Crisis in mental health My Nightmare: When the Cure Becomes the Calamity

In the desolate landscape of 2019, I found myself teetering on the precipice, consumed by a stress so profound it felt like a physical weight pressing down on my very soul. For five or six agonizing days, sleep became a cruel mirage, flickering just beyond my grasp. This relentless deprivation spiraled into sleep deprivation psychosis, a disorienting journey through a reality that felt dangerously thin, almost permeable. I knew, with an unshakable certainty deep within my bones, that if I could only surrender to sleep, this terrifying fog would dissipate, and sanity would return.

Desperate, I sought out my GP, Dr Bernadette O’ Leary, of The Surgery medical practice, Mayors Walk, Waterford. I begged her for 5mg of Diazepam. 3 times daily, for a month. I knew this would be a lifeline and I believed it would pull me back from the brink. Her refusal was a sharp, unexpected blow. We engaged in what felt like an eternity of agonizing argument, a dance of desperation and medical protocol, until finally, she relented, offering a low dose of Xanax. But her prescription came with a caveat: an insistence that I see a psychiatrist. I rejected the notion outright, I knew that genuine sleep and rest were the only true prescription I needed, they were the sole key to unlocking my escape.

But her prescription came with a caveat: an insistence that I see a psychiatrist. I rejected the notion outright, I knew that genuine sleep and rest were the only true prescription I needed, they were the sole key to unlocking my escape.

I took the Xanax, a higher dose than prescribed, an intuitive act born from a deep understanding of my own body's needs. Within a few days, a fragile calm began to settle over me, and the precious gift of normal sleep returned. Yet, the respite was fleeting. A psychiatrist appointment arrived in the mail, a stark reminder that my GP had acted against my express wishes, weaving me into a system I felt no part of. I had told her I did not want nor need to see a psychiatrist but she is o arrogant that she totally ignored me.

My descent into this nightmare had its roots in an earlier battle, a righteous stand I took as a whistle-blower against my former employer, Waterford Cheshire. This organization, a local unit of The Cheshire Foundation in Ireland, a Section 39 entity, provides vital assisted independent living to individuals grappling with neurological conditions and acquired brain injuries, ranging from the relatively minor to the truly catastrophic. I refused to participate in unethical practices and bore witness to countless breaches of safeguarding protocols, all of which I diligently reported. Predictably, this made me an outcast, a pariah in the eyes of a significant portion of staff – care support colleagues, clinical staff, senior support staff, local management, and even upper management in head office. I found myself trapped in a relentless cycle of bullying and harassment, subjected to insidious lies about my work and ethics, propagated by some of my own colleagues. The CNM 1 Esther Tambe even orchestrated an elaborate setup to make me appear incompetent, but fortunately, my meticulous documentation of every interaction served as my unyielding shield, proving my innocence. My work became a microscopic examination, micromanaged by the acting service manager, Vivien Frolich, and the psychological toll was immense. This, precisely, was the insidious reason why sleep had abandoned me.

Feeling myself on the precipice of a full-blown nervous breakdown, I sought solace at my local hospital. They prescribed Quinapine, at a very low dose, intended to coax me into slumber. This drug is largely successful for this purpose, with the vast majority of people experiencing no issues. But for a minuscule percentage, it is a deadly allergen. I am, unfortunately, with heart-breaking certainty, one of them.

Within mere hours of ingesting that seemingly innocuous pill, I was plunged into a terrifying state of severe mania. My adult children, witnessing my rapid, alarming decline, insisted I return to the hospital. Their words were stark, a grim ultimatum: if I didn't go voluntarily, they would have me sectioned. Resigned, I agreed, and they called an ambulance. I was accompanied by my former friend, Joanne Denn, whose presence was a huge comfort in the escalating chaos. During the intake process, the psychiatrist delved into my medical history, asking if I had ever experienced a depressive episode. I confessed I had, 18 years prior, after the devastating loss of my mother and during a period of relentless mental torture and stalking by my then, now ex-husband, who was, and still is, an alcoholic. For about 11 months, I had been on antidepressants, a period that included a slow, deliberate 10-week weaning process. Hearing this in 2020, the doctor, with a chilling swiftness, summarily diagnosed me as bipolar, without further tests, without further inquiry. I was presented with a stark choice: voluntary admission or an involuntary hold. I agreed to be admitted. Once that label, bipolar, was stamped upon me, I felt as though I lost my very humanity, I lost all semblance of human rights and bodily autonomy. I was no longer a person; I was a non-human entity, utterly subject to the capricious whims of the staff. They treated me with an undisguised contempt, as if I were something vile they had stepped in. Their words were sharp, their tones condescending, their gazes dismissive. I was shouted at, spoken down to, and generally treated as a non-entity. I was put on a bewildering array of medications, each accompanied by the chilling threat that refusal would lead to physical restraint and forced injection. I witnessed a young boy, only 20 yrs old. Stripped naked, restrained in a straight jacket, locked in the padded room, huge windows allowing everyone to see his indignity. This image is burned into my brain. Believe me this sight ensured my compliance.

Among the plethora of drugs I was on was Olanzapine, a truly evil drug with a litany of horrific side effects. The only flicker of light in that dark period was that it had a counteracting effect on the Quinapine, which quite possibly saved my life in that terrifying moment. I began on a tiny dose, 2.5mg, but within a mere three and a half weeks, I was on a massive 20mg daily. I played their game, compliant, a ghost of my former self. After three and a half weeks, I was released, but I was now a shadow of my former sel a shadow cast by the system.

Initially,in the psych ward a strange sense of relief had washed over me. My terrifying symptoms finally had a name, a diagnosis that seemed to explain the inexplicable. But once I returned home, the true nightmare began to unfold. The horrific side effects of Olanzapine manifested with brutal clarity: incessant drooling, slurred speech that rendered my words almost unintelligible, a shuffling gait that betrayed my loss of control, and the disquieting habit of falling asleep mid-sentence, mid-conversation sometimes while eating. I would fall asleep while chewing. I lost the movement in my arms; my daughter had to help me with the simplest tasks, dressing, washing, brushing my hair. I developed Parkinson's-like symptoms: relentless tremors and uncontrolled jerking movements. It took me time, research, and a deep dive into the side effects of all the drugs I was on, to realize the culprit was Olanzapine. Slowly, secretly, I began to wean myself off it, consumed by a paralyzing fear of being forcibly re-hospitalized and medicated against my will being locked naked, restrained in a straight jacket in the huge windowed padded cell.

Tragically, stopping the Olanzapine allowed the terrifying reaction to Quinapine to resurface with a vengeance. Thankfully, I hadn't been taking it as prescribed; I had been told it was an anti-anxiety medication, so I would only take two or three tablets when the panic attacks I was suffering with incessantly became utterly unbearable. Whether it genuinely helped with anxiety, I can't be sure. But within hours of taking it, I would display the terrifying symptoms of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome, the name given to the horrifying condition caused by this drug. The very irregularity of my dosage, paradoxically, saved my life. I've lost count of how many times I visited my GP, presenting with this insidious illness, only to have it repeatedly dismissed as mere stress. Last year, while in India, I fell gravely ill. Without my knowledge, I was once again prescribed Quinapine (though the local name escapes me now).

And since May 4th the year my life has been a relentless, horror-filled roller coaster. I contracted an infection and was prescribed Quinapine for sleep. Ive been in about 12 differing hospitals, I’ve had intravenous antibiotics, countless oral antibiotics. I’ve lost 16kg, including a terrifying 4kg in just five days last week. I've collapsed on the street, experienced violent, projectile vomiting, and suffered the profound indignity of double incontinence, forcing me to wear adult nappies.

Then, last Saturday, in a desperate, last-ditch effort to find answers, I sought out a naturopath. I had been taking this insidious drug almost continuously since May 4th, with only fleeting intermittent breaks. This doctor, with a clarity that was both startling and profound, immediately identified what was wrong. He told me he believed I was allergic to the drug. The sheer enormity of his words didn't truly hit me until I returned home and frantically searched the internet. He had asked me to return on Monday. When I did, last Monday 7th July, his words were a stark confirmation of my near-fatal dance with death: "I'm so glad to see you. When you were here onbSaturday, I wasn't sure if you would be alive today."

All of this, every single terrifying moment, every indignity, every brush with death, could have been avoided. All it would have taken was for just one of the many medical "professionals" to simply pause, to truly see me, and to ask themselves: "Could this lady possibly be allergic to Quinapine? Is she suffering from Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome?" But they didn't. And I almost paid with my life. There is a mental health crisis in Ireland today. Too many people are being prescribed drugs because doctors are being paid big bonuses by big pharma to prescribe them. And many people are losing their lives because of it. Worse, too many are losing their quality of life, being turned into zombies, walking dead, unable to advocate for themselves. My cousin Helen Simpson (Helen Harahan) died 10 years ago due to a drug she was prescribed for her mental health disorder. Unfortunately she is now just a statistic. A young woman, just 44 years old, a mother to two daughters and one son, a wife, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a niece, a cousin. Killed by big pharma in the name of the mighty buck. When will we stand up and say “no more?” I pray its soon.

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