K
kashka
Hello,
This post is going to seem unfathomable to most people, I'm sure. That's usually the reaction I get. Usually when people tell stories of problem upon problem upon problem, as I am about to tell, people react by saying that person just likes to complain, or that person is just a weirdo and has problems. That's usually the reaction that I get. And that's just my problem. When I read this account, even I have that reaction. That's why I don't like to write about it. It sounds like a badly written horror story. I agree. But it's entirely true, and I urge you not to shy away from it, just because it sounds extreme.
Here's my story, or part of it at least.
My trauma began in my childhood. My grandfather committed suicide when I was 5 years old, and my father immediately began drinking heavily and physically, emotionally, and mentally abusing me. From 5 to 15, my dad chased me in the corner, and told me he was going to, "Break my *^%&^%ing neck," as he put his hands around my neck. I cried out to my mom to help, and she would softly ask him to stop, but it didn't do any good. When he would leave, she would leave too, only to come back hours later and tell me that if I wouldn't have dropped the wet towel on the floor, he wouldn't have gotten so mad. That was his biggest annoyance - wet towels on the floor. You would think I would've learned. This isn't even the worst of it. The worst of it, to me, are the things that I did secretly to cope with the problems in the house, and the guilt that I had in response to it. I felt like a horrible person, and I felt so different from my peers because of it.
To be honest, I can't stand even writing about this, so I must be brief. Otherwise, I'll just give up on writing it. I was an only child, which, to this day, I believe compounded the problem. Add to that extreme bullying at school, and nothing was safe.
After I graduated from high school, I went to college, and rebelled. I felt entitled to it. I drank heavily for about two years, and I felt like I finally fit in. It was a carefree time, and I had a lot of friends. It was the first time I had made friends. It all came to a halt when I got involved with a professor who promised the world to me. Needless to say, I was naive and looking for someone to solve my problems. Up until that time, school was my identity. My dad had always said that if I didn't succeed in school, I was nothing, and I believed it. When the relationship with the professor didn't work out, basically when I found out that he had gotten another student pregnant, and he was having an affair with one of my other professors, my image as a perfect student was shattered, and my belief in the educational system shattered. School always got me through, and now I didn't have that. A few months after I ended it with him, I was raped by one of my friends. I turned into a zombie after that. For the next year, I turned to a bad relationship and daily drinking. I had been in therapy the entire time, but it didn't help much. I also sought help from a psychiatrist who prescribed an antidepressant, but I didn't like how it made me feel, so I stopped taking it.
I managed to end the abusive relationship after a year, and I decided it was time to take responsibility and to begin my recovery. And for that I needed other people. I joined a recovery group. Six months later, my anxiety was still very high, and I sought more professional help. A psychiatrist diagnosed me with an anxiety disorder and PTSD. A few months later I got into a terrible car accident, and I almost died. I was put on more drugs. I must say that during the first year of my recovery, before the psychiatrist, and during initial treatment - before the massive drugging - I was doing much better. I was in graduate school, I had gotten my first job, and I had a lot of friends. It was quite a change.
Everything exploded when I was put on Adderall XR, after another diagnosis of ADHD. I became manic, and psychotic, for the first time, and I was deemed bipolar. Instead of attributing it to the medication, the psychiatrist mistakenly diagnosed it as iatrogenic. Because of this, I spent the next six years on a combination of 8 psychiatric drugs, which induced insane behavior. I lost two jobs, loads of friends, and my health deteriorated. I was hospitalized twice, I developed pre-diabetes, a movement disorder, bladder problems, female problems, my large intestine ruptured, and more. I was urged by friends to seek a second opinion, but I was too scared to tell another doctor about the psychotic episode. Because of that I had given up on myself.
I ran from therapist to therapist, and they were frustrated with me. The extent of my deterioration is unfathomable, even to me. I became dependent upon my mom, who stayed with me for years, as I became confined to my house because of the drugs. Finally because of ill-health and the insistence of a primary care doctor who had gotten to know me and believed that I wasn't really bipolar, I sought a second opinion. I went to a mood disorder clinic, and they told me that they believed it was medication induced. Over the past year, I have been withdrawing from 8 psychiatric drugs. I have already gotten off of 6, and I am almost done with the 7th. I have had no mood problems. I am just physically sick and highly anxious. I also feel completely alone. I am unable to work.
This is getting really long, and I am sick just talking about it. I'll wrap up by saying that despite the problems I am having, I am much better than I've been in years. I am spending time with friends, and I'm getting out into the world. But the feelings that have been masked by the drugs for so long, and the dignity that was stripped away from me because of the psychiatric drugging - the feelings associated with that, haunt me every day.
And psychologists seem unwilling to admit that their profession could make a mistake like this, although I have read that this type of abuse does happen.
Overall, I don't' know how to move on from here. I just know that I need to find some support.
Thanks,
KT
This post is going to seem unfathomable to most people, I'm sure. That's usually the reaction I get. Usually when people tell stories of problem upon problem upon problem, as I am about to tell, people react by saying that person just likes to complain, or that person is just a weirdo and has problems. That's usually the reaction that I get. And that's just my problem. When I read this account, even I have that reaction. That's why I don't like to write about it. It sounds like a badly written horror story. I agree. But it's entirely true, and I urge you not to shy away from it, just because it sounds extreme.
Here's my story, or part of it at least.
My trauma began in my childhood. My grandfather committed suicide when I was 5 years old, and my father immediately began drinking heavily and physically, emotionally, and mentally abusing me. From 5 to 15, my dad chased me in the corner, and told me he was going to, "Break my *^%&^%ing neck," as he put his hands around my neck. I cried out to my mom to help, and she would softly ask him to stop, but it didn't do any good. When he would leave, she would leave too, only to come back hours later and tell me that if I wouldn't have dropped the wet towel on the floor, he wouldn't have gotten so mad. That was his biggest annoyance - wet towels on the floor. You would think I would've learned. This isn't even the worst of it. The worst of it, to me, are the things that I did secretly to cope with the problems in the house, and the guilt that I had in response to it. I felt like a horrible person, and I felt so different from my peers because of it.
To be honest, I can't stand even writing about this, so I must be brief. Otherwise, I'll just give up on writing it. I was an only child, which, to this day, I believe compounded the problem. Add to that extreme bullying at school, and nothing was safe.
After I graduated from high school, I went to college, and rebelled. I felt entitled to it. I drank heavily for about two years, and I felt like I finally fit in. It was a carefree time, and I had a lot of friends. It was the first time I had made friends. It all came to a halt when I got involved with a professor who promised the world to me. Needless to say, I was naive and looking for someone to solve my problems. Up until that time, school was my identity. My dad had always said that if I didn't succeed in school, I was nothing, and I believed it. When the relationship with the professor didn't work out, basically when I found out that he had gotten another student pregnant, and he was having an affair with one of my other professors, my image as a perfect student was shattered, and my belief in the educational system shattered. School always got me through, and now I didn't have that. A few months after I ended it with him, I was raped by one of my friends. I turned into a zombie after that. For the next year, I turned to a bad relationship and daily drinking. I had been in therapy the entire time, but it didn't help much. I also sought help from a psychiatrist who prescribed an antidepressant, but I didn't like how it made me feel, so I stopped taking it.
I managed to end the abusive relationship after a year, and I decided it was time to take responsibility and to begin my recovery. And for that I needed other people. I joined a recovery group. Six months later, my anxiety was still very high, and I sought more professional help. A psychiatrist diagnosed me with an anxiety disorder and PTSD. A few months later I got into a terrible car accident, and I almost died. I was put on more drugs. I must say that during the first year of my recovery, before the psychiatrist, and during initial treatment - before the massive drugging - I was doing much better. I was in graduate school, I had gotten my first job, and I had a lot of friends. It was quite a change.
Everything exploded when I was put on Adderall XR, after another diagnosis of ADHD. I became manic, and psychotic, for the first time, and I was deemed bipolar. Instead of attributing it to the medication, the psychiatrist mistakenly diagnosed it as iatrogenic. Because of this, I spent the next six years on a combination of 8 psychiatric drugs, which induced insane behavior. I lost two jobs, loads of friends, and my health deteriorated. I was hospitalized twice, I developed pre-diabetes, a movement disorder, bladder problems, female problems, my large intestine ruptured, and more. I was urged by friends to seek a second opinion, but I was too scared to tell another doctor about the psychotic episode. Because of that I had given up on myself.
I ran from therapist to therapist, and they were frustrated with me. The extent of my deterioration is unfathomable, even to me. I became dependent upon my mom, who stayed with me for years, as I became confined to my house because of the drugs. Finally because of ill-health and the insistence of a primary care doctor who had gotten to know me and believed that I wasn't really bipolar, I sought a second opinion. I went to a mood disorder clinic, and they told me that they believed it was medication induced. Over the past year, I have been withdrawing from 8 psychiatric drugs. I have already gotten off of 6, and I am almost done with the 7th. I have had no mood problems. I am just physically sick and highly anxious. I also feel completely alone. I am unable to work.
This is getting really long, and I am sick just talking about it. I'll wrap up by saying that despite the problems I am having, I am much better than I've been in years. I am spending time with friends, and I'm getting out into the world. But the feelings that have been masked by the drugs for so long, and the dignity that was stripped away from me because of the psychiatric drugging - the feelings associated with that, haunt me every day.
And psychologists seem unwilling to admit that their profession could make a mistake like this, although I have read that this type of abuse does happen.
Overall, I don't' know how to move on from here. I just know that I need to find some support.
Thanks,
KT
