By E.L. Farris and Jenn McRae
My body was twitching. “It’s bigger than me,” I murmured to my business partner.
I shook my head at the phone, and promised to explain later. The thing was, I had no words. How do you tell your business partner–how do you admit to your business partner–that you OD’d on this shit just a day ago, and now your mind, your body, your hands . . . are craving something? I didn’t want to admit it, because if I did, she’d–they’d–take it from me.
I was twitching from the effects of the drug. I came out of my sleepy state to look on the bedside table and realize I didn’t have any more dope. My brain started to scream, where is it, gimme!
I stumbled to the bathroom and there on the counter was the bottle with my fix. Thank God. I shouldn’t . . . fuck. I’m not . . . and I really wasn’t going to . . . I put it in my mouth and felt the instant of relief. Not worrying about how I would be later, what my family would think or how it all would play out, I went back to bed to ride the ride.
This was me . . . after almost two years of sobriety from drugs and alcohol. I worked my recovery–hard. I did all the steps. Told all my friends about my problem. Wrote about it. Indeed, not only did I get clean–I came clean.
How could someone so dedicated, so committed to her recovery get back on the stuff? Well, I’ll tell you. Its name is SEROQUEL and it is prescribed every day and it is
As addictive as heroin.
Don’t believe me? Don’t ask your psychiatrist. When I asked mine about it, she asked me if I was “really just addicted to chaos.” Don’t ask the drug companies. They only submit the “independent tests” that support the safety and efficacy of their products. Don’t ask the FDA, because they’re always the last to find out a drug is dangerous; after all, it takes individuals like me who are willing to tell their stories to make the FDA pay attention. Or their families, after the drug takes their loved one away from them. And if I’d stayed on Seroquel for even another week, that could have been me, riding away in a puff of exhaust and an ambulance.
I’m one of the lucky ones. See, I do and did work the steps. I called my business partner back. I called my therapist. I gave my husband the bottle. I cried, “Please, help me; help me get my mind back.”
But before that?
I was staring at my bathroom mirror, mindlessly swallowing a drug that I did not want. That was me, a week ago . . . a mother of three; a published author; and yes . . . a sufferer of bipolar disorder. The myths and stigmas that encircle mental illness are far-reaching and widespread, but I refuse to be silenced by any of this.
I take care of myself. Therapy. Meds. EMDR. I trust my therapist. I trust my psychiatrist. I remind them constantly that I am an addict. An over-sensitive, over-achieving, monkey-chatterer addict. They cannot, and should not, under any circumstances, give me any type of medication that has ANY addictive properties.
We agreed on this.
And yet despite all of this, for a few days, I teetered between staying clean and falling, hard, back into hell. Did I relapse? Oh hell no. It was like someone poured grain alcohol into my coffee. Maybe I took a few more sips than I needed. But I worked the steps. I worked it hard. And now, 48 hours Seroquel-free, I think I’m going to be all right.
But many other Seroquel users may not be. I write, we write, this story for them. For them, for their psychiatrists, for their therapists, for their family members, and for anyone else who listens to his or her doctors.
Seroquel is a serious drug. Please help us get the word out–from two addicts who think we all have too much to lose.
http://www.mindfreedom.org/kb/psychiatric-drugs/antipsychotics/seroqueladdiction See EMIL R. PINTA, M.D.Source: American Journal of Psychiatry 164:174
To read more of E.L. Farris on addiction, please see: www.amazon.com/Run-Novel-Sally-Lane-Brookman-ebook/dp/B00FQMTRQA/