Dec 312010
 

So, I come to the end of another year as a mental health blogger – and, judging by the fact that I have not given up on the whole endeavour, as I expected I would, I must be doing something that is not quite as shit as the stuff that clings to the pipes leaving the toilet that deals with the majority of my IBS-ridden concerns. At least, I hope that is what it means; I still don’t think much of what I do here, and don’t really understand the moderate success this site.

Anyhow, there is almost fuck all other than this blog to show for another year of respiration, though I have a suspicion that my customary verbosity will disguise that fact admirably in the forthcoming prose. This time last year I wrote a review of the seven months I had then been blogging, and find myself amused that a period of nearly twice the length in question – ie. the 12 months of this year – is full of much less material of any meaningful worth. I may be able to count this blog as one thing that has been worthwhile in 2010 (and I do), but to be honest, there is almost damn all else.

I mean, 2009 was shit – but at least some stuff actually happened.  For instance, I lost my job in a mental health charity for being a mental health charity case. I received my first proper diagnoses, catapulting me to the ranks of a proper mental. I developed psychosis and watched myself sink into a spiral of dissociated mess. I was ordered to murder my baby cousin on Christmas Day. Fun? No.  Not at all. But at least it was vaguely interesting: shit actually took place.  This year, analysing it retrospectively, has been mind-numbingly, uneventfully, unwaveringly dull.

But, re-engaging my narcisssism gear, let me attempt to dissect something of it, in a fashion similar to that employed this time last year.

TEH BAD!!!1!!!!eleven!!!!11!!!!

In 2010, I hated, became frustrated with/annoyed by, and send poxes in the general direction of:

  • my abject failure to kill myself (pathetically, at that) at the start of the year. It wasn’t my finest moment, but it’s a sign of how desperate I was…well, obviously it was a sign of how desperate I was – people don’t tend to attempt suicide because they’re bored or think it will be funny or something. Anyhow, it was not so much the really woefully awful suicide attempt that was such a ‘bad’ thing; it was the infernal, hateful, despicable A&E extravaganza that became the attempt’s incidental and dubious side order. I don’t even think the relevant post captures the overwhelming feeling of one’s brain decaying before one’s very eyes (not literally, obviously. I mean, obviously! But it certainly felt that way on a metaphorical level). Certainly not one of my more enjoyable all-nighters.
  • the cessation of therapy with C. I can’t provide you with a link to a specific post (this takes you to a list of posts about him) because, despite the fact that I was booted out of his care in August, I have still been unable to bring myself to review the final sessions on this blog – or, even, in my own mind. I (audibly) recorded the final (I think) five meetings; my rationale for doing so was that I knew there would be material discussed therein that concerned my lengthy anti-discharge complaint (see below) – stuff that the Trust might well be inclined to deny. Evidence, in other words. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve tried to lie to me.  Anyway, a by-product of such aural subterfuge was that I had all the material to capably write-up the final sessions – but the thing is, I can’t bring myself to listen to any of it. I accidentally clicked on one file in iTunes the other week, and upon hearing C’s soft voice, to find how much I still reacted. It was a bizarre, indescribable combination of regret, disgust (at him and his employers), longing, bitterness, sadness, hypervigilance and bewilderment. And thus it all remains unwritten – for those of you that seem to derive some sort of vicarious enjoyment from my therapy session reviews, I apologise.  But hopefully the stuff with Paul (see below) suffices?
  • the endlessly circular and frustrating palaver with the Trust complaint and Mr Director-Person. Seriously, what utter, utter cunts. Every time I got a letter from the putridly elf-like Mr D-P I felt violent, primal urges which had hitherto been alien to me. What an unspeakable wanker. Seriously, what a twat! A fucker of the highest order. Bellended fucking cockhead. Bastarding, twatting…Sorry. I could rant all day. Moving on (…), the more he became a jargon-obsessed, targets-driven fuckstain of absolutely evil fuckery of cuntitude, the more tenacious and pissed off I became, to the point where they actually had to take him specifically out of the picture and instead involve Mr Chief Executive. I’m currently waiting on my medical notes detailing my entire psychiatric history and a meeting with an advocate (see below); thereafter, I am taking up an offer from Mr C E to meet the Head of Psychology and the Assistant Director of Mental Health to “discuss the way forward”. I fully intend to win this fight.
  • dealing with the realisations – or, more accurately, dealing with admitting the realisations – of my childhood abuse in therapy. See here, for example. However, I class confessing to C about the sheer extent of things as a positive development, so in that sense see below. The hallucinatory fallout from the admission wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, however.
  • the worry that my family had found this blog (which suddenly exploded all over again yesterday). That would have been a disaster of the like I have never experienced…but, through all the clouds of the associated drama, I saw one slither of silver shining through: I will not be silenced because of those arseholes. I’ve banned suspicious IPs from reading and will continue to do so as necessary. If the family are reading, if they don’t like what I write here…well. If they don’t like it then they can go to hell.
  • the fucking DLA changes and the comprehensive spending review. Nearly as effective a manual for suicide as that penned by Geo Stone in 2001.
  • the recollection of the gang rape. It’s always been something on the fringes of my awareness, and I suppose I was compartmentalising - something at which I am highly skilled – and hiding it away. In a sense it’s a good thing that I admitted it to myself (to Paul – see below for more on him), but although I know that intellectually, it was still very, very hard to ruminate on.
  • planning, and un-planning, to kill myself (again) at the start of October.  This is bad from all angles: if you are a nice anti-mentalist who for whatever fucked up reason thinks I am remotely less than shite, then you might be sorry that I so deeply planned this, and that I know exactly how to do it should the compulsion consume me once more. If you’re me then you see it as a bad thing too – I still can’t even end my life successfully.  Another moronic failure of a not-necessarily-difficult task. How much longer will this silly little dance continue?!
  • feeling the effects of the intensity of my new therapy with Paul was difficult. In the long-run, such intense work is a good thing, I’m certain – but in the short-term, it frankly fucking sucks.
  • going mental in Newcastle.  Actually, I look back on this with a certain amount of humour – I mean, an (admittedly, in the grand scheme of things, low level) experience similar to Cotard’s Delusion is quite amusing – but it was horrible at the time. I wrote that post whilst bizarrely feeling quite hypomanic, but shortly afterwards I was lying in a toilet somewhere retching and shaking like the local crack addict going cold turkey.  Not. Nice. At. All.
  • the usual perennial misery of Seasonal Affective Disorder, plus general late-year malaise and more side-effects of therapy.
  • meeting (and having A meetmy alter, a child that I’ve taken to calling Aurora. I hate her. I don’t know what else to say; her manifestation was – and is – an enormous development, but beyond expressing my abhorrence of her, I don’t know what I should discuss on the matter. She sucks.  The end.

TEH GOOD!!!1!!!!eleven!!!!11!!!!

But in 2010, I derived joy, pleasure, satisfaction or hope from:

  • changing my name via deed poll at the start of 2010 – in order that I may be dissociated from V, the human male responsible for a spermatozoa implanting itself into an ovum produced by my mother, and his kin, Georgie and Merv – and am still confident that my decision to do so was the correct one.  My mother hasn’t entirely come to terms with it, and perhaps she never will, but that’s her issue. It is amusing to watch the rest of the family try and almost perpetually fail to remember it. I find myself wondering if they would be so forgetful if I had changed my name through marriage. I suspect that the outdated cunts would not be thus disabled.
  • meeting NewVCB, my new consultant psychiatrist, in January of this year. That first meeting was perhaps slightly dubious, but in fairness it was just after I slit my wrists (see above), so it wasn’t the best time for the encounter to take place. In general, the relationship is a fairly good one, and I do think she wants the best for me.
  • Seroquel, as prescribed by the aforementioned NewVCB in the aforementioned first appointment. Life-saver. Stick your anti-psychiatry wank up your arse; this drug has not only saved me from probable section and possibly a descent into completely florid psychosis, it has also saved my very life. I don’t give a fuck if you think I should be “mindfully breathing” and not accepting “overly pathological” “labels” (a term I loathe with a passion) and the ”Big Pharma conspiratorial pushing” of these “mind controlling” drugs. I really could not give less of a fuck. Seroquel has made my life less shit. (Oooh, wah wah, it’s a placebo man, don’t you get it, haven’t you examined the real evidence [yes, that utterly non-biased body of 'work' - why, actually, yes - I have!], wah wah wah, gaaaah, mmmmmooooaaaaannnnnn – look: do fuck off, people. The record is stuck and it’s getting fucking boring now. Cheers).
  • another diagnosis: this time of complex post-traumatic stress disorder. I get the impression that NewVCB isn’t entirely keen on the application of what she terms ”emotionally unstable personality disorder” (I much prefer the DSM’s ‘borderline’ myself, as in reference to my specific case at least I find it a more accurate description of the condition – not true of all those thus diagnosed, I know). It is, after all, the most stigmatised diagnosis in psychiatric history, for reasons that I still don’t entirely understand. Anyway, being diagnosed as having C-PTSD was a positive thing in the sense that I could perhaps start accepting that maybe the fault, if there indeed is any apportion-able blame, for my turning out as the unemployed and unemployable tosspot that I am lies elsewhere, and is not as internal as I often attempt to portray. (Hmm. That’s easy to say…).
  • lovely blog awards of joy. I don’t write this journal for such recognition, but it’s certainly an honour to have some sort of impact on others’ lives. Firstly I received a runner-up’s prize from Mental Nurse, later a ‘Top 25 PTSD’ Award from Medical Assistant Schools, then in early December a ‘Top Ten Health Blog‘ award from Blogger’s Choice Awards and finally, completing the circle, more from Mental Nurse in the form of first place for both the ”Personality Disorders” and “Psychotherapy” categories (there were a few others along the way, too). I can’t work out what I’ve done to deserve these, but I’m delighted and humbled nevertheless. In all sincerity - thank you.
  • admitting to C just how chronic and systematic my experiences of child sex abuse at the hands of my uncle had been. I mean, putting it into actual, verbal words. I had been completely incapable of saying what needed to be said for weeks (arguably months, arguably even years), and finally doing so felt like an achievement for some reason. It’s just a shame that when I was finally able to let him peel back all those nefarious layers that he kicked me out of therapy. Cheers, NHS!
  • this blog celebrating its first birthday in May. Yay! I’m still so glad started to write it.
  • a holiday! Yay yay :D
  • the Mad Up – a carnival wherein a range of UK mental health bloggers descended upon a London park and, later, a London pub, to meet the faces behind the writings. It was truly a privilege to meet such an amazingly courageous and charismatic group of people, and I enjoyed their company immensely.
  • PAUL!!!!! A similar yet somehow distinctly different type of therapist to C, Paul is very, very definitely A Good Thing. I knew that as soon as I first met him, and the consensus from my A, my friends and those of you that comment here seems to be universally in his favour. I consider myself very fortunate to have met him, especially when I had been so (unfairly) dubious about the Nexus Institute.
  • telling Paul that my abusers psychologically tortured me too. I had told A of this, but I had been drinking on that occasion – discussing it verbally in an entirely sober state was something of an achievement, I felt, even though I can’t quite work out why that is my view.
  • Twitter and the Madosophere, once again. This year I’d particularly like to thank bourach at Conversations With My Head, Phil Groom, the artist formerly known as Lola Snow, Autumn DelusionsBippidee, Magic Plum, Useless CPNMaybe Borderline, Seaneen, Karita, Zarathustra of Mental NurseSplintered Ones, Sanabitur Anima Mea, and Titflasher. <3 to all of you, andindeed to many more – I’ve felt particularly supported and/or entertained and/or understood by this lot, but it doesn’t mean that others haven’t been brilliant either.
  • My wonderful friends - Daniel, Brian, CVM, Annie, K, and A’s family and friends have all been brilliant this year, as they are every year. For those of you that read this – I think it’s about five of you – thank you from…no, not the bottom of my heart; I don’t want the arteries leaving said organ to squirt blood all over you, after all. Thank you from somewhere much more psychologically meaningful; the part of my brain that controls positive feelings and affection.
  • A and Mum. Mum has her moments in which she frustrates me, but generally our relationship is fairly good at present, and she has been mostly supportive throughout the year.  A, as ever, has managed to not kill me in his own quiet, unassuming way, and I am perennially grateful and touched for his love and support.

Site Info

I moved this blog from its previous home at http://serialinsomniac.wordpress.com to the self-hosted domain with which you are now familiar in January 2010.  I think it was about half-way through the month and at that stage the blog had about 17,000 hits, mainly from referrals from other blogs and sites that quoted or linked to my drivel.

As you can see from the relevant section of the right-sidebar, I now have over 200,000 hits. Some of the volume has been from being listed on blog aggregation sites and whatnot, but most of it now comes from searches. One advantage of self-hosted WordPress blogs is that it’s easy to install plug-ins that make relevant posts easily found by relevant Google searches.

In worldwide terms, 200,000 hits is what some blogs get in 10 minutes - but Confessions was never intended nor expected to reach such heady heights, and to that end I am grateful for what is for me a surprisingly high amount of visitation. Moreover, I am grateful to and platonically in love with all the personnel behind the statistics – I am now in the enviable position where I can class several of you as real life friends, and even where that is not the case, I care deeply about all of you that comment, read regularly, and engage via other media such as Twitter and Facebook. Thank you all.

The most frequent referrers to this site are StumbleUponTwitterBlogSurferBippidee and Mental Nurse.

The most read post by a substantial margin is Thoughts on the DLA Changes in the Budget, with over 5,000 unique hits. To my utter astonishment, the words ‘DLA changes’, a term that one would have expected to lead to a governmental outline of the modifications of the benefit, renders this post as the first result in some Google searches. Wow.

Other popular posts are:

The most read static pages are, probably unsurprisingly, About the Autho (2,300 hits) and The Alter Ego (900 hits). All of these figures are rounded up or down to the nearest 50.

The most popular search terms landing here are ‘(confessions of a) serial insomniac (blog)’, ‘dla changes [or many analogous terms]‘, ’c-ptsd‘, ’akathasia‘ and, rather amusingly, ’nadine dorries‘.

[EDIT: Over Mental Nurse, I've just noted some of my favourite random search terms that seem to have fuck all to do with most of what I write.  I thought I should include them here too.  They are: 'marsha linehan is a fucking bitch' (well said!), 'mum sex' (um...), 'psychodynamic masterbate [sic]‘ (oh yes, give me some Freudian lovin’), ‘already oppressive with his worthless refrains, will perhaps be the ultimate exterminator of our human species—if separate species we be—for his reserve of unguessed horrors could never be borne by mortal brains if loosed upon the world. if you think that that’s a frightening thought then consider‘ (OK, not really so random – the quote is on the sidebar.  Still loved that it got here, though) and ‘day of the triffids sexist‘ (yes, gender disenfranchisement was my first concern when giant carnivorous plants decided to take over the world and eat everyone and everything.  Politics is so important at such a time).  If you were one of the above searchers, thank you for entertaining me throughout the year! :D

EDIT II:  Just spotted these gems in the stats of recent days: ‘thefundingmentalists‘ (don’t know why but it made me laugh – I’m guessing it has something to do with the spending cuts, and is therefore wonderfully appropriate),’will she fuck someone else bpd‘ (yep, all we can do is whore about; there is literally nothing else in our lives ((*watches this blog vanish forthwith*))), ‘hate it blog‘ (yes, given my general nihilism, I probably hate it too), ‘illusion of child rape small xxxxx‘ (what the fuck?) and possibly the best: ‘how will i say goodbye after suicide?‘ (well, I suspect you’ll have to haunt your loved ones, because I don’t think your vocal chords are going to do it for you).]

People most often leave Confessions to head over to Conversations With My Head, Bippidee, Splintered Ones, Writing Myself Sane and Mentally Interesting (alas, the last two are no longer writing, at least for now. Love and hugs sent across the blogosphere to both Ophelia and Seaneen).

The most popular day to date on this blog was 23 June 2010, when there were 2,586 hits in total.

So Long, and Thanks for all the Fish

No, no, no, fear not: I’m not quitting blogging just yet – I just felt like saying that. I’m just signing off from this post, and anyway, it’s a nice phrase (if a strange one for those not familiar with the reference). In the absence of this quote, the title for this conclusion would have been ‘Meh’ or ‘Blah’ or something, and I thought an Adams allusion, inappropriate or otherwise, would be slightly more interesting.

I’m not enough of an optimist to start wishing everyone who reads this blog a happy new year, as I know mental illness and related maladies don’t necessarily lend themselves well to such hopes.  Furthermore, I know that the new year can be intensely triggering for some people – myself included, though mercifully not quite to the same degree as some (my main trigger of winter is, of course, Christmas). Still, the whole thing reminds one rather acutely of the inherent pointlessness of life and, in my case, the pointlessness of my life.

But, in some nebulous way, there is always the small chink of light somewhere that dictates that maybe, just maybe, the next 12 months will be vaguely less bollocks than the previous 12. So if you’ve had a tolerable 2010, I wish you a tolerable 2011. If you haven’t, I wish you a much better cycle of existence this time round.

Either way, you all have much love, affection and virtual hugs from little old me.

P <3
xxx

Oct 012010
 

I am scared of psychiatrists.  In fact, my lovely GP excepted, I am generally scared of medical doctors full-stop.  I think that quite a few are incompetent, overpaid megalomaniacs who become disillusioned with the personnel necessarily involved in their chosen career all too quickly, and whose over-the-top professional cynicism grossly deters patients from seeing them to the point where it could be dangerous.

But I am not anti-psychiatry.  In fact, I find some of the claims and terminology bandied about by the anti-psychiatry lobby to be, by turns, hilarious and personally insulting.

Psychiatry is Just a Pseudo-Science!

But of course it’s a pseudo-science.  All science, to an extent at least, is pseudo in that parts of it will have tenets that are based on ‘mere’ theory as opposed to proven, demonstrable results, and psychiatry is no different.  I believe some parts of it can be proven – more on this later – but on the parts that cannot be, or have not yet been, the discipline is no different from any other hard science out there.

Furthermore, psychiatrists themselves will be the first to admit that their particular brand of medicine is not perfect, at least in part because neuroscience is still so poorly understood.

Indeed, would you dismiss the discipline of neuroscience itself merely because it’s investigative and highly speculative?  What about astronomy, cosmology?  Marine biology?  Even human biology to some extent – let’s say stem cell technology.  Clearly a promising field of medicinal investigation, but still very much at a preliminary stage.  Quantum physics has not yet produced a unified and complete theory of everything – do we dismiss it with such ease?

Point: psychiatry is like every science – it seeks to investigate issues through testing and examination with a view to obtaining results that back up or discredit existing theories.  It is dealing with the mind, which is housed in the brain – a poorly understood organ, even now – and, moreover, it is dealing with the unpredictability that is people.  These things, quite probably, make it imperfect, but that does not make its contribution to medicine and to patients invalid and contrived.

It’s a Big Pharma Conspiracy!

On this one, I believe there is a difference between the USA and the UK.  Certainly so-called ‘Big Pharma’ markets its drugs to the NHS, which is then co-funded by prescription charges (where applicable) and those paying national insurance, but individual patients here do not pay in the more traditional sense.

Currently prescriptions are free of charge to everyone in Northern Ireland, though I don’t believe that this applies to the rest of the UK.  Even where prescription charges do apply, they’re something like £7, which – relative to the overall price of the drugs, anyway – is fuck all really.  The point I’m making here is that this means that, for the most part, the NHS has to fund psychiatric (and other) prescriptions.

Anyone who’s followed my story of my battle with the fucking Trust will know that the NHS is completely obsessed with finances and cost-saving, to the point where it frankly endangers the lives of many.  To that end, in my experience, they simply will not prescribe you expensive drugs unless they feel strongly that they are necessary.

As an anecdotal aside, with no disrespect meant to anyone, I personally believe that most British and Irish NHS doctors/buyers are far too cynical to fall for ‘Big Pharma’ bullshit in the first place, unless they see a clear link between Drug A and Improvement.

Point: the ‘Big Pharma’ conspiracy may or may not have weight in some parts of the world, but I think it’s applicability is very limited in this jurisdiction.

Psychiatric Medication is a Form of Social Control…!

I got lambasted on Facebook the other day for making a remark criticising censorship but defending medication.  Apparently all psychiatric medication does is act as a tool of censorship.  ”Take the meds like a good little girl – either that or stop banging on about censorship,” the woman ranted hysterically, as if Facebook had newly developed into a dystopian A Clockwork Orange-like world of indoctrination by medicine.

Riiiiiight. I have been taking some form of psychiatric medication since I was 14 – that’s nearly 13 years, and nearly half my life.  I do remember what things were like before it, however – both the good and the bad.  My experience has been that what medication has done for me personally, the stuff that works anyway, is to help me become more like the person I was before mental illness (which apparently isn’t real – that one in a minute!) struck me with the force that it did as a teenager.  It brings me back to some semblance of what I used to perceive as ‘normality’.

I have not become some vapid, compliant, brain-dead bitch because I have taken it – far from it.  In fact, the opposite is true – in general, I am fiercely anti-authoritarian, I am extremely intelligent and because of psychiatric medication I was able to get through school and get myself two degrees.  Anyone who has read this blog should surely to be able to attest to the fact that I am not at all under the influence of some sort of evil tool of social control.  If you think that I am then sorry, but I’m not the delusional one here.  Kindly fuck off.

If you think that I am simply an anomaly, please go and speak to the hundreds of other mental health bloggers, Twitterers and Facebook users out there who take psychiatric medication and are not some degraded servants of the big, bad state.

To be fair, I recognise that particularly strong medication such as Haloperidol can turn individuals into drivelling nobodies devoid of any personality and moral agency, and I agree that use of such drugs is appalling – in general.  If someone is in imminent danger of being violent, though, I can see the need for such tranquilisers.  I think it’s horrific, but I think that it can be – on occasion – a necessity.

I can’t speak for other parts of the world, and in fact I can’t speak from experience either as I’ve never been a psychiatric inpatient, but I really believe that in the vast majority of cases, the hideous days where One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest was a daily grim reality are gone from UK medicine.  People are only forcibly drugged to such grotesque extents when there is a clear and imminent need for it.

Point:  psychiatric medications are only used for ‘control’ purposes when there is some sort of utilitarian reason, such as a need to protect a number of people from violence.  Otherwise it’s merely there to treat illnesses, and is offered to people, not forced upon them.

…No, wait!  It’s Not Social Control, It’s Just Placebo.  That’s What I Meant.

So what if it is?  It isn’t, but so what if it was?  A placebo effect is still an effect.

Anyway, I beg to differ; I quite simply would not be alive but for Fluoxetine and Quetiapine.  But why listen to me – I’m just the indoctrinated fuckwit who is compliant with the evil medics and who erroneously just thinks she’s experiencing a beneficial modification in brain chemistry.

Since I am no longer taking Fluoxetine, I’ll concentrate on Quetiapine here:

Study One
Study Two
Study Three

You might also be interested in taking a gander through Neuroskeptic’s neuroscientific archives.

For the sake of brevity (insofar as I am capable thereof), that’s all I’m going to include here for now, but feel free to ask me for further studies should you wish to do so.

*ponders*

Augh, screw it.  Here’s one I liked on Fluoxetine (specifically on how it works) after all.  Now I’m done.

A friend of mine recommended I read a book called The Chemical Cure dealing with the supposed myths of the benefits of psychiatric medication.  I intend to do so, but one criticism I have of the book before even having picked it up is the inference that medicine purports to be a ‘cure’.  It isn’t a cure.  Medication is nothing more than managerial, so the terminology is, I feel, misleading.

In a case like mine, where it can be reasonably argued whether correctly or otherwise that a mental illness is induced psycho-socially, medication can make things less bad, but if the disorder(s) can be cured (and I am not convinced of that), then it is only through proper, individualised psychotherapy.  Just because medication is not a cure, though, does not mean that it is necessarily unhelpful.

In a case where one can reasonably argue that the illness is more organic in nature – and I know supporters of anti-psychiatry dismiss that as a possibility, but indulge me for a minute – medication specifically doesn’t claim to be able to cure; it is prescribed for the management of the disorder in question.  Maybe people can be ‘cured’ of things like schizophrenia, and maybe they can’t.  For now, though, the most provably effective management of such an illness is medication, in conjunction with therapy that helps the sufferer manage specific symptoms when entering or when in ‘an episode’.

Point: medication is imperfect, but for many it is very helpful.

But the Side Effects!  They’re so Insidious and Evil, and You Weren’t Given All the Facts About Them!

I find this an incredibly insulting argument.  Of course I know about the fucking side effects.  I know they suck arse.  I don’t like them and I don’t want them.  I did, however, know about them.

Just because I am mental does not make me incapable of reading, asking questions or weighing up the pros and cons when making a major decision.  I know that both Quetiapine and Venlafaxine, my current medications, are some of the most horrible tablets side-effects wise that are out there.  Nevertheless, I made the decision, based on all the information, to act on my consultant’s advice and take these drugs, because on balance I hoped and believed that their positive indicated effects would outweigh their negative side effects.

This has, indeed, been the case.

Point: don’t insult our intelligences, please.  We have mental health problems, not IQs of -7,293.  Even in the unlikely event that our psychiatrists or GPs don’t tell us about the nasty side effects, we can very easily find them out for ourselves, then weigh up whether or not we feel the bad outweighs the good.

Mental ‘Illnesses’ Aren’t Even Real!  Stop Pathologising Our Humanity!

I actually find this one hilarious, because it is so far removed from most people’s experiences of mental ill health that it’s absurd.

  • Person dies.  Person left behind is depressed.  That’s humanity.  Fair enough.
  • Person gets raped, person develops depression.  That’s humanity.  Fair enough.

In both of the aforesaid, it’s certainly arguable that no mental illness is present.  Nevertheless, it doesn’t mean that psychiatric intervention is a necessarily evil thing.  It doesn’t mean it’s a good thing either.  It’s an individual matter.

Now then…

  • Person gets raped.  Person dissociates (a human coping mechanism, arguably).  Person is fine for years.  Then person develops severe anxiety, depression, yadda yadda.  Person starts self-harming as way to cope and tries to kill his/herself.  Person becomes volatile to be around and enters fugue states randomly.  Person may hallucinate and/or experience delusions.
  • Person has no known issues of trauma.  One day when person is 25 (s)he starts seeing/hearing talking settees on his/her route to work, and eventually befriends them.  Person starts to believe that (s)he is God’s personification on Earth and talks to Jesus, who can be heard (but not seen) by person but not by person’s friend.

Whether trauma is or isn’t present, how such extreme examples can just be seen as ‘just’ humanity is frankly beyond my comprehension and – at the risk of sounding arrogant, I have a high IQ and can see most viewpoints on most things, regardless of whether or not I agree with them.  Arguably there is a sliding scale between a ‘normal’ reaction to something and an ‘extreme’ one – but therein lies a notable point: if a reaction is extreme enough to cause significant and enduring psychological distress, then it is evidently extreme enough to warrant treatment.

Humanity is a very individual concept, and what is ‘normal’ for one person is obviously not necessarily so for another.  Additionally, we all suffer mentally to some extent or another at times in our lives, and would be inhuman if we did not.  Nevertheless, where our ‘humanity’ is exmplified by extreme behaviour and mental agony, help is clearly needed for us.  Psychiatry can, through the process of conceptualising symptoms and possibly prescribing medication, been one avenue amongst several to offer that help.

Point: mental illnesses are real, regardless of whether they are psychosocial, biological or something else entirely.  It almost doesn’t matter whether or not that specific is agreed upon – what is surely undeniable is that mental suffering exists, and in extreme cases thereof, psychiatrists can be of assistance.

Other Points to Note

  • In the afore-referenced Facebook discussion, someone said that they wanted me to make an informed choice regarding medication (as clearly I am incapable of same on my own).  Assuming I had suddenly managed to become informed after so obviously having no conception of anything to do with the medication prior to the person’s incredibly insightful comment, they told me that they would not judge me for my decision. However, the use of scare quotes and derogatory terminology, as often seen being used by many people who hold these beliefs, spoke very much to the contrary.  It is clear to me that whether consciously or, more likely in fairness, unconsciously, those of us that are not anti-psychiatry are constantly being judged and looked down upon by many of those who are.
  • I believe in the effectiveness of psychotherapy, but just like the psychiatric medication so derided by the anti-psychiatry lobby, it is a highly individual concept.  CBT, DBT, life-coaching, NLP – this, to me, is all complete and utter wank.  To some it may be life-saving.  Psychodynamic therapy was helping me (the only reason it did not continue to do so was because it was cut short, not because it was per se shit), and I believe also that analysis could do so.  For others it may drive them to suicide.  No talking therapy may work for some people.  Ditto lifestyle changes, ditto herbal remedies, ditto whatever.  The point is that treatment for mental illness/pathologised humanity/distress/whatever you want to call it is by its very nature highly individualised, and there is no one size fits all.  For some, psychiatry has no place.  For others, it does.  Denying, stigmatising or shaming those people who choose to utilise psychiatry has exactly the same effect on society as anti-psychiatry supporters claim psychiatry itself does – that of censorship, a removal of choice, a degrading of an individual’s personal agency.

Conclusion

Despite the tone of the forgoing, I am actually not anti-anti-psychiatry – not conceptually, at least.  What I am anti is anti-choice.  Most people will claim to not be anti-choice, but I have to say that I think that some ardent supporters of the anti-psychiatry movement, through their belittling terminologies and vehement contempt of medication, are effectively putting themselves in the role of a ubiquitous, societal decision-maker.  I think that that is wrong.

On a related note, I also find the proselytism of some members of this lobby to be grossly offensive, because it again strikes me as being an attempt to remove choice, and assumes that I do not have the mental capacity to have reasoned the relevant issues in my own mind.

Anti-psychiatry has got some things right.  Some historical methods of psychiatric treatment were vile beyond description, and defied even the most rudimentary understandings of human rights.  To a lesser extent, hardcore medications such as Haloperidol do the same when they are used as chemical restraints – though, as argued above, I firmly believe that this is only done in the most extreme of circumstances, at least in this country.

And therein lies a point – just because things might be ‘OK’ in the UK, it doesn’t mean they are elsewhere.  We must therefore demonise psychiatry, right, so that those nations where disgustingly outdated and demeaning practices are ongoing know that what they’re doing is evil?  Er…no.  We must show that it doesn’t have to be like that, and that regulation, rather than prohibition, is an absolute must (as it should be in any medical or caring profession).

Medication is not a ‘chemical cure’, and although I have provided a critique of that above, let’s be honest here – for a long time that was exactly how it was treated.  By some GPs, it frankly still is.  That, to me, is exactly why psychiatry is a necessity: GPs do not and cannot have the refined, if flawed, understanding that specialists do, and are thus more likely to simply throw drugs at you.  A psychiatrist may feel that your case may be better dealt with by therapy, or different drugs, or a combination of both.  But drugs are not a cure, whatever the case, and perhaps anti-psychiatry can be credited for originally making that point (though I’m not sure).  Nowadays, however, as noted above, no one feels that medication is a cure.

Do psychiatrists exist to serve the will of ‘Big Pharma’?  As I stated above, perhaps to a certain extent they do in some jurisdictions, and if indeed that is the case, then I am grateful to the anti-psychiatry lobby for raising awareness on the issue.  As I stated, though, I am not sure how applicable this argument is to the nationalised healthcare we normally see here in the UK.  Additionally, even if psychiatrists are plying patients with medication because ‘Big Pharma’ says so – well, it doesn’t necessarily mean that those drugs are shit.  They may be over-marketed, but that in itself does not mean that they are of no value. They are only of no value if they are of no value, not because their manufacturers are cunts.

Finally, yes – sometimes mental distress and, indeed, our very humanity is over-pathologised.  We all experience worries, anxieties, low periods and traumas, and mostly it’s just life.  Existence is not all fun and games, nor should it be.  Bad things happen, bad feelings result.  That’s life.

But it’s not all just life, is it?  The demarcation line is blurred, to be sure, but there’s normal human suffering and then there’s severe and enduring mental distress, of the like unimaginable unless you have personally experienced it.

And this is the whole point; the only point that ultimately matters in this whole debate.  No one is asking for permanent happiness; life is about mere tolerance or, at best, accepting contentment.  When we are at our lowest, our worst in whatever form that may be, and when that’s beyond a normal life experience or is chronic in nature, in order to achieve some contented state of being – or, frankly, to even come remotely close to it - it is only natural and right that we seek help.  For some, that help may be something as simple as a modification in diet, or a daily walk.  For others, it may include meditation or a talking therapy.  For some, it may be psychiatry, whether alone or in conjunction with other treatment(s).

It is not evil to look to a psychiatrist for help in easing mental agony.  For some of us, it is a simple necessity.

Please try and leave dogma and damnation at the door on this issue and remember that we are all different – and that it is crucial to our most fundamental human rights that we are allowed to remain so, in whatever field of play that may be.

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