Anti-psychiatry Benzo Buddies ghouls try to talk hallucinating addict out of seeking professional help

Considering Nursing Home care
« on: November 01, 2017, 11:34:47 pm »

[Buddie]

Hello everyone,

I have been through multiple withdrawals, almost on a monthly basis, over the past 5 years of being on klonopin. I made a huge mistake doing that, and I now know it. I was so frightened and terrified that I couldn’t even think straight. Even on the medication, I was in a lot of distress. I am now hardly able to take care of myself. I have lost almost all proprioception and can’t feel the muscles I’m tensing. This actually started possibly years ago. I am at a point where I have encountered near death experiences of being completely out of my body, much more than just dr/dp. I haven’t been able to let my body relax since my high anxiety took me into dr/dp 7 years ago (upon which I became frozen in my own body and couldn’t get help or info anywhere), 2 years before I was on meds. I am afraid to move or even think about most of my body and head. My sense of my body is constantly fluctuating. I have saucer sized pupils almost all day every day. When I look at them under light in the bathroom, they are constantly becoming huge then small. My mother has been taking care of me for the past 3 years, but she is getting older and I can’t put this on her anymore. I am only 31, but I am becoming severely disabled by this. If I even think about my body I feel pain. Over the years of repeated withdrawal, I have been mentally running away from what is happening to me more and more. The more I go on, the worse everything is getting. I am now having near-death compelete out of body experiences frequently. My nervous system is so wired that when I get up to do something, I am completely out of my body and can’t feel anything. When I sit down I start to feel all kinds of pain and horrible sensations. My proprioception is totally gone. My mouth feels sideways sometimes. Other times it starts to feel gigantic. And it is all I can really notice. Something is very wrong with me. I’ve done some kind of damage that I couldn’t feel because I’ve been outside of my body for years. I do have a feeling that I’m going to die, but it’s not a panicky one that I had 7 years ago when I entered dr/dp. This is an oddly calm acceptance.

So, I really think I need to be in a nursing home under medical care despite my age. I just contacted my doctor about it and I’m waiting for a reply. I know this seems crazy to everyone else in my life, but I know it’s what needs to be done in case something happens and to relieve the burden on my mother. I’m only getting worse and worse, and I have a feeling I’m on the verge of a serious occurrence that may threaten my life. I may even have to go back on klonopin just to stabilize. Just maybe there is a possibility I could do a supremely slow taper at some point in the distant future after I possibly correct the things that are physically wrong with me. To be honest, a lot of what I read here is what I experienced during my first or second year on the med. I feel like I unknowingly kindled myself dozens of times and found out all of this information I found way too late.

So, I guess my question is, what do you guys think? I’m losing my abilities to do anything even worse than before. I was hardly able to take care of myself the last few years on klonopin. I just sat in my chair hoping to distract myself at my computer. I had to leave grad school a year before I had my phd, and I pretty much became homebound then. I thought it was all just some mysterious thing that was destroying me and no one could figure it out. Now I know, but it’s too late. Do you think I will be able to do this? Do they have to have a definite diagnosis for me to be put in there? Please let me know anything you have to say about this.

Re: Considering Nursing Home care
« Reply #1 on: November 02, 2017, 12:05:41 am »

[Buddie]

If you tell your doctor what you just wrote they won’t put you in a nursing home unfortunately, they’ll send you to a psych hospital. I know your feeling rough and guilty but you got to pull yourself together for your family. Vent all you want, it helps for sure but just know that you aren’t broken forever. This will end one day. You might have underlying issues as so I as well but this isn’t baseline if you weeent like this prior to the meds.

Hospitals equal torture?

Mclean's Hospital Boston MA
« on: July 24, 2017, 03:07:21 pm »

[Buddie]

Doing some research I think that I have found a hospital outside of Boston Massachusetts that has some knowledge of benzo tapering and withdrawal. I have contacted the program’s director and I’m hoping to get a response sometime soon. I have been struggling with benzos for years and am worn out. I am hoping to find somebody that can really help me and not just a script doctor.

http://www.mcleanhospital.org/news/2016/08/02/tapering-addictive-therapies
« Last Edit: July 25, 2017, 04:57:12 pm by [Buddie]

Re: Mclean's Hospital Boston MA
« Reply #1 on: July 24, 2017, 03:16:39 pm »

[Buddie]

Hi,

I understand how you feel, but please be very careful about hospital “detoxes.” I went through one several years ago, in a major Seattle hospital where the doctor was supposed to be a “benzo expert.” They cold turkeyed me the minute I walked in the door, monitored my blood pressure for a few days, then sent me home to endure hellish long-term withdrawal symptoms alone. I only saw the doctor once, for a few minutes, and it cost me many thousands of dollars. Many others here have similar experiences with hospital detoxes. “Detox” is designed for alcohol and street drugs, not benzos, which require a much longer recovery period.

For long term users, the best way to get off benzos is to taper slowly at home. It’s not always easy, but it generally leads to milder symptoms in the long run.

“When I finally got a 4 mg fix from that ER doctor what a great high that was!”

Re: Addiction/Dependence Discussion
« Reply #42 on: June 26, 2017, 06:04:04 am »

[Buddie]

Quote from: [Buddie] on June 25, 2017, 05:07:42 pm
Those of you who don’t understand the difference between dependence and addiction, have never actually had an addiction.
<<“Those of you who don’t understand the difference between dependence and addiction, have never actually had an addiction.”>>

I’ve had both. I am currently dependent on immunosuppressants to control an autoimmune disease. Without them, the disease would progress to a dangerous stage. There are side effects but there is no withdrawal. Thank goodness I’m not also dependent on Insulin. But I do depend on the U.S. Postal Service, as unwise as that may seem.

But, up until 6 months ago, I had been physically addicted to lorazepam for 20 years. I engaged in drug seeking behavior. When faced with the possibility of running out of the drug, I would contact my dealer (doctor) and arrange for a stealthy pick-up (pharmacy). And there certainly was withdrawal every six hours, although not as difficult as when my first supplier 20 years ago abruptly cut off my 3mg daily supply of Xanax and I ended up in fetal position on my bathroom floor begging God to kill me. (But boy, when I finally got a 4 mg fix from that ER doctor…what great high that was!)

So yes, I understand the difference between dependence and addiction because I’ve experienced both. But, honestly, that’s not why I take issue with the herd moving toward the nice, safe-space-friendly word “dependence.” The beef I have with the word is that it has no clear meaning “out there.” No edge, no bite and too many word-associations that dilute its meaning. It’s not the kind of word that motivates action and can help force a solution to a public health problem. I’ll give you this, though, it’s better than “iatrogenically injured.” Try that one on Main Street!

Knott’s Berry Farm had a ride called Fear VR: 5150

Fear VR: 5150 will be largely themed to a mysterious medical facility. Guests receive timed tickets, and upon their entry will be greeted by ominous nurses at the Meadowbrook Institute, guests become the latest patients inside the mysterious facility. Once checked-in, the new patients are warned of a dangerous, telekinetic female inmate known as “Katie,” who has just gone missing. Strapped to a specialized wheelchair, patients’ embark on a terrifying tour of the institute.

Regarding the experience itself, eight people at a time are loaded into 4D-effects seats disguised as wheelchairs. Once seated, they are provided with Samsung Gear VR headsets, headphones and a panic button. A safety message will be displayed while each guest’s hands are strapped down to the wheelchair, before beginning their four minutes of terror.

Parkgoers are strapped into chairs, given VR goggles and told to press the “panic button” if the experience becomes overwhelming.

“The journey into terror begins as you’re greeted by so-called medical professionals from some place called Meadowbrook Hospital,” he wrote. “Just go with the flow and sit right down in the wheelchair, and strap on the VR goggles and earphones, basically blocking out any sign of the outside world. A nurse adds arm straps, so you can’t remove the VR equipment on your own. Seconds later comes the horrifying realization that you’re absolutely at the mercy of the hospital staff.

“You are, however, given a ‘panic button’ to push in case the experience is too much. But that doesn’t exactly bring down the anxiety level, does it? For with a panic button comes the understanding that, well, you might need to use it.”

There’s one moment where you feel yourself getting an injection, which is something I imagine has never happened before in a 4D experience”.

Fear VR: 5150

Fear VR: 5150 controversy

For Halloween Haunt in 2016, Knott’s Berry Farm introduced Fear VR: 5150, a virtual reality attraction that was met with controversy from the mental health community regarding the negative portrayal of mental illness.[45] The ten-minute-long attraction immersed guests inside of a chaotic mental hospital haunted by a supernatural central character named Katie and zombie-like patients.[46] The initial controversy came from the attraction’s name, with 5150 referring to the California law that allows a law enforcement officer or clinician to involuntarily commit a person suspected of having a mental illness and determined “a danger to themselves or others”. The backlash was focused on Cedar Fair’s use of painful experiences suffered by those dealing with mental illness and to have it “transmogrified into spooky entertainment”.[45] In response, Cedar Fair removed “5150” from the name, and after continued opposition, permanently closed the attraction on September 28, 2016, only six days after its debut.[47][48] A petition was signed by more than 2,000 people hoping Cedar Fair would bring it back, with the petition’s organizer stating that Cedar Fair shouldn’t be “forced to shut down an attraction based on the words of people who had not even experienced the attraction”.[49]

Cedar Fair initially responded by dropping the “5150” subtitle — code for a possibly disturbed individual who could be a danger to himself or others — from the original “Fear VR: 5150” name, the Voice of OC said

The controversy was reminiscent of the brouhaha that erupted in the Bay Area in 2009 when Psycho Donuts opened in Campbell with straitjacket decor and an array of doughnuts whose names were deemed offensive by the mental health community. A truce was eventually reached, with Psycho toning down the decor and dropping the most egregious names.

http://www.mercurynews.com/2016/09/27/great-america-knotts-berry-farm-pull-plug-on-fearvr-for-halloween/

Brainwashed cult member willing to cancel surgery based on ravings of doctor-hating old woman

Surgery
« on: April 26, 2017, 07:28:52 pm »

[Buddie]

May 9 I’m supposed to have surgery on my left ankle, and they will be using general anesthesia to sedate me during the surgery. I’m 12.5 months out since jumping and still very symptomatic. Cog fog, headaches, balance issues seem to be the most intolerable of my current symptoms, and I’m worried that the drugs they use to sedate me will set me back and potentially make me worse. I was wondering if anyone has any experience with surgery during the recovery phase and if it had any adverse effect on their brain? I will cancel the surgery if needed. I don’t want any setbacks.

Re: Surgery
« Reply #1 on: April 26, 2017, 07:32:04 pm »

[Buddie]

I would like to know this too. I hope somebody will have some answers for you.
Love and healing
[…]

You were told to keep your opinions to yourself, in the psych ward, because you’re crazy as shithouse rat

Re: Word is getting out there at long last.
« Reply #19 on: March 29, 2017, 10:14:46 pm »

[Buddie]

[…] is so right about our NHS service here in the UK. I personally have really been let down.

Having to spend 4 months twice on a psych ward being poly drugged because they wouldn’t believe me that I was having withdrawal symptoms
due to the benzos that I was prescribed.

Thankfully it was on my 3rd attempt that I became drug free and it is almost 4 years but have suffered with PTSD with what they put me through.
Was told that this should not have happened and yet I bet there are women right now on the same psych ward going through what I did.

You will be shocked at how many women I met that were there for the same reason as myself who were having issues regarding the menopause.
When I tried to explain that the symptoms they were having were more than likely due to their drugs. I was warned by the nurses to keep
my opinions to myself.

[…]

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.

Anti-doctor Benzo Buddies monsters try to talk member out of going to the ER

Please help headed to ER no sleep 13 days
« on: January 14, 2017, 07:38:07 pm »

[Buddie]

I cant go on like this what is safe to let them give me? Advice please soo scared!!

Re: Please help headed to ER no sleep 13 days
« Reply #1 on: January 14, 2017, 08:09:07 pm »

[Buddie]

Wow, 13 days is a long time, but unless you were up out of bed moving around the whole time you probably were getting periods of light sleep that you were not aware of.

I totally understand your desire to head off to the ER. I live just down the street from an ER and many were the nights that I wanted to run on over in desperation. Just know that ERs are all about stabilization and immediate symptom relief. They tend to be overworked and probably will want to give you a powerful sleeping aid so they can move on to the next person in line. You don’t want that. If they admit you to the hospital you will be pumped full of the same drugs and be knocked right back to where you started.

If you have not already tried any of them, you can try Trazadone, Remeron or Seroquel to help with sleep. You can just see or call your regular doctor to get a prescription. Otherwise, stay away from driving and other potentially dangerous activities and put in your time in bed (if only for badly needed rest) and sleep will find you eventually. In spite of your fears, you will not die from this. You will fall asleep before that happens.