought me to the edge of my physical and emotional limits. My body broke out in hives and red bumps. One medication made it difficult to take deep breaths for several weeks. I was either up all night wired in panic or sleeping for 12+ hours. I ate everything I could find or I didn’t eat for days, the thought of food making me feel sick. I was horny all the time and then I didn’t want to be touched.

I couldn’t leave my room. All of my memories became jumbled and I couldn’t tell if I had made a situation up or if it had actually happened. I didn’t recognize myself anymore, physically or mentally. I couldn’t see any way out of this deep pain and numbness. I would lie on my side and stare at the dozen pill bottles on my counter and the boxes of partially used medications that I had been prescribed then taken off of. I laid awake thinking about how easy it would be to swallow every pill in the bottles and drift off into a state where I wouldn’t feel unrelenting emptiness and agony.

Soon my psychiatrist had a new diagnosis for me: Treatment Resistant Depressive. Because I had taken every psychiatric drug on the market in different combinations and still felt depressed, there was no cure for me and we had to take a more drastic measure: Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation, a cousin of electroshock therapy. My old self would have resisted. My over-medicated self was much more passive and docile. I didn’t put up a fight, I didn’t care. I felt dead already. And I would have gone through with the procedure if my insurance hadn’t denied me the service because it was too expensive.

A small voice inside of me thought: “I need to get off these medications.”

I devoted the next three years to the challenging, painstaking process of coming off my 10+ drug cocktail. I left my psychiatrist for a new one, a person I told, “I just want to get off of my meds to establish a baseline.” She reluctantly agreed. She didn’t have the vision or understanding of my mission, and I quickly found that my own research outpaced what she knew about the drugs.

Medication is a tool: Some people’s lives are saved by the right combination. Other people respond better to wellness options outside of the mainstream. Cannabis helped ease my depression, anxiety, pain, mood swings, and sleep challenges. Not only alleviating some of my mental and physical pain, cannabis centered me in gratitude and gave me some much-needed motivation and energy. I could now do short errands, drive around the block, even get to my own doctor appointments on public transportation — huge accomplishments for me. It was also the first time I was in control of my own dosing.

Tapering did not come without challenges, however. A whole new batch of withdrawal symptoms entered my life: My entire body itched, and I would scratch until I bled; I frequently woke up convulsing, my body drenched in a cold sweat; my moods were unpredictable; my anxiety, overwhelming. I menstruated everyday for months at a time. And yet, with each medication I eliminated, I became more myself again. I went to a sliding-scale community acupuncture clinic which relieved me of some of the physical and emotional pain of withdrawal. Weight started coming off. I no longer had sleep apnea. My migraines persisted but with less intensity.

As I began to read about alternative mental health frameworks, I realized that I am not sick with mental illness — I live in a sick society and have “dangerous gifts”: They need to be handled with care, but they are also my sources of passion, connectivity, creativity, and drive.

Now I identify as “neurodivergent”, a framework through which I transform what I have been taught are my weaknesses, diseases, and shameful secrets into my strengths.

Neurodivergence also recognizes that mental health challenges are deeply tied to societal oppression along lines including race, class, gender identity, and physical disability. Discriminatory barriers often make it even more difficult to access treatment. It’s hard to achieve wellness within a system that profits from our illness. But when our dangerous gifts receive the meaningful support they need, we can transform society. Our greatest challenges become our wellsprings of power.

I am not an anomaly. I am one of many people who barely survived the mental health system. Lots of folks with dangerous gifts are sitting in prison and psychiatric wards right now instead of receiving the support they need. It’s quite likely that you or someone you know has been deeply impacted by mental health challenges — even if that person hasn’t opened up about them. While each of our stories is unique, many of our experiences echo one another’s, reminding us that we are not alone.

PSYCH WARD

Now I had a nightmare from hell
« on: October 05, 2016, 05:49:52 am »

[Buddie]

I went to my social workers appointment today after this 3 week struggle of horrid side effects from Valium to the point I have been bedridden most of those days, and she suggested that I should be admitted in their small phych ward. I really did not want to but agreed. And they allowed me to go home and get my cats taken care of and get some personal belongings. And I came back with my clothes and personal hygene stuff. They first took me to the ER in the loony room. They said they were told I was suicidal, at my social worker made it clear I was not. Imagine that.  and did blood work and told me I had to put on this urine colored outfit while being taken up there. I absolutely refused. Told them that if they insist I put those on, then I will just refuse to be admitted. They agreed finally but had to put on this blue outfit. Then had to be put in a wheelchair and escorted by the VA police, of all things. God, talk about degrading.

Then when I got up there, they took away all my belongings from me and would not even let me have my cell phone to pay a bill and even would not give me a medical cylinder in order to take care of my colostomy. And everything was plastic or cardboard in the whole place. Plastic chairs and cardboard trash cans. Such a depressing place with patients that were like totally not like me. Like the movie, One flew over the cuckoos nest. After about a couple of hours I could not take it anymore and demanded that I want to go home. I volunteered to come up here and this is not helping me and I want to leave. They called the doctor. He finally came after about an hour and asked me if I wanted to hurt myself. I told him I never did to begin with, I thought, Idiot, once again.  

Then the nurse came to me with a paper stating that I could leave but the paper said that I was leaving against medical advice. I was pissed and wrote my input on that same note stating that I volunteered to come up here so It should not say this and I said I was more medically healthy to be at home and that being there was a very unhealthy place for me to be in. (I really wanted to say you all are a bunch of fricken jerks that can stick that paper where the sun does not shine, with sandpaper wraped around it). I think you get my point.

I’m home now. And its so late, almost 11:30pm but I just wanted to get this written out to all of youcause I think just writing it makes me feel better. I see my doctor tomorrow at 3:30pm and I am going to tell him just to reinstate me back to Klonopin until by body adjusts and I feel mentally and physically ready to start my taper. Period. I don’t want to deal with any other B.S. So that was how my day went today. Fun Fun but really  

Heather

REAL-LIFE PSYCH WARD STORIES

She once had someone describe in detail to her how he had sex with a fly.

My mom used to do shifts in the psych ward at the hospital. She once had someone describe in detail to her how he had sex with a fly. Another injected vinegar in their eye with a syringe to kill the alien that was living there.

Benzo Buddies advises suicidal member NOT to call 911

Calling 911
« on: July 18, 2016, 07:54:44 am »

[Buddie]

I cant do it anymore. Not sleeping for 3 months. Hardly any windows for me. Constant excruciating mental pain all day long. Im finished. 911 is being called. I cant function, i cant do anything right now. My body is burning, i cant sleep, and i have no desire for life feeling this way. Benzos have ruined my life and I’ll never be the same. I had hope last week w some windows popping up. Its not like im not trying. I exercise everyday walking 6-8 miles perr day. Im 44 years old and my life is over. All because i took a prescription and followed everyrhing i should have. Yes i had somexrescue doses but i really tried hard. I’m at as loss right now but i know il never ever recover or be the same happy Tim i used to be. Benzos ruined a great life and a good person. I now put my future in God’s hands.
« Last Edit: July 18, 2016, 08:15:55 am by [Buddie] »

Re: Calling 911
« Reply #7 on: July 18, 2016, 03:45:13 pm »

[Buddie]

911 will only give you more med, or put you in detox.

I also do not get windows. I know what your going through. Every dose I take, everything I do, I tell myself that no matter how I feel, I am healing. I take the med to keep the levels in my body consistent, not for relief. I exercise, because I know it helps the healing, and to get a break from being so focused on the shit storm.

Keep doing what your doing. If you have questions about your taper, go to those threads. There is much wisdom inhere.

And, WITHDRAW IS LIVING HELL, no matter what. The only way to do it, is to just do it.

A good option for you would be a cognitive therapist to give you support and teach you coping skills.

Withdrawal causes plantar fasciitis?

Plantar fasciitis
« on: June 30, 2016, 07:30:38 am »

[Buddie]

Ive always felt like it was kind of uncomfortable on my heel bones to walk on hard floors, but not so much that it was a problem. I ways felt like I had boney feet,and it was never like a sharp pain or radiating to the arch of my foot like they describe for plantar fasciitis. But now because of my muscle issues and nausea from withdrawal I spent over 2 months basically bedridden. Now when I walk on hard floors it hurts my heel bones more. If I press on that area it doesnt hurt at all, I’m wondering if I just am not used to walking on hard floors so they are more tender now? My heels have defintely got less callus on them now. It seems like with plantar fasciitis youd feel some pain in more than just the point where your heel bone hits the floor. Does anyone else have discomfort like this?

Re: Plantar fasciitis
« Reply #1 on: June 30, 2016, 03:17:28 pm »

[Buddie]

I went through plantar fascists in both feet. My foot doctor made a little support for me that helped (I think they’re available at pharmacies now), but it still took nearly a year for it to resolve entirely for the first foot. I didn’t want to go through that with the 2nd foot, and got a cortisone shot (along with wearing the support).

My foot doctor told me to never walk barefoot – to always give the arch some kind of support. He also advised soaking my foot in ice water a few times a day for 7-8 minutes (but not too long).

Re: Plantar fasciitis
« Reply #2 on: July 02, 2016, 03:51:44 pm »

[Buddie]

Agree with […]–your feet will heal, it just takes time. Get some really good supportive inner-soles. I like the kind that you heat and form to your feet, I got mine at REI. You will know when you find the right ones as your feet will feel better almost immediately. Wear these supports in all your shoes until your feet are healed, including around the house, the minute you get out of bed. I wear mine in my work boots all the time. Needless to say, heels are out of the question now.

Re: Plantar fasciitis
« Reply #3 on: July 02, 2016, 06:56:29 pm »

[Buddie]

Thanks guys. I got some better shoes yesterday so ill stop going barefoot in the house. When you have plantar fasciitis isnt it more like a shooting pain when you step down? I dont have that and my feet dont feel sore at all, it just feels uncomfortable and bony where my heel bone hits the floor. It was always kind of uncomfortable that way for me just not as much so im wondering if maybe after beins basically bedridden my feet are just not used to it anymore.

Re: Plantar fasciitis
« Reply #4 on: July 03, 2016, 01:29:30 am »

[Buddie]

Yes, plantar fasciitis is extremely painful, especially the first few steps. So it could very well be that you don’t have it. But providing more support for your feet is always the best thing to do if you are having foot issues, and I’m sure they will improve over time.

Re: Plantar fasciitis
« Reply #5 on: July 03, 2016, 02:35:33 am »

[Buddie]

Yeah, the first few steps are the most painful, then the pain eased for me. But it can slowly creep back during the course of the day especially if you’re on your feet a lot.

REAL-LIFE PSYCH WARD STORIES

He would frequently bite his tongue and spit HIV-positive blood into their faces/mouths.

I’m not a psychologist but my friend is. She told me about a patient of hers who was HIV-positive and a paranoid schizophrenic. He thought that the nurses who worked at the hospital he was in were trying to kill him, so he would frequently bite his tongue and spit HIV-positive blood into their faces/mouths. When they had to come into contact with him, they were required to wear full masks and gloves.

Mad in America: Anti-psychiatry maniac stabs to death psychiatrist who had him committed

Revenge killing: Mental patient stabs psychiatrist to death

Member of Benzo Buddies?

A gruesome killing occurred in the early hours of October 14 when 21-year-old Christopher Frick snuck into the home of a psychiatrist who may have had him committed years earlier before stabbing her to death.

Dr. Caroline Ekong, who celebrated her one-year wedding anniversary last month, was an Attending Psychiatrist at Rockford Center, a 118-bed mental health facility located in Newark, Delaware when she tragically had her life cut short.

Despite the fact that they had not spoken for three years leading up the crime, Frick reportedly grew obsessed with Ekong, 55, after she allegedly had him committed to Rockford Center when he was 18 years old.

The News Journal reported that “Frick wrote about his involuntary commitment to Rockford in an August 2014 letter” addressed to the editor at the Wilmington-based newspaper.

“The staff framed me as suicidal, as well as everyone else I saw the night I was ‘evaluated.’ The commonplace involuntary commitment at Rockford Center is prominent because it is owned by the for-profit company Universal Health Services,” wrote Frick.

21-year-old killer complained about psychiatrist in Google Reviews

Last year, Frick also posted a Google Review of Rockford Center in which he specifically named Dr. Ekong as the woman responsible for having him locked up. “The person who imprisoned me was Caroline Ekong, whose ego is so large that she would never be able to admit doing something wrong,” says the review.

Authorities uncovered further proof of Frick’s obsession with Ekong when they searched his home, learning that he had plotted her death for at least a year prior to the brutal attack, The News Journal reported.

“Police charged Frick with first-degree murder, first-degree burglary, possession of a deadly weapon during the commission of a felony, home invasion and possession of burglary tools. He is being held without bail.”

Police quickly learned of the perpetrator’s identify after he confessed to the murder.

“Authorities said Frick called 911 about 30 minutes after Ekong’s body was discovered by her daughter at 4 a.m. Wednesday inside the doctor’s two-story home on Withers Way in the Sanford Ridge neighborhood,” according to reports.

“In the call, placed from his parent’s Springbrook Lane home about 3 miles away, Frick took responsibility for the killing, according to investigators.

“Police said Frick went to Ekong’s home with the intent to kill. He parked his car in a parking lot near the Ekong home, broke into the house shortly before 4 a.m. and confronted her, police said. Ekong was stabbed numerous times, according to investigators.

“He then went back to his car and drove home to his parents’ house in Autumnwood, police said.”

Ekong was originally from Nigeria and cherished by many of her co-workers.

Mental health providers are four times more at risk for violence than average American worker

“She was very professional and dedicated to her work. She commanded excellence from her treatment team. She was direct, but respectful of people’s self-determination, independence and experience,” said Chris Park, who worked with Ekong at Rockford Center for four years.

Park has since started a petition that seeks to offer more protection for social workers, counselors and nurses. He believes their personal information, including their home address, should be kept private.

“Some of these are public records, but there should be checks where you have to apply for the information and provide a reason you are requesting the information,” Parks said.

A survey by the Department of Justice found nearly 56,000 instances of violent crimes committed against mental health professionals during 2005 and 2009 – four times higher compared with the average American worker.

Additional sources:
http://www.delawareonline.com/story/news/2015/10/16/psychiatrist-slaying-shock-industry-professionals/74082364/
http://www.delawareonline.com/story/news/crime/2015/10/15/police-make-arrest-in-delaware-psychiatrists-killing/73980366/
http://www.nbcphiladelphia.com/news/breaking/Hockessin-Psychiatrist-Delaware-Killing-333073271.html
https://www.facebook.com/law.enforcement.today/photos/a.195826530243.268969.181135410243/10156122296975244/?type=3&theater