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Wednesday, November 13, 2013

Doctor Notes | Pretty Little Poison Pills

I paced incessantly and then sat down. Then I got it up and did it over and over until the assistant came in and started asking me questions.

He asked me why I was there. I explained the pain that went from my fingertips and all the way up my left arm to my neck. Then I told him that I thought this had been caused by my many years of taking antipsychotics. 

I waited a minute for his response all the while thinking…"Doctors Number Two and Number Seven didn't believe that these meds could still be in my system after all this time…Wonder if this one will be the same?" Somehow I knew in my gut that wouldn't be the case this time. 

He actually asked me about my diet. What?! I know. I was flabbergasted. I explained that my diet had done a 180 degree turn around and I was juicing and eating clean. He said that was a good start. 

"It takes most people years to get them out of their system."

My inner voice said, "Oh, shit…it's time to do the 30 day detox. There goes my beer." at the same time as, "FUCK."

I told him about my EMG results. They didn't have them even though I had them sent. He went to look for them and I was back to my pacing ritual, but not for long. 

The doctor was all in white. It was very odd. Even her shoes were white. She was wearing a white short sleeved coat. Her hair was dyed jet black, but it was pretty. She was pretty, but more importantly she was nice. I did like her, but it will take more than me just liking the doctor to inject those teeny, tiny pretty poison pills of the rainbow into my body. No more of that for me or my cleaner body. That's what got me into this fucking mess in the first place.

It made me recall a conversation over the phone with my psychiatric nurse with me asking why my medication needed to be changed yet again.

"Why do I need an antipsychotic again? I haven't seen anything since the postpartum psychosis I experienced." 
"It will help regulate your moods. You're sinking into depression again, aren't you?" 
I felt shamed. "Yes," I whispered.

At the end of my examination the doctor asked me how this has progressed to what it is now. 

"It started in 2009. I remember that when my father was in the hospital that my hand started moving at night. I also clenched his hand too hard when I held it with that hand. It was uncontrollable, but I didn't tell the doctor. She did take me off one antipsychotic when she noticed a weird mouth movement at one of my appointments, but she just put me on a different one the very next day." My inner self shook her fist at herself. What the fuck had I been thinking? I hadn't been thinking. I had been fucking drugged up like a motherfucker.

"It is clear that your tardive dyskinesia is progressing. Let's get your cervical spine MRI first and then we should revisit the conversation about botox in your neck and the medication," she said and the visit was over.

It was over for her, but for me the journey to wellness will be a long one. It's progressing? What the fuck? How bad will this get? Can it get worse? Oh, god.

I'm not one to give up so easily. I can and will eliminate these toxins with my body.  I did some research on the internet about everything I found that seemed relevant. I found some holistic remedies. More importantly, the research led me to a plan of action. And a plan of action is enough to get me started, plus it will reel in my depressive qualities. 

One thing is for sure and I will not budge. No more fucking pretty little pills of poison for me. 

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