Benzo Buddies tells member to hold off going to psych ward, continue suffering

How am I supposed to survive
« on: July 24, 2019, 10:41:05 pm »

[Buddie]

I’ve reached my breaking point. How am I supposed to survive this if I am scared of my own thoughts in general. I’ve had racing, ruminating, looping/earworms, obsessive intrusive thoughts and memories for 8 months straight. Distraction doesn’t work I’ve tried everything. My attention won’t detach from my thoughts.
I am only getting worse as time goes on.

I don’t really know how to survive this.

Can anyone honestly say they have or had mental symtoms this bad.

I’m about to go to the psych ward and have them pump me with whatever. At this point I dont care.

Re: How am I supposed to survive
« Reply #1 on: July 24, 2019, 10:54:20 pm »

[Buddie]

Korny, get a grip here.
You are NOT the only one who has truly bad symptoms. I sure did. I went CT off Klonapin 6 mgs and Ambien 10 mgs and 2 SSRIS. Holy hell ensued. That first entire year I was certifiably insane. I had such bad symptoms that I did not sleep for an entire year. The only reason I did not reinstate was because I was SO paranoid of doctors I could not bring myself to see one. Thank GOD I didn’t.
Here is what you might try. Find a nice soft place to sit. And do slow deep “belly breathing.” This technique DOES work to calm such severe anxiety. I spent MONTHS doing this.

When I tell you my wd symptoms were just as bad and maybe even worse, I am NOT lying. Korny: The first couple months I was hallucinating with all five of my senses. I saw things. I heard things. I tasted and smell things…that were not real. At one point I hallucinated a nurse hiding behind my old table fan. She and I had a very real conversation. I remember it quite well. She was quite real to me back then.
I sat on my sofa and rocked back and forth, doing deep breathing and trying to get through just another minute of this torture. This was not easy to do .I also had extreme FEAR and anxiety and was having panic attacks frequently. I also had numerous physical symptoms, too many to list.
Korny, if you are feeling completely out of control go to the nearest ER. But if you can hold on a bit longer, please do. We all want you to succeed.
[…]

Benzo Buddies members compare psych wards

Womp womp psych hospital
« on: February 21, 2019, 10:50:43 pm »

[Buddie]

Hello,

So my taper has ended in the acute mental hospital 2 days ago. Not ideal. Although it’s not that terrible here. I was brought here by family for my ‘withdrawal delusions’ and nighttime terrors.

I’m at 0.06 mg ativan and have been holding. The pharmacist here and psych dr are patiently letting me taper here but would like to see me taper down here. Their diagnosis is that I am manic with delusions about ativan symptoms, and they want to go through withdrawal here to prove a point to myself that it’s not that bad. I don’t want to be on this drug anymore but I am scared to jump here. But maybe better here than at home.

There are other benzo people here. It’s sad. I dont want to say too much but it’s not a good thing to see.

They want me on 12.5 mg of seroquel. I’ve taken 2 doses. Worried about movement disorder because of fahrs.

Sx… high heart rate. Bowel stuff. Brain zaps. Tremors. Burning skin.

I think i have to stop this med soon but worried about acute in front of psychiatric team.

My question I guess is if anyone has advice.

Thanks.

Re: Womp womp psych hospital
« Reply #1 on: February 21, 2019, 11:14:40 pm »

[Buddie]

I am SO SO sorry! I wound up in psyche twice and they were pretty much no help, switched my ADs, put me on gabapentin which I tried to get off and couldnt, Trazadone which stopped working, remeron which made me sick, they did get me stable on a generic brand of K but I’m still not tapering and still sick since my failed rapid taper and now I’m on ambien ::)

I suppose you can fake it as best you can to get out? then go back to your taper? Maybe?

Seroquel can help with sleep and 12.5 is a CRAZY low dose! It is safer in the hospital because they can be there if you seize or need any other meds I guess? I’m happy they let you have your phone at least, we werent allowed ours

A Trip to Sainte Anne

I have just sent a report to the CCHR through their site. https://www.cchr.org/take-action/report-adverse-reactions.html

The content of the report is as follows with real names of related doctors included:

This is the part concerning the psychiatric abuse follwing my denunciation of harassment and aggression exerted on my person during years of my career at K., EMEA Branch, located at xxx Paris, France. I have testified for a colleague who engaged the company in legal action for systematically using pression, usually of transferring the employee from his/her current office to a geographically distant office with assignment of tasks that have nothing to do with the employee’s aptitude or work history. Since internal procedures amounted to dragging time while no substantial effort had been put on acknowledging and solving the problem of the aggression (I have been yelled at by a colleague about the same age as myself : yelling is an understatement – his eyes were popped out and face all red, his voice could be heard from outside the office with closed doors, probably. “Shut up! Keep your mouth shut when I speak!” he told me, when I replied, trying to keep my dignity, “Why are you yelling like that?”. This guy, after having filed a false report mentionning he never yelled but slightly raised his voice, ended up acknowledging he yelled – and the human resources manager had promised to my boss that he’d draw up preventive measures, which never happened, while the aggressor took the position of harassing me openly. This led me to contact the French Social Security for intervention on workplace aggression and harassment. Computer hacking at the workplace and at home started around this time.

After the plan of sending me off to the airport office (more than four hours daily commutation time) failed due to the intervention of a colleague who offered to go there in my stead, making a psychologically unstable person out of the employee who denounced the aggression as well as previous harassments throughout the years to French Social Security, the employee who testified for her colleague in a lawsuit against the company – has worked within the company, and I have been kidnapped and locked up to back this plan.

Computer hacking was intensified at home after I took a sickness leave. It was especially concentrated on my e-mail exchanges regarding my actions with the Social Security and exchanges with the colleague who sued the company and his lawyer, but what distressed me most of all, was the fact that the auto-psychanalysis I undertook with the family doctor was also being rummaged through, as well as all other personal mails – ostensible electronic signs had been posted on each line of my e-mail account so that I’d get the message I was being hacked. People who saw these showed reactions such as “K (the company) wouldn’t have the means to carry out this kind of advanced stuff” (an ex-colleague) or “May God protect you, my child” (a cardiologist, former Yugoslavian refugee).

That night, I couldn’t bear it any more – the signs were also on the e-mail exchanges I had with my husband, deceased in April 2009 after about two years of suffering – from renal cancer but most of all, due to the cancer drug side-effects – about a year before the hacking and other insidious Stasi-style attacks started. The insidious phosphorescent sky-blue signs were wiggling even on the e-mail exchanges I had with my husband around 2002. My heart felt like it was being pierced, I needed to talk to someone, so I went to the Hôpital Européen George Pompidou in Paris near our home. I remembered a psychologist there had helped me suffer less by listening to my ordeals while I took care of my husband who was literally decomposing day by day, and hoped to have someone like her to talk to.

A psychiatrist was on duty and received me – I told her what happened and showed her the video of the phosphorescent sky-blue “wigglies” next to my e-mails in the Yahoo Account. There was an elderly assistant by her side. Soon she proposed that I be hospitalized since I looked worn out. I refused at first, saying there was an interview preceding a planned dismissal from the company (Entretien préalable au licenciement), where I could defend myself from the company’s abusive handling of the aggression and other matters. The psychiatrist told me that I was in no condition to affront such a task, and proposed I be hospitalized to “take a rest”. I ended up agreeing, telling her that I could be hospitalized a day or two and then go to the meeting.

The psychiatrist made me wait outside in the hallway while she phoned – she had told me that there were no available beds in the hospital and that she had to try find a place somewhere else. I heard conversation through the door but couldn’t make it out; it was a long conversation. Time is subjective, to me it seemed like half an hour but maybe it was only twenty minutes.

I wasn’t admitted back into her office, but the assistant came out telling me that they found a place. Soon a hospital personnel arrived with a stretcher. The assistant told me to lie down so I could be transported. I did as she told me – even then firmly believing that I’d be hospitalized for exhaustion or burnout in a normal hospital. Once I lay down, the personnel attached me to the stretcher with the belts. Once this was done, the assistant clasped her hands, looked at me with pitiful eyes and told me “You’ll be taken to Ste.Anne”. Even then, I didn’t know what Ste.Anne was, I thought it was a normal hospital, smaller than this one.

The ambulance arrived in the dark of the night at Ste.Anne. The ambulance personnel undid the belts and told me in an ordering tone to descend out of the ambulance, which I did. The personnel, Bastien, came out to ‘greet’ me. He told me “I suppose you’ve been told how this place is run”. I was bewildered when I found out that I was kidnapped and locked up in a psychiatric ward. It was cold around the end of November, and I was given the pyjama-uniform to wear, I had my personal belongings confiscated and all contact was forbidden until a doctor saw me. Dr. C was the first doctor who saw me, who listened to what I said and prescribed “Xanax if necessary”. I was force-fed Xanax in liquid form because, according to the nurse who menaced to inject it if I didn’t drink it, I wasn’t sleeping in my room and was wandering around in the hallway throughout the night (I was writing a record of what was happening to me). Dr. B is the doctor who was in charge of me, who insisted I said “I heard voices in my head” while what I said was “It was like an inner voice telling me I did something wrong”. Later when she stressed this fact, I made the precision that what I meant by ‘inner voice’ was conscience”. Dr. B gave me the main-levée (freed me from forced psychiatry status) after about a year when my father in-law intervened saying it was unreasonable to keep me in surveillance while I was normal, and that the surveilled status was counterproductive to my health. But she didn’t know I hadn’t taken any of the Seroquel that was prescribed.

According to French law regarding psychiatric detention at that time – 2011 – two doctors had to confirm the need for psychiatric seclusion. One was Dr.B, from the hospital, and the other was, astonishingly, my family doctor (who I presume had been contacted by K (the company), following some odd instances I experienced with him). The family doctor, Dr. E, had given the green light just by listening to what a personnel from Ste. Anne told him. Later he tried to justify that by telling me that he trusted what his confrère told him, that he had ‘confiance’ in the medical personnel.

I could avoid swallowing pills in this first kidnap-lock-up that missed fulfilling its legal formalities. The illegality of the lock-up process being evident, this error on the medical system’s part has been righted in the subsequent lock-up. Since the human tendency in our busy times is to look thoroughly into the most recent case, and then make assumptions thereof for past instances, following all the rules in the second lock-up would somehow keep the attention from the illegality of the first lock-up. This strategy is often used by dishonest politicians and others, in falsifying stories to their advantage.

During this first lock-up, the company had taken all necessary measures in firing me according to the law : three registered mails, all in relation with my dismissal, laid untouched in the mailbox during the time I had been forbidden to even go get my mail – for three weeks.

I have received the “main-levée” or “declaration of being cured” without taking any drugs – the Seroquel, an antipsychotic, prescribed to me (for the establishment of the false record of me being a psychotic) had been paid for, but I asked the pharmacy employees to keep them in the drawer or recycle them, sell them to someone else who asks for them, that I didn’t need them. So the proof that I didn’t take the drugs was established.

Having been “cured” without the antipsychotics caused a problem to the pharmaceutical industry, no doubt. Maybe word got to the Pharma industry through the pharmacy. Another coincidence worthy of note is that the pharmacy’s employee has been replaced. The former employee who also knew my husband had told me that general physicians shouldn’t be prescribing psychiatric drugs like the one on the prescription form the family doctor – Dr. WE – handed me (he was intent to make me swallow pills). It was one of the new employees, who was known to be savvy about computers, who told me, when I showed it to her, that there was nothing strange in the fact of finding a closed circuit board inside the radio, however old the radio may be.

Stealthy infractions have intensified since then, as well as hacking to make me look illiterate or lacking logic in what I wrote for real-life purposes, like CVs. Who knows, maybe even what I had written in the past, at the time logical and without giving the appearance of illiteracy, have been modified.

I felt it was unjust to have one’s life, including cherished memories about my husband, soiled by these criminals. I also developed a tendency of not caring what others thought, they didn’t care anyway, if it bothered them, they’d come to me to tell me to cool down (and I actually asked the downstairs neighbors on many occasions if they weren’t bothered by the noise I was making in my appartment, to which they answered no) – and burned all my paintings on the balcony, surrounding it with carcasses of computer that I smashed against the floor. I wasn’t hurting anyone. I was just venting out the accumulated anger within my precincts. I admit I was in rage, at times like that. But who wouldn’t be, if “raped” in every aspect of one’s life while at the same time being made aware of being watched every step with the goal of total corruption of one’s life? (with automated installations being the main, this being backed-up with occasionnal real intrusions based on surveillance, no doubt, in hindsight).

The smoke from the fire on the balcony, however safely surrounded by computer carcasses to avoid any incidents, has probably been notified to the police, along with the noise of objects being thrown around. I didn’t receive phonecalls neither, having become retracted. A psychiatrist from Ste.Anne, Mme.Coste- a tall brunette – came with two policemen and acted out very scared and nervous while telling me to come along or force will be used, that a one-week examination under medical surveillance was necessary.

This is how I was locked up the second time. On our way to Ste. Anne, there was a visit at a hospital in Boulogne Billancourt (having a psychiatry section) to get a check-up, according to the crew in the ambulance, but in fact, it was to get a fake record of mental incapacity by one of the doctors there who didn’t even examine me, just exchanged greetings – but this could be extended to “examination” in these dishonest minds. I remember the hospital crew making fun of me among his colleagues when I asked if he was the doctor I was supposed to be examined by (since he took my blood pressure), while Dr. C. was away tending to her “business”. I can’t call it a kidnap this time, it’s more like – having been provoked over time, framed to act violently, ruthlessly, for the purpose of getting me noticed and notified to authorities. Note that provoking into committing acts disapproved by society and then saying “tut, tut”, shaking his head, waving his finger, is the twisted sadistic Nazi supremacist way.

I suspect Ste.Anne’s administration to be in collusion with the powerful to lock up whoever is designated – I have seen totally normal, competent (bilingual, for example) females locked up and of course, upset by the fact.

On one occasion, I had a chance of asking a psychiatrist other than those designated to me to let me know what is the basis of the lock-up. He showed me what was written in the computer shared by many psychiatrists, among whom Dr.C. (whom I’ve seen leaving the room in an odd hour), things that are supposed to be words from witnesses. According to what was written, the person concerned (me) could not be taken as anything else than psychotic. Medical records on shared computers are handy in modifying its contents for obvious reasons.

This second time, Ste.Anne didn’t take any chances – except for the first pill, all medication was given in liquid form at the daily lineup at the dispensary, to be swallowed under the watchfull eyes of the nurse, who’d make sure to talk to you to be sure you’ve swallowed the neurotoxin. There was another exception where it was a pill, but I understood that there was hidden videosurveillance to see if I took the pill or not while the nurse turned his back deliberately while I was supposed to take the pill. I was locked up for two months this time, during which time Dr. D, the head of psychiatrists in sector 18 at that time – in the year 2014 – tried to negotiate with me : if I accepted an implant that would release the antipsychotic over a month’s period, to be recharged each month, he’d let me go out sooner. I refused and stayed longer, and got broke in the process. More than 800 euros were charged monthly just for food. I was locked up for two months.

Of course, this time, I went to see the JLD (Juge des Libertés et de la Détention) in due time, according to the law, after having been forcefully drugged before hand, the medication being purposefully given in the morning for the purpose of discrediting what I said through my confused speech under the drug’s influence. The meeting with the JLD was so timed that I’d get to see her about three hours after drug intake, when its effects were at maximum. A public lawyer was at my disposal, but she was available only half an hour or so before the hearing, during which time, with confused mind, I had to try to convey to her information possibly pointing to the wrongfull institutionalization. She proved to be highly incompetent, but anyone would have been incompetent under such circumstances. I have terrible teeth problems and two of the frontal teeth are crowns, posed with dental glue. On the day of the hearing, the teeth that were steadfast until the previous night felt loosened, and fell. Who knows, since the bedroom doors cannot be locked, some twisted crook within the staff could have come in to hammer lightly on them so they’d detach, while I was in heavy sleep after being drugged. Ste. Anne is full of illegal activities going on. This is how I went to see the judge without the front teeth, which probably added to the ridiculousness of my status. There’s also the fact that the law permits the hospital to send a letter of opinion – which has been done : in the letter, it was mentioned “The patient can look totally normal for extended periods of time, but that is one of the characteristics of the mental disease she is suffering from. During fits, she would hallucinate, etc”

When I was released, I had to go every day to Ste.Anne’s medical center near Rue de la Pompe, also in the 16th arrondissement but about eight subway stations away – to swallow the antipsychotic Seroquel 400 mg or was it 500? Before the watchful eyes of the nurses. There were three visits by hospital staff to “see if everything was ok” – staff who didn’t forget to intimidate me that if I didn’t take the weekend pills (the center is closed on weekends) it would show, and that it will be “back to lock-up”. These daily travels were quite difficult under the influence of the drug; it felt like I had kilos of weight on me.

I was surprised at how docile I became – I tried my best to fit into the “docile patient” figure. I was telling the nurses that now I saw how wrong I was, how I messed up everything – taking the blame all to myself, without any mention of infractions since that would send me back to the hospital, with the word “relapse” resurging again. “Relapse” is psychiatry’s favorite word. In fact, the staff at Ste. Anne kept on hammering that I had a relapse because I “stopped taking the drugs” (they were probably falsely told that I had taken the drugs to get the “cured” sentence).

During this time, while I tried to keep whatever was left of my health, I have noticed that I developed incontinence and an anal deformation, as well as dislocation in the senses of the spinal chord. I have never recovered from the anal deformation – it would make the minds of the Nazis who perpetrated this, but the deformation is such that a piece of excrement is left hanging every time I went to the stool. Suicidal thoughts set in very soon, along with insomnia. I decided I had to make a choice of life or death. If I stayed, I’d surely die. I remember an incidence where a hospital staff tried to get me to enlist for government aid for the disabled, telling me that with the medication, I won’t be able to function correctly for at least five years.

This really set the alarms going off in my head. And by this, we can deduce that medical staff do know how incapacitating psychiatric drugs are, but that they’re led to believe that the “treatment” is inevitable. I have witnessed how, while visitors of inmates asked me why the hell I was there (after asking me if I came to visit someone at the hospital and learning that I was one of the inmates), the hospital staff looked at me through colored glasses and tried to interpret every one of my moves as psychiatrically related, with an air of superiority. Maybe it’s human nature, enjoying feeling superior to those around. Being a normal person (staff) is superiority in itself in a psychiatric ward among those tagged inferior – “mentally ill”.

In fact, Social Security (Assurance Maladie) had tried to invite me to get invalidity status, way before this, but I refused. Maybe it was a consequence of my family doctor’s efforts to enlist me in a long-term convalescent leave (ALD) previous to the institutionalization – he had falsely written down a list of psychiatric drugs for the status, while I protested I never took them. His words at the time was “You’re not thinking about going into politics, or running for the presidentials, right? This list is only formality, I have the duty to protect my patient, also at the social level.” I should have known better, but I was too naïve at the time, I sincerely believed the doctor cared for the widow of his patient who passed away a few years ago. It should have rung an alarm bell – so much kindness out of his way, going even against the rules by writing down false prescription (while he avoided by all means to sign the papers medically acknowledging the aggression at the workplace). But who knows, maybe he was successfully led by the “well-intentionned” airline company to believe that in fact I was a psychologically ill employee the company “dearly cared about” and wanted what was best for me (which, of course, was the exact opposite of the reality). In fact, when I asked him if he had been approached by a third party to discuss about my situation, he blushed but replied “no”. Some doctors seem to think they have the right to deceive patients since their job implies that they’re “helping” the patients. Anyway, the imaginative myth-making power of these chaebol people might deserve applause by their likes.

From the events I experienced, I can safely presume that Social Security had been on the company’s side since the acceptance of the documents I sent to the establishment for intervention.

One weekend, I decided to flee. I took out all the money I could take out from my bank account (there was a limit in cash withdrawal which obliged me to leave about a thousand or more euros from the amount I borrowed from a friend and my sister). I bought a one-way plane ticket and fled to Korea, and came to my parents’ apartment. From then on, it was cold-turkey. I had suicidal thoughts and terrible insomnia, this time from withdrawal no doubt, as well as the guilty conscience of having betrayed my parents’ wish and hope that I have a settled life in France, not in Korea where I had quite a difficult time adapting in the past. Thinking of that period of my life makes me shudder. Every night, I’d do sit-ups due to akathisia, hitting my chest, wanting to die. My body would retain water, I’d swallow liters of water only to let out half a liter per day. Constipation lasted for a month or so. My period stopped. I have anal deformation, it seems irreversible.

Cult benzo tapers land Ashton devotees in psych ward

5 days out... superior stupidity
« on: January 19, 2018, 07:46:48 pm »

[Buddie]

Hello buddies,
I am entering day 5, again, if you check my signature last time
I had 5 days I was running to the hospital and ended up 6 days in a psych unit.. put back on a rapid taper, 3 days, I feel the same symptoms coming on, cognitive impairement,
Confusion, brain zaps, head pressure, burning skin, twitching fingers… I am and will ride this out.. not going to the hospital again so maybe I know what to expect, the part that scares me the most are the mild hallucinations I experienced last time…
I will not dwell on it…
Just ride it out…

Re: 5 days out... superior stupidity
« Reply #1 on: January 20, 2018, 12:16:37 am »

[Buddie]

How are you doing since being released from the psych ward? Did they help you? I was in the psych was Aug, Sept, Oct, and November. I’m pretty much like you-don’t want to go back so I’m riding it out at home. My newest crappy symptom is chest pain and racing heartbeat. I hope you feel better soon!

Parents send ‘gentle giant’ to funny house after threats and violence

Son in hospital
« on: December 18, 2017, 06:42:17 pm »

[Buddie]

Anyone here been hospitalized when in full psychosis, and the docs don’t believe you were in w/d and gave you anti-psychotics? That’s what has happened to my son this past few days, due to an episode at our home that involved physical violence, and threats. He’s a really big guy and we had no choice but to call for help.

Re: Son in hospital
« Reply #1 on: December 18, 2017, 06:50:41 pm »

[Buddie]

I truly believed this happened to me 3 weeks ago. I first had a panic attack then started rambling then had an episode of full rage. I was shaking back and forth and had no idea what I was saying or doing.. Wow did it scare me and my parents. I had no control over my actions or thoughts and I don’t remember much of what I did. I finally calmed down but they were also going to call for help. My uncle convinced them they they were only going to give me benzo-like medications to calm me down so they decided not to.

I’m so sorry for your son, I truly hope he gets better. I haven’t had an episode since but my god did it scare us. My mom cried for days afterwards.

Re: Son in hospital
« Reply #2 on: December 18, 2017, 06:52:00 pm »

[Buddie]

Quote from: [Buddie] on December 18, 2017, 06:42:17 pm
Anyone here been hospitalized when in full psychosis, and the docs don’t believe you were in w/d and gave you anti-psychotics? That’s what has happened to my son this past few days, due to an episode at our home that involved physical violence, and threats. He’s a really big guy and we had no choice but to call for help.

Awful sorry to read this, […]. 

No, I don’t have any experience of what you have described, but i can well believe it, given the current state of “knowledge” among the medics. What happened to the doc you found who had some understanding of benzo WD?!

Re: Son in hospital
« Reply #3 on: December 18, 2017, 09:22:26 pm »

[Buddie]

[…]—–I talked about this on another thread I started (sigh, I’ve got to stop that) but the trouble is, that doc who ‘believes’ we use basically for our family doc although he is an internist, and he has referred son to the psychiatrist and others. So he no longer takes care of son’s psych meds. He hates to refer and then “take back” treatment of a patient while he is still seeing the ref. doc, as it is considered sort of ‘bad form” in the doc world, sort of unethical. He has been wonderful tho, about giving us phone advice and helping us through some of this. My hubby has a call into him right now, he should respond by after office hours. Just to pick his brain about how much damage (or good maybe?) these antipsychotics will do his withdrawal process.

[…]—He is listed at the hospital as “allergic to benzos” so that helps. But otherwise, yes, your uncle is right, they might have done so with you. If you were as big as my son (BIG guy) they might have had to take you somewhere, we are just worried that if this happens again, he could end up in jail or worse. This is not the first time he has been talking out of his head or had auditory hallucinations, but this is the first time our ‘gentle giant’ has ever behaved this way. And you’re right, it is so heartbreaking. We are looking for longer term care (which he is against, of course), for his own safety and ours too. Unfortunately. I’m glad you were able to stay home. I’m going to cry like your mom if we have to find a facility for him…for now.

Re: Son in hospital
« Reply #4 on: December 18, 2017, 09:40:48 pm »

[Buddie]

I caught that on the other thread, thanks.

Hugs :smitten:

Re: Son in hospital
« Reply #5 on: December 18, 2017, 09:59:46 pm »

[Buddie]

Nope but I took anti-psychotics for like a year after I had some terrible hallucinations and other strange things when I tried to take prosac. They might not believe you, but taking anti-psychotics for a bit isn’t the end of the world. I hope it helps.

Re: Son in hospital
« Reply #6 on: December 18, 2017, 10:05:08 pm »

[Buddie]

Nothing like a chemical straight jacket to kill the buzz.
If someone is in extreme mental distress and begging for benzos, It is cruel to disregard them. Anti-psychotics are very disabling drugs, and should not be used on people who are not delusional.
If anti-psychotics are the answer to the problem. It should resolve in a few days.
If not, it is more difficult and you should have your son’s back.

Re: Son in hospital
« Reply #7 on: December 19, 2017, 12:54:56 pm »

[Buddie]

After I crossed over to Librium from Klonopin things became manic for me. On top of that I recently quit Suboxone at the time and started taking kratom daily. At the time, I was taking phenibut as well and switched to baclofen. The day I switched to baclofen, literally day 1 on baclofen….I went to an intensive outpatient group meeting. I was acting weird the entire time. I realized that I forgot to take a baclofen pill on the way to the meeting. I expressed my concern with my dad but he said I would be okay on drive over there. I was pretty much okay I think but I said something that set alarm bells off. I said I wanted to punch my dad over an argument we had and that sometimes I wish he was dead. I kind of yelled it too and was really amped up when I said it. They called the police and they took me to a hospital. Then they sent me to a psychiatric hospital for violent individuals. They would not listen to me. They didn’t care about my withdrawal symptoms. Once you start acting crazy and making threats in a public place it is over. I didn’t hurt anyone either.

They didn’t force me to take antipsychotics but when I was at the hospital they constantly threatened to give me a shot of Haldol and Ativan mixed together. I got injected with it the first day I was there. It was an extremely painful shot. Not a place you want to go. I’m sorry about your son.

Benzo Buddies member post-taper: “I started speaking gibberish, nonsensical words and I couldn’t stop”

Pacing/Chanting/Verbal Gibberish
« on: December 14, 2017, 11:29:31 pm »

[Buddie]

I haven’t been on the site for a long time. had a really rough end of Oct leading into Nov, ended up in the ER twice and then Mental health for 10 days. Leading up to this I had been experiencing increasing head sensations, felt like my head was going to explode as well as head sensations like my brain was moving, throbbing, increasing daily. I then started pacing and chanting and rocking in bed chanting “I cant live like this” over and over again. I was sleeping about an hour and my physical symptoms would wake me up. All of this led to Nov 8th when I started speaking gibberish, nonsensical words and I couldn’t stop. I was also shaking and crying. It was awful. My husband called 911, they gave me a Benadryl shot, went to one ER and then another because I have another episode at 3 am on the way home from the hospital and refused to go in the house. I was terrified. At this ER, a PA witnessed another “episode”. I was given valium. Hardest thing I had to do was take that but I was petrified of these attacks. Next morning I lost it realizing I was on another benzo, suicidal hence the Mental health visit. I am still on valium but having increasing head sensations. Have not heard of anyone else going through this. I’m terrified to come off the valium and have all of that happen again. Ive been suicidal, very depressed. Anyone else hear of this?

Re: Pacing/Chanting/Verbal Gibberish
« Reply #1 on: December 14, 2017, 11:34:28 pm »

[Buddie]

Hi sorry you going through this , I’m having Head sensations and it’s very uncomfortable so I get what you are talking about , I also have lots of suicide thoughts so you are not alone , i don’t know what I can say to help you feel better but I guess it’s atill part of withdrawal so I’m hoping healing comes for you soon as I hope for myself and other Benzo Buddies .

Re: Pacing/Chanting/Verbal Gibberish
« Reply #2 on: December 15, 2017, 12:50:29 am »

[Buddie]

Hi you didn’t happen to go to IRMC. My hospital is just like yours except they like giving adivan instead. Sounds horrendous and scary beyond regular panic attack. I’d stay on the valuim but take just a small piece instead of the whole thing. Just until you get level. Then worry about it after you can make an intelligent decision. God Bless You.

Re: Pacing/Chanting/Verbal Gibberish
« Reply #3 on: December 15, 2017, 01:00:53 am »

[Buddie]

Well, I did have 2 mg Ativan shoved down my throat at the mental health unit because I had another “attack” while there. They never mentioned what they were giving me, they just probably didn’t know what to do. They then diagnosed me with Major depressive disorder with psychotic tendencies because they couldn’t explain the physical symptoms. I was mortified because Ativan was what I had weaned off of. If they hadn’t of given me the valium though, Id still be having those attacks, they were coming every 6 hours. It wasn’t a panic attack for sure but purely physiological. I’m afraid I shocked my btrain when I took what I took in June and that what I’m experiencing isn’t typical withdrawal. I got worse every day. I’m scared. Oh, and I live in upstate NY. Saratoga Springs was the hospital

Re: Pacing/Chanting/Verbal Gibberish
« Reply #4 on: December 15, 2017, 02:35:47 am »

[Buddie]

That just sounds terrible. How much valium are you taking now? I know it sounds crazy but maybe if you reinstate a low dose of valium, you might be able to stabilize and get rid of these attacks and keep them away by holding and tapering real slow on the valium.

Re: Pacing/Chanting/Verbal Gibberish
« Reply #5 on: December 15, 2017, 12:24:31 pm »

[Buddie]

I’m taking 5 mg in the morning & 5 mg at night. On top of those attacks, my entire body was affected with symptoms. I’m seriously afraid to continue, taper, and relive what happened to me. I lie in bed all day, Ive lost hope. Its no way to live. I’m started to feel head symptoms while on the valium also. Scary

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.

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.