End of an Era
It’s no secret. I take meds. I take them in the morning, I take them at night. I take them for diabetes, I take them for psychosis. I have taken them for the past four years of my life, with little to no change in the outcome of my mind, starting with the death of my best friend Christopher (oddly enough, I dreamed of him last night). My life still sucks, I still sense things I am not supposed to, whether I am gulping down drugs or dry-docked for the night. My nights and days are the same whether I am on my meds or not, and it has come time where meds are starting to become a chore for me. I feel no therapeutic effects from the medications anymore. To me that’s a signal to either stop the meds cold turkey or find some that do agree with me.
What I am specifically referring to are the psychotropic drugs that I have been on for the past six months or so. They were supposed to make my life better, but I still see it as major suckage, with senses on overload, and my primary care physician is no longer comfortable with prescribing psychotropic drugs for me and wants a psychiatrist to exclusively prescribe them, so I am stopping the meds with the honor of my primary care physician in agreement only because it’s determined that I can no longer afford to see a psychiatrist. Either financially or emotionally. So I no longer need the psychotropic drugs.
See how pharmaceuticals work in this day and age?
I didn’t know a cure was that close!
This also cures my sleeping disorder, but only through my primary care physician. I can’t afford to see a psychiatrist on a regular basis, that’s $40 per session. But Byron, the neighbourhood drug dealer, doesn’t charge for sessions, just a 10% mark up from pharmacy prices, and a bigger guarantee that I will fall asleep or he’ll be back with something stronger the next night! Hey, I wonder if he has something to cure my nightmares while he’s at it?! Probably! There’s no end to what I can get cured when I am in total, one-hundred-percent of the drugs that are dispensed to me from Byron. Now, the only difference between Byron and my pharmacy? They have a license to make the psychotropic drugs I need legal to be sold to me. They care about me as much as Byron does; MONEY! and REFERRAL! Oh, and don’t report them for the mouse carcass in the middle shelf of medication, and we’re sitting pretty. Yes, everyone I know is doing something against the rules and laws. No, I have never turned one in, yet.
What has come to annoy me the most is that I had no warning that I was going to have to get the psychiatrist to renew and start refilling these prescriptions, that, for the past four years, my primary care physician has filled, and was the original prescriber, without issue, for four years. Then all of a sudden, the rug is pulled out from under me. This caused much bitchage from my mother, whose phone I had to use because my better half is using our land line for god-knows-what, and I am out of minutes on my cell phone. Unless doc would take calls at 5pm, I can’t communicate with him through the cell phone, and seeing that he won’t even honor and renew prescriptions that he has been the primary writer of for the past four years, until my appointment on May 10th (a week away), then I don’t see him bending a finger to try and resolve this anytime soon.
No, that is not a typo.
Doc could have refilled my prescriptions with one more refill, that would have lasted me through this up coming visit, and then dropped the bomb on me. But since returning hom from Las Vegas and since I was starting on the road to recovery, and we can’t have that, I am in the process of changing psychiatrists, one to suit the needs of my higher up, and I did not have the knowledge to ask on my final shrink visit April 24th. No warning. No letter. No nothing stating that doc was too
much of a pussy insecure to finish my prescriptions on his own. It doesn’t come as a shock to me, just as an annoyance, as I have been getting my pain medications from a pain specialist/weight loss asshole doctor for over a year now, because my primary is unable to write narcotics for someone in chronic pain. Yet anything my mother asks from him, he does. No matter what. Bent over backwards with the lube in hand, I might add. This just breeds her asking constant questions of me that I cannot answer, so the normal answer is, “I don’t know.” or “He doesn’t know.” and this ultimately pisses her off.
Don’t tell me seeing a therapist is going to be another one of those life-long things that I will forever fear being locked up in a nuthouse for for the rest of my life. I couldn’t live like that.
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