The Actual, Official Diagnosis

I received my actual, official diagnosis of bipolar disorder about a year after Lexapro made me crazy. I had resisted seeing a psychiatrist, because I believed no good could come from it. I was right. No good came from it. But I had to do something. The Lexapro had triggered a malevolent and persistent process in my mind, I kept crashing into vicious and non-functional depression. Finally I made an appointment with an academic psychiatrist, Dr. M.C. Big mistake. A truer biological psychiatrist never lived. She interviewed me for about one hour and twenty minutes and then casually tossed the words "bipolar disorder" and "lamotrigine" at me, and then she rushed off to her next appointment.

Dr. M.C never had a real conversation with me. When I tried to get some explanation at our next appointment, she merely said "you have an illness of the brain." I'll never forgot those words. She was dismissive. There was no explanation an no support. I walked out of our appointment in a daze. And it never got any better after that. The doctor that cut up my knee spent about an hour and a half explaining everything to me. He answered all my questions. The doctor that labeled me "bipolar" acted put upon when I tried to ask her for an explanation.

Nobody ever has talked down to me like Dr. M.C. and her colleague Dr. Mo. I encourage every person who contemplates seeing a psychiatrist to think about the implications. Chances are you will be labeled, with very little evidence, your health care will suffer because of the label, you will have to live in a society that disparages you because of the label. In my experience, nothing good will come of allowing yourself to submit to psychiatry. Think about it. Think about it some more. And stay far, far away.

Branded for life like a cow

When my primary care doctor closed her practice, and left me flapping in the winds of the Lexapro aftermath, I was close to losing everything I'd worked for in my life. I'd enjoyed a good reputation as an excellent litigator, a fair-minded person, a good and loyal friend, an honorable and worthy adversary in the courtroom, and a damn funny wanna-be stand up comic. I had a good sense of self, built on my own principles and my relationships with others. Then that was ripped apart by a drug reaction, a subsequent label that was applied to me and the stigma that follows to this day.

My outgoing primary doctor decided that, based upon my adverse reaction to the Lexapro, "You're bipolar!" As her final gift to me, she wrote this insight into her transfer memo to my new primary care physician. My new primary care physician has therefore decided that I'm a med-seeking nutter that somaticizes everything, and really there's no need to take anything I say seriously. Our conversations consist of "I'm not going to prescribe you any narcotics, Peggy." Um, okay, I mentioned that I'm having headaches, doctor, I did not ask you for any narcotics. I just want to know if I need to see someone about these headaches. Actually, I hate the way narcotics make me feel. Ahh, the joy of being pigeonholed.

Once a doctor labels you as a nutter, your health care will suck. It's just the way physicians think.

Bad to worse--suicide becomes an option

Lexapro made me crazy in an enduring way. I was crazy for months. It's hard to describe crazy. I've never been so frightened in my life. I would have lost my job, were it not for the fact that the people I work with supported me fully. I would have lost my mind and ended my life were it not for the fact that I kept the faith that I was experiencing a temporary drug reaction. I came close to losing my life to impulsive sucidality, before I realized that it was induced by a legally prescribed drug that I took exactly as my physician directed. Even after I realized that, it was hard not to give in to the impulses screaming at me "just do it! Pick up that gun and shoot. SHOOT YOURSELF!"

Lexapro introduced a brand new evil demon into my life; a demon that wanted me dead. I locked up all the guns, It took some of apart and stashed the pieces around the house so they were unuseable; I spent long hours and days thinking of everyone I would hurt if I killed myself, to keep myself alive. I thougth of how the action of killing myself would send ripples of pain and negativity out through the world of the people I care about. How deeply immoral and unethical that act would be. I thought of ways I could kill myself and make it look like an accident. I formed a plan. I sought comfort in the plan. Tomorrow, I would tell myself, tomorrow. And then I wouldn't do it. The pain would lift. I'd become hopeful. I'd be okay for a couple of weeks. And then it would start all over again

Over and over, the effects of Lexapro kept coming back to haunt me. And the crash and burn would start all over. After a year of this, I decided I should see a psychiatrist. I thought this would help me begin to get better. Instead, it sent me on a path that made me much, much worse. Within two years, I'd be sitting at my desk counting pills and calculating my body weight. I was going to shuffle off this mortal coil on that Sunday night. But then my sister called and the ethical objections returned, and I lived another day--another 8 months now, actually. And I've begun my separation from psychiatry and psychiatrists. I think that's the only way I'll ever get my life back to a healthy balance.