#The one that made me try to kill myself was venlafaxin by the way .

[psychabolition]

...the psychiatric drugs they kept prescribing me over the years were making me lose my mind entirely ,bit by bit . I suddenly had random blackouts that made me forget everything about myself and my life and which made me "wake up" in foreign places., theyve made me suicidal , Ive had stomach aches because of them and brain fog . Less energy and extreme insomnia -once I spend several days being wide awake with 0h sleep because of them. my meds have made me relapse before. Once they've changed my personality so much that it was literally like a chemical lobotomy - no thoughts no feelings no motivation , docile and obedient . , Ive experienced withdrawal that lasted over a month and that literally made me try to kill myself because I thought that it would never end .Ik for sure that if Ive never gotten 'treatment' at all I would be doing better today .

[alloutofhoneynutcheerios]

Ok I’m gonna spew here a bit:

It’s 1am and I’m wide awake not able to sleep I’m not sad or overthinking I’m not beating myself up about not knowing what the fucks was happening on the precal exam I’m not thinking how I used to think and it’s so fucking refreshing It’s 1am and I’m actually fucking content Look how cute and happy I am

It’s 1am. About 6 months ago I attempted suicide. Last semester at 1am I would be so fucking sad and cutting and feeling alone and like I’d never be the me I want to be

It’s 1am. I was dumped 2 weeks ago (our one year anniversary would be in a few days) and yeah I’m still heartbroken but I actually feel better than I did when we were together??? I’m actually taking care of myself more and focusing on me and who I want to be and what I want to do. It’s not that he did anything bad, he didnt at all. And yeah whenever he ended it, I wanted to do all I could to change his mind. But I don’t feel that way anymore. I feel like I’m actually becoming myself again. After the attempt (and then after the psychotic episode induced by k2 that I wasn’t aware of) I felt very very very not me. I felt so isolated and had really intense disassociation all the time. When I overdosed, I heard things and saw things and I felt like a different person. My mom didn’t seem familiar at all and I could not wrap my head around the fact that she was my mom. Everything was so fucking scary and the whole time I was wishing I’d just die already. But I didn’t. I’m SO GLAD I didn’t. But that fucked with me. I slowly the next morning started realizing what happened and tried to make sense of everything. I went to a crisis center in downtown San Antonio where I was the youngest person in a long stark hallway of older men and women all in blue paper scrubs. My roommate was a scary lady who yelled racist fuckery to the black nurses and guards. She called me her wide eyed Bambi. I was so scared she’d strangle me in my sleep. There were no doors- not even in the bathroom. People got into fights in the hallway. (There was only one that had several rooms with two small beds in each). When I got out I still couldn’t believe any of it had happened. The two days I was in that center with no light or time made it immensely worse to comprehend that I almost died and it was because of me trying to. And then I had to go on through life as if I was fine. Go to school. Take exams. A month later I had a psychotic episode because a boy gave me k2 and told me it was weed. I felt like I was having a heart attack and told him to call an ambulance and he refused. I called my friend to help because I couldn’t remember the address and it was getting hard to talk and have control my body. My heart was the fastest it’s ever been, everything was fading to black and I saw myself in a hospital bed with both of my parents and younger brothers (all younger than they are now) and doctors. They were trying to get me to wake up and telling me it was ok to let go if I wanted to, but to try my best to come home. I didn’t know what was real. I lost all control of my body. It was dancing on the ground to a routine that I don’t know, but in that other reality I knew it. I could hear Séamus on the phone with Molly and I knew he still wasn’t calling an ambulance. But I couldn’t talk or control anything. It got worse and worse and I was taken through a whirlwind of short scenes that I couldn’t tell if it had happened, was a dream, or was currently happening. Everything was scary and somehow linked to a real memory making it even worse to tell what was actually real. He pulled me up and had me sit on the couch to wait for an ambulance finally. As I sat down I started crying and spaz dancing on the floor again. This scene I was in- I was being tied down and was about to be raped and I was trying so hard to scream. Suddenly I was on the floor. I heard EMS come in and try to check my vitals and call the fire dept to come help me down the stairs. My heart was so intense and my body movement started to mimic it. I was beating my chest and the floor in the rhythm of my heart beat. They asked if that was my heart and I nodded yes. I could nod! they asked if I could talk and I shook my head violently. That’s all I could fucking do. I felt a tube down my throat and saw myself on a rolling hospital bed in a hallway with tons of lights. I felt IVs in my arm and cold fluid. My hand covered my mouth and my chest pumped up and down as I saw myself getting hit with a defibrillator. They asked if I could breathe, if someone was not letting me talk, and why I was moving like that. I couldn’t answer and I started hitting my chest and the floor again in tune with my heart beat. The EMS guy taking my blood and blood pressure asked me what medication I was on. He knew I couldn’t talk so he started guessing. I yelled Prozac. Spun my head, and my hands started beating faster and faster. I yelled venla. I heard him say “venlafaxine?” I couldn’t respond anymore. I couldn’t even nod. I kept fading back to the other reality that started feeling more real than the floor of that apartment. They called in another EMS crew to come watch me dance on the floor. Everyone except the guy asking me questions and taking my vitals were watching me in amazement. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. This kid is straight up dancing on the floor! You gotta come see this” “how do I explain this one to the wife” “oh my god is this a new synthetic?” “This looks like an exorcism pray to the lord” Suddenly I was strapped in a bed and was carried down stairs by two firemen. I was put into an ambulance with a man and a woman who took good care of me, checking my vitals giving me an IV to help flush out the k2 and talking to me to bring me back to the real reality. Before we got to the hospital I could talk in sentences. I asked about the teddy bear in the door handle. The guy showed me their huge bin of them. I went on and on about the teddy bears and how cool and nice it was that they had them. So they gave me one. We got to the hospital, they gave me my glasses and I said “wow it’s nice to see faces to your voices, I was starting to get scared that you guys weren’t real” and they giggled and wheeled me to a bed. On the way I stopped a nurse and said “did you guys know they get 350 teddy bears a WEEK?!” and she laughed and asked them what was wrong with me. They whispered k2 and she was like oh god I was shaky and scared and not myself for a long time. I had real real bad disassociation for a long ass time. And now look at me. I’m doing fine and I look good and I’m not mega underweight anymore (I had gotten down to like 90lbs back then which is very underweight for someone 5'6") I’m seriously so fucking proud of myself for making it through both of those events. When I think about them I realize how goddamn strong I am. I’ve had a lot of shit happen to me in my life and I’m not letting it drag me around anymore. Look at me. Would you expect that I nearly killed myself recently? I look like an average pretty happy girl, right? look at me. I’m here. I made it.

[mebeingserious]

(c.) End 2012 - Early 2013

- - #1

#Based On A You Story. Blinking cursor.

Peep my Doogie Howser blue screen. Peep my blue light. No bloc festivities, streamers, or tails to pin anything on. Pin that shit on yourself, B. Take responsibility.

“Pin The Tail” had a Max B verse on the original. Do with that knowledge what you will if what you will do is reimburse me for my strong miscellany-fact-brain game. I refined it through the arthritis of those on my personal Mt. Rushmore.

I’m unknowable, really. You should get to un-know me.

And it was an inside job, btw. Egged on by the peanut gallery, flipped the switch, gave you a parachute and some mumble-mumble about how the chlorophyll’s gonna be stunning.

I’m just another human cat, word to Grass Green. Don’t treat me like the grassy knoll. Leave them stones turnt all the way down.

But that “you” isn’t you, that’s you’s on you’s on you’s. UUU, if you will. Gotta not have it.

New swatch alert. Here. Peep the texture and the hues. That’s the interior.

Cam’ron in a Utah Jazz throwback staring back at me through a phone’s reflection. [||]. You right, you right.

Captain Quirk but the Captain Crunch Dog at the same damn time. Pretend it’s two months ago, though.

Your last.fm recent plays leave you vulnerable, if you think about it. I thought about it.

I need to remind myself I don’t do this for the little or the big dunns. Everyone needs to get their Lex Luger on from time to time. B.Y. Before Yokozuna.

So I say that to say this: “Can’t call it, might spoil it”

Performing tune-ups with some VBRs and possibly, 192s. You can only crash so many planes before you start frisking yourself in the airport.

Further and farther are in full effect. But then I remember “that’s when the money starts running” and Stoicism, and put it in hands I once knocked down.

- - #2

Spot ‘em, got ‘em. I got dirt on you, doggie.

But God made dirt and dirt bust your ass.

Or my ass. I know too much. Internal Spy vs. Spy.

I saw those stars. Had my radars up. Tangible air.

One minute it’s in the constellations, the next sixty-seconds it’s a “Superthug” if.

Hella.

No, not you. The other. But you? You’re putting together a 150-piece in the dark.

Me? S.O.L. S.O.S. But I’m like Private Ryan. So you can save that.

Oh wait, I forgot that motherfucker survived.

Anyways, haardships.

My window’s been closed but at least I have a window. But it’s lowkey amazing that a window is even a thing.

I just did what Game did with the coaching of the fat producer on ironing Dickies. But you don’t hear me, doe.

Do you hear me, doe? This is the Gawd.

He doesn’t take requests but he’ll play me, though.

But really, I did that. Sorta like what Kane said on “The Symphony.”

Anyways, indecision.

He who hesitates in peace is even worse.

The pyramids didn’t get built by throwing stones or sitting on them. But I fucked up when I entertained the E.T. theory.

I’m the man now, dog. But really, without the seven you’re not Sean Connery. You’re just…

Anyways, alternate universes. That exist in shared thought bubbles.

But that’s the only place they ever existed, nah?

But let’s thought experiment. Does that outcome satisfy?

Or is it just better than hearing a single echo against drywall?

I can give you advice on farther but my track record is a stumble out the blocks paired with a horizontal starting gun, finished off with a somersault. 1.0 - 1.0 - 1.0

Got gotted and spotted.

Need is whatever you think it is.

But try to take my arm and leg and I might be that shoe with the band between the big toe.

You can have a symphony composed of c-notes in that porcelain but if you don’t embrace that internal Hammer … well. Basslines don’t come across well in sign.

You can go on and be Big L’s Rocafella debut, but you don’t know voodoo.

But tangible is good. I mean, Tough Luv holds up pretty well eight years later.

I guess I misunderstood that originally. Or I tried to understand too soon. He was right when he said “…or rather me.”

- - #3

The last verse on “Pyramids” without the sonic context.

Strikes Back. In the Empire. They say it’s their favorite flick.

Swore my hand waved to me as it fell, in that “Hi, Hater” motion.

Took off that mask and it was a mirror. No disrespect but there’s truth to it.

Anton Chigurh in the guidance counselor’s office basically saying “heads or tails.”

Saw it with the old man. In the alt. section of the universe it was Batman Returns.

Trying to lucid dream about the Northwest in 1996, but I’m better off sleeping. And peeping those trees with the date emblazoned in a reddish orange beneath their stumps.

Subsidized Napoleon complex had me fighting on the wrong side. Got did like Waterloo.

Manila envelopes addressed to that British newspaper. Don’t you know this is the Empire?

Telepathy returned to sender.

Heard “boo” from that pocket-sized frame.

But ghosts only come for your wig when you turn your back.

“Whoa” ain’t me, that’s Black Rob.

Speaking of that song…

Come to terms with endearment.

You chose the ball and you joined me in breadth.

Another one chewing dead skin, dirt particles and textile fibers.

Carly Simon. Bet.

What came first, the wound or the egg that provided the shells that were stuck in the soles?

South West here like Northern OH. Something something “talent.”

Indecisive travel agent that forgot to build a plane.

I saw the white plates, the blue plates, and now they’re yellow. i.e. I’ve seen the Empire crumble.

Let an ocean talk for me.

What the fuck is portamento? Not worth it.

Waking up to a foreign vocabulary test. Appealing. No comprende.

Opted-in because I was loyal to the wrong things. Minus the fuckboy-isms.

He was the Pookie of venlafaxine.

Caesar: Judas.

Conversational anesthesia. Was on that Freud shit.

Liked the yellow yoshi that stomped and the one with wings.

And you can tell a lot about a man by how he uses a warp whistle. Button on the VCR.

Meant to hear Tiến Quân Ca in person but couldn’t. If he saw the inland, I wouldn’t.

Lucas Arts revisionist tip. Script = flipped. And now…

Telling the emperor “We don’t need to see all that.” I’ll say it.

And maybe worth it. But no capitulation. The sign fixed.

- Carly.

“You, Me, Him and Her” gets played twice.

The first one’s near Luxor, prolly.

Gut snitched.

Us couldn’t stop dreaming, then I couldn’t get to sleep. Both.

“I fuck around and have you sleeping underneath something”

But that last verse, though.

- - #4

Pop culture hustling and cocaine references are the way to my heart. My heart is sullen and abandoned; full of un-shatterable Pyrex-brand measuring cups.

Or is it. Racially ambiguous inquisition. Internal. In-terminal, I keep ticking. So, maybe occupied.

Don’t knock it. I’m taking out this time. To compose choppy sentences that stop before they start because I’m so non-fiction I might call myself Tumblr Game Tom Wolfe.

Looking back, YN really inspired me with his Letters From The Editor. But nah to that “Ha!”

Flirting with disaster because she sent me a flick. Y’all are too literal. Down to the ‘I’m so crazy.’

Meanings on top of meanings. Princess and the Pea. That now archaic Jay-Z and Kanye interplay. References need a new hard drive. They’re making that grindin’, too busy to stay up-to-date sound.

I’m not looking at your dues, I’m looking past you. Why are ghosts see-through but you can’t see through what you can see.

Peter Piper was too fucking picky. End of story. Citing Antwan Patton in MLA style. If you want the references, you gotta pay for this. I accept Juelz. Pay the pause forward.

Subtle is my subtitle. You can read or watch. An internet quiz will tell you what that means for you and your personality.

John on the run eating. But wasn’t gaining.

Acting like shenanigans in loosie, but there was no explaining.

No, no, no. I’m not you, rapper.

Jesus H. Pylori. The church of disrupted insulin function and latter day faints.

Glue where the flex be. Vampires that never heard about the smallpox blankets. Paul’s Boutique sample count. Dust, brother. Trying not to bite down.

That admittance, and the small BIC. Alluhdat.

Three letters. Now I feel alluhdat.

Maybe knowing in retrospect is the win. Like when they extend those legs and and hold their hands in a state-enforced half-hearted semi-prayer position saying “I hope this provides closure for your family.”

A & B convos. Split-tests. More like a two and eight.

Good things surface for those that hold elevators. Or something.

Lost the top about fitty-leven times. No lojack. Find it, then repeat. Dementia. Kojack.

No lolli. Point the finger, no Rollie. No handle, no bars. Just folly.

Was on that “If I die, I die.” Life Game Ivan Drago.

Try to be a fatalist. Unexciting Mortal Kombat finishers.

Marcus Aurelius darts onto the screen to kill the opponent with mercy.

No hip hop genius to help you. Y’all Nah Right sidebar. Newsy. Your quotient can’t save thee. Or thou. Or you. Let’s say you.

Because I’m like Jason Bourne asking himself about that one birthday party when he was an age that gets spelled out by the Associated Press. Hope unseen sequels don’t kill my simile.

We’re all trying to live facsimile’s meaning if you said it quick. Gender neutral, though.

Don’t, doe.

Because reflection requires dedication. Three’s ain’t always charming. There’s precedent. See the millionaire trying to kickflip.

I’m not a walking version of the back of the teacher’s edition history/sociology/psychology combo cost-saving textbook.

Slight of hand. Converse with it.

Phonte’s monologues on the last two from Get Back.

That’s the point. Nipsey Russell.

[medicatedcretin]

Update 24-04-17

I haven’t been writing because there hadn’t been a lot to write about. Which is good. Right now, it sounds like heaven. My thoughts were taken up with mundane stuff. Or maybe a part of me was afraid to acknowledge the storm what was brewing. Right now, for roughly 75% of the day I’ve been feeling this intolerable exhaustion in my entire being, radiating through my soul. The feeling that my nerve endings are on fire. I find myself twitching involuntarily. The truth is, I’ve been fighting. For weeks, I’ve been fighting my ass off. I’ve been riding the edge of this wave, determined I could slide back down the other side to safety with my partner at my side and without the help of Dr. Lorazepam, Diazepam or his evil cousin, Dr. Venlafaxine. It started with the bloating. I was being woken up around 4-5am with this feeling of discomfort because I felt as if my belly was about to pop. Pressure under my ribcage was causing a near constant dull pain. Usually I could ignore it but at night it kept me awake/woke me up, tossing and turning and trying to move the gas around so I could...you know... let it out. Even if this happened, nothing helped. The feeling and the pain, real or imagined, remained lodged inside me like a pill in your throat sideways. The feeling plagued me, driving me insane. I began taking 2 Seroquel to sleep when it got bad. Once the bloating/pain was tolerable again, I’d drop down to one, or a half. Eventually, I wanted to be off these things too, and I didn’t like the idea of knocking myself out at night just so I could sleep through this shit. But hindsight, the see-sawing of this medication was probably a mistake and may have contributed to the following Epic Crash. But, after a good nights sleep or two, the stomach was usually better. But then it would get worse again. I recognize now that the reluctance to take the Seroquel (the seesawing) was driven by a Bad Thought: this “I can’t medicate myself to sleep every night to escape the pain” and “what happens when I can no longer sleep without these, or worse, even WITH these”. Those are the pervasive, obsessive thoughts that get into my brain and speaks to me via my subconscious, fairly screaming in my ear, poisoning me and leading me into the Very Worst Place. People who don’t get anxiety will never understand the difference between a bad thought and a Bad Thought. Those thoughts that are more than thoughts, they are part of the Anxiety and they have teeth and nails and they catch & tear on their way through the mind, causing a perceived damage that smarts every time another thought passes close to it. They come right from your core, your Soul, if you believe in that -  the part of you that knows you absolutely through and through, the part of you that is Truth. And when anxiety reigns, those Bad Thoughts are everywhere you look, and you can’t identify them until it’s too late, if at all. Then, they’ve got you.

It’s like when you try to describe the most terrifying dream that you’ve ever had to someone - one that wakes you up shivering and sick and breathless.

When you describe it, all the other person hears is the description - you can’t convey the horror. The nameless, senseless and all-consuming horror where reason and logic checked out long ago and basic human raw terror reigns supreme. Even now, I feel stupid to think I could beat this monster on my own. I can’t. I just can’t.

I’ve now well and arrived in that Worst Place, and here, when it gets bad, the Dark Thoughts rule. They surround me, suffocating me. They are threatening to pull me under.

But I digress. Backtrack - to a week ago. I went to the doctor for these pains ad the bloating. My regular doctor. He told me all the gastro pains are to do with my anxiety. I would have to go back on the meds. I was not ready to hear this. I wanted to be told my gastro problems were their own thing, that they could be fixed. Of course - I wanted to hear that I could be fixed.

I left feeling like I’d been shot. I was a blubbering mess. I worked so hard to get off those fucking things - went through all kinds of hell except this one - and I wasn’t ready to hear it.

A few nights later I was bordering on Panic Attack City and we went back to the After Hours, desperate for something to be done for my stomach before...I guess before I completely lost the battle to the anxiety that was threatening to overcome me. I was more worried than ever that I couldn't cope if that happened.

They sent me home with nothing. Nada. Zilch. The doctor said there was nothing they could do for me. The feeling I had then was what I’m going through now, just thinking about it. “I’m done” screams the Bad Thought. “There is nothing anyone can do for you. You’ve failed at this and now it’s too late. I have you now.”

I handled this news surprisingly well. I think maybe a part of me had decided, or was clinging to the idea, that I could go back on the meds if I needed to. I was not at that stage where I was willing to cave yet, but I had that in my mental arsenal. I managed to force distract myself for a day or two more. Luckily, the Easter show was in town and I was able to go there with a friend.

The next day I went to a new doctor (I had already had this appointment but the previous nights’ visit was more of a panic-driven one). She was optimistic about the GI problem being physical, even possibly causing the anxiety. She booked me in to see a specialist on May 11. It would prove to be far too late.

A few days later, after a few more sleepless nights, and I went to meet my partner after work in a hysterical mess. I was still blaming the stomach pain, (although what made it worse is that I couldn’t justify the word “pain” it was an all-consuming discomfort that I couldn’t ignore. Much like anxiety. But on the “pain scale” it would have registered maybe as a constant 4 or less). So we went to the A&E in the hope that their gastroenterologist and bypass the month long wait we’d been given by the doctor.

She gave me codeine for the pain and laxatives to deal with its complications, and sent me home. Strike three. I had several panic attacks that night, but I got through them.

I went home, took two Seroquel, and slept OK.

Next day I was on shaky ground, but OK. I decided to come and visit my parents in CHCH, (I live in Auckland) which gave me a good few hours of feeling purely excited and panic-free. It was magical.

Then, at the airport, my flight was delayed by 2 hours. Panic attack city. By this stage (and during my bad patches in the days leading up) I was having serious suicidal thoughts. Not “I’m going to kill myself, how would I do it” but serious consideration. I was in that intolerable position where I couldn’t bear to do it, and I couldn’t bear to not do it. The was No Option for me. Up to this point I hadn’t taken any lorazepam or diazepam, but I probably should have. It might have prevented the following crash. But maybe it was inevitable.

One of my Bad Thoughts centres around this. “What happens when the Lorazepam doesn't work? What do you do then?”

My second night in Christchurch landed me in the emergency room. I was psychotic and panicking like I haven’t in years. It was the worst psychotic break I’ve had since before I came off the pills. I had already had 1mg Lorazepam and it had done absolutely nothing. I was having waves of it, alternating passing out from exhaustion and bashing my head with my hands and screaming.

Since then I’ve been on Diazepam, which I have no idea if it’s even doing anything, since these Bad Thoughts still seem to be everywhere. I have periods of feeling optimistic, and sometimes it just ...disappears completely. For a few moments at a time it’s like I just check out of my own mind. And then I am sucked back in and it all comes crashing down on me again.

I am 100% sure that I am not able to get out of this one on my own. My only glimmer of hope at the moment is that a) I have brief moments where I am myself again and 2) I will get better again on the pills. I can always come off them again but right now, I cannot do this on my own. God knows, I’ve tried.