I don\’t really know what it\’s like to live a life where I am not dependent on pharmacology.

Once I hit fourteen I was introduced to the world of psychiatry. The first prescription I was given — Zoloft — made me hallucinate and delve into a realm of mania that I had not witnessed prior. My doctor and parents, at the time, didn\’t believe my complaints that the pills made me \”unable to feel the ground when I walked,\” and so, head strong and wigged, I stopped taking the pills. Abruptly stopping them made me have more panic attacks than usual, so Ativan was introduced. Darling, it all goes down hill from there.

Keep in mind that this was the mid to late 90s at this point (context is everything), and I was kinda sorta in high school. While my friends were gathering every day to smoke pot and occasionally drop acid, I was exploring my way through the FDA\’s Substance IV category and how those drugs related when combined with Life and everything available on and off the shelves. During the few time frames between 1995 and 2002 when I was not on some sort of prescription medication for mood or behavior modication, all I can remember is a constant state of Complete and Utter Wiggage.

For some reason, for a long, long time I thought that life with Total Wiggage was better than taking the pills. I had it in my head that never sleeping or sleeping too much, that constantly having panic attacks or crying fits, and that having little to no impulse control was A Good Thing because it meant I was Keeping It Real. That was me — for whatever reason, the complete and utter trainwreck was me. I was meant to be that way. Doctors and pills were just interfering, keeping me from reaching my potential, forbidding society to accept who I really was. Real artists are morbidly depressed or insane, right? They don\’t need no stinkin\’ happy pills. They need to feel the pain in order to be alive. They\’re the real voices. Forcing me (literally, physically forcing me as was the case for a few years) to take my medication against my will was only another sign of oppression, man! They were OPPRESSING my FREE SPIRIT.

Unless you have been where I have been and come out in the place where I have come out, you probably have no idea how hard I was laughing as I typed the above. How silly I now realize I was being. How completely and utterly disturbed. Every now and then I still find myself accidentally stumbling upon a person who believes what I used to, and I feel a part of me that I have long tried to tame drawn back toward that way of thinking. The Mind Freedom Support Coalition International way of life, to an extreme.

I don\’t agree with enforced behavior modification, nor with psychiatric coercion or any number of things that Mind Freedom also do not agree with. On the other hand, I see no reason why people shouldn\’t be allowed to take something that will help them cope with life when they can\’t cope on their own. I find it interesting that many MFSCIers are pro-pot legalization, but against drugs like Zoloft — for many people, the two have the exact same effects. For some people, both drugs help, and for others, one or the other may; then there are those of us with whom pot and Zoloft both make us hallucinate.

I definitely think I\’ve been fucked numerous times by the mental health system, but unlike many MFSCIers, I still believe that there should be a mental health system — I just think it needs a lot of work. And that should be work that everyone should be willing to participate in, not just people who have been effected.

Today, just like at any other point in human history, society can suddenly decide to point a finger at you and decide you need to be fixed, or maybe that you\’re not even worth fixing. More than half of the people in my family have received some sort of treatment for mental health issues, ranging from \”talk therapy\” to electric shock treatments. I\’ll be the first to say these things work… but only when used appropriately. You can\’t make someone \”better\” against their will, after all.

These days, society is fairly accepting of some forms of mental health issues, maybe even overly accepting. Unhappy? Don\’t feel like going out? Take a pill. Is your puppy looking down? Give the puppy the same pill. Anxiety about the current economy and being unable to find a job after two years? Take a pill. Relationship problems? Here, both of you take a pill. Pills, pills, pills for ev-er-y-thing.

I have a pill that makes me sleep. I have a pill that keeps me awake. I have a pill to take for the pain. I have a pill to make sure I shit. I have a pill to moderate my allergies and another pill to combat allergy attacks. I have a pill for the inflammation and a pill for the bloating. A pill for the cramps and a pill to cause numbing. A pill to help me breathe and a pill to slow the breathing down. A pill to keep the bleeding from getting out of control, a pill to stop the bleeding, and a pill to make the bleeding start. Lots of pills to regulate vitamin intake. A pill for energy, a pill for relaxation. A pill to get me in the mood and a pill to keep me out of it. Pills. Every freaking damn day, pills.

I am so reliant on today\’s pharmacology — a lovely, socially acceptable drug addict. Guaranteed to absolutely wig my fucking shit and fall apart should a situation arise where I cannot get my medication. Travel emergency? Government restrictions? Hostage situation? Crash landing on a desert island? Lost or confiscated hand luggage? Economic collapse of the drug market? Drug companies stop making my medication? The retraction of my prescription benefits on my health care plan? Too ill to get to a pharmacy and no one able to go for me? Natural or otherwise disaster that closes all the pharmacies? Sure, life is grand now, but I live in fear. Fear of not sleeping, not shitting, totally wigging, and killing someone or myself because I won\’t have my drugs. Drugs. I need my drugs. A crack addict understands this better than someone who doesn\’t have a dozen life altering prescriptions.