I went to a bunch of doctor rating sites today and rated the doctor who over-medicated me into oblivion.
It was a painful exercise. You see I still have warm, if also terribly conflicted feelings for him. Like I also feel a palpable sense of betrayal and abuse. He destroyed my life all the time thinking he was acting in my best interest and the sickening part is I believed he was. He did many things that were downright incompetent and at best terribly ignorant. He did them with a smile on his face and genuine feelings of warmth for me.
I answered questions honestly on the rating sites. I said he was punctual and personable. I said he listened. The thing is he listened with tunnel vision (tunnel ears?) He knew nothing but his bag of tricks which included drugs, drugs and more drugs—and ECT too. Yeah, he tried to get me to do ECT at one point. I drew a line there. God knows why, I was so smitten with the man.
I loved him. Cliche that that is to love your shrink. I cried in the car as I traveled cross country to my new home. I shed tears feeling that I was leaving someone who cared about me deeply.
Thank god I left that man and found myself and a doctor who really listened—without tunnel ears. Someone who believed me when I figured out it was the drugs poisoning me and ultimately disabling me. What would have happened had I stayed in California. I miss California with a painful agony, but getting away from that man was the best thing that could have happened to me.
Anyway. As I rated him I said what was good about him and I also called him incompetent, ignorant and dangerous.
Someday I will talk to him. Some day when I am off all my meds and I am recovered I will confront him. I need to do it because I still care about him and I need to let him know what he did. It will probably be a lost cause to get him to hear me. I imagine men like that operate in a dark cloud of denial or they wouldn’t be doing what they are doing. But I have to do it. I have to tell him what he did.
Ten years I spent with him as he watched me become less and less functional—a direct result of extreme over-medication—I was on more drugs than anyone I ever met and I worked as a social worker with the “severe and persistently mentally ill.” Not once did I meet someone on as many drugs as me. And in general I was on well over double what most people were on. No exaggeration.
Ten years I took the drugs he prescribed and then the drugs he prescribed to try to ameliorate the side effects of the first drugs he prescribed—all the while being told it was my disease, not the drugs making me sick. Ten years I whined to him about how awful I felt and he never said maybe the drugs are making you sick—he never said take a look at yourself and your life and your mind. He never suggested I might have psychological problems and drug toxicity. He never questioned the diagnosis I came to him with even though there was no reason to cling to it—I displayed no symptoms of mania the whole time I was with him.
I needed to deal with reality. That’s all. And he simply was not clued into reality. Those doctor reviews were painful to do. I hope someone is dissuaded about seeing him as a result of my efforts.