it went like this:
i first went to a pychiatrist while my mother was dying of cancer. before that i had been already prescribed diazepam against panic attacks, the first one i had with 17, i still remember it vividly... anyway. back then my panic disorder wasn't that severe, meaning not the attacks but the frequency. i had one may once, sometimes twice a month, and 10mg diazepam worked wonders against em back then. ah, the good old days of having absolutely no benzo tolerance. he'd never prescribe more than 10 at a time, and i'd sometimes use them recreationally, but my main drug back then was pot, but sometimes would also indulge in some uppers (mostly mdma, but sometimes also coke and speed) but that didn't happen more often than maybe once every two months. alcohol i drank more often but always in company, sometimes to excess, sometimes not. drinking alone at home was not something i did often, no more than maybe once per month.
in retrospect it's really hard to gauge the frequency of shit like this since it's been almost ten years and i have not been kind to my brain since then.
my mother was diagnosed with a malignant tumor about the size of a tennis ball in her uterus. however, the doctors gave her a good chance to survivie, if she immediately got her uterus removed and had chemo and if need be radiation therapy. my mother however, being my mother refused any treatment. why? because she was a firm believer in the 'fact' that all of the established and recognized medical treatments where just for the profit of the pharma industry. she was what you would call 'spiritual'. you know, auras, tarot card, faith healing, astral projection and all that other bullshit. she then read books on cancer written by people i would hunt down and kill if i could get away with it. anyway based on this books, she believed that cancer with a combination of quark and linseed oil, homeopathic medicine and the laying of hands by someone 'blessed'. she found this someone in austria (a good 8 hour drive away from where we lived) and spent tenthousands or euros there (again, someone i would very much like to kill), and since the cancer didn't have any symptoms at this stage she thought it was working. that's how deluded she was. come summer (i was on vacation in canada during that time) she developed some moderate strong pain, and voila, she turned back to that dreaded thing that is actual working medicine based on decades of scientific research and verified facts. she was prescribed tramadol, which she i imagine rather reluctantly took. i returned from canada in early september, had been gone six weeks, and upon seeing her i knew things were fucked. there had been a marked deterioration of how she looked in that time, when i left she looked still looked reasonably healthy and normal, when i came back she did not.
in the first night back home, she came into my room saying something was wrong and collapsing shortly afterwards. i instantly called for an ambulance, she was rushed into surgery, where the doctors found out two things: 1. she had very nearly died from internal bleeding, 2. the cancer had spread to metastasized to basically everywhere important, and no known medical procedure had even a slim chance of curing her. she was going to die.
after being released grandparents took her in, who lived not far from where we lived, a five minute walk maybe. and then i witnessed what cancer does to a human, a day at a time. i did not have a good relationship with my mother, in fact i to this day resent her in a lot of ways, but since she was dying i felt like it was my duty to come every day to visit her. as the cancer progressed, she was given strong pain meds, morphine and oxycodone mainly, but also fentanyl patches and buprenorphine. before that i had only taken weak opioids like tramadol and codeine before and was fully aware of the recreational potential of those substances. my mother hated taking pain meds, because even at this point she firmly believed that she would fully recover by divine intervention or something and wanted to become addicted. so she never took as many as she was alotted daily, and after a while i said fuck it and took two of her oxys, 10mgs each. strictly as a one-time experiment you see. i was at some really shitty party my then-girlfriend and major cunt dragged me to and i hated it there. a sat there in a sour mood for about an hour, not socializing at all, then remembered the pills, chewed them and swallowed them and lo and behold everything was different. everything was beautiful. hence started my abuse of my mothers painkillers. i took whatever i could get away with, and during this time my anxiety disorder reached a new height. a height that was not managable with the occasional bar of diazepam. the painkillers helped incredibly well off course, but i could only ever take as much as my mother didn't need and as the cancer got worse and worse so also got her pain. long story short: not enough oxy, too many panic attacks.
the psychiatrist prescribed me the rohypnol and ambien i asked for he prescribed without hesitation considering the the circumstances. flunitrazepam is about equally effective against a panic attack as alprazolam, which i didn't know of back then, as it's not a drug that's generally known outside the medical community in germany, very much opposed to north america. i needed about a box of rohypnol a week (a box containing 20 1mg pills is the most any doctor is allowed to prescribed) on top of the painkillers i also took. not meaning i combined them, meaning i alternated between oxy and rohypnol for the panic attacks. this is getting too long (sorry, im on 60mg MPH) so bla bla bla mother died, i was in a horrible state, girlfriend left me, utter collapse and rampant drug abuse (yet still not much alcohol). my father, a psychologist suggested i try clorazepate instead of flunitrazepam because i still had a job in those days, and the flunitrazepam made it hard to function properly at times. so clorazepate it was, along with a lot of useless antidepressants (TCAs all).
fast forward two years, no more job, anxiety and panic disorder still strong along debilitating unipolar depression. at this point i had switched from clorazepate to alprazolam and was managing the anxiety shit fine with that, but the depression had zapped almost all ambition out of me, i did nothing but read, lounge around at home in my underwear. i still met my friends maybe 2-3 times a month for a drink and usually would excessively drink then, but only then. until one fine day, my psychiatrist prescribed me paroxetine. the medication did not agree with my body at all, made me nervous, twitchy, completely fucked up my whole digestive system, and heightened my anxiety issues. since i only had so many alprazolam pills per month, i couldn't manage my anxiety anymore with them so when i went grocery shopping, now along the obligatory packs of unfiltered camels was always a case of beer. i found alcohol helped to an extent, and when the anxiety lessened along with the other side effects i found i had acquired quite a taste for it. drinking while being on paroxetine felt different than before, i was very sociable and self-confident, but without alcohol paroxetine did not affect my anxiety at all. soon i switched from beer to hard liquor, mainly vodka and sometimes single malt if i could afford it. during my next visit i told my psychiatrist all this, his answer: 'well, just stop drinking' while upping my daily dose of paroxetine. i don't remember exactly how much it was, but it was the maximum recommended daily dose. this went on for another four months, me binge drinking about 4-5 days a week, until i said, well, fuck this. i dumped the rest of the pills into the toilet (which as i was soon to find out was a mistake) and decided to also quit drinking so much. the first day without the pills in the morning was fine. the second was managable. the third the full withdrawal hit me with a panic attack of a such ferocity that i had not experienced since that whole ordeal with my mother, so i took 4mg of alprazolam with a few beers and felt fine again. it was during this time that my psychiatrist decided not to prescribe me benzos anymore as they were too addictive. so instead of finding a new doc who realized i had a genuine medical need for them, i resorted to using alcohol in their place. and then just using alcohol. and while it is a sorta halfway working anxiolytic, it made my depression worse and worse and worse. up to the point where i decided to end my life. i had just been in detox for the first time and had relapsed pretty soon after, and i honestly saw no way out. some of the drugs i was given in detox they recommended i continue to take (quetiapine, prothipendyl & chlorprothixine) so i had a full stock of those, but a quick internet search revealed that even when taken in together in large doses with alcohol, they lacked the toxicity to ensure death. it took me a month, but finally i had acquired a cocktail i was sure to kill me. i had found someone who sold tramadol, codeine and diazepam. i bought everything he had, then spent my last cash on a 21-year old bottle of macallan. when i was nearly done with the bottle, i took out all the pills (they were quite a lot) and started taking them, substance by substance. all in all 10 grams of quetiapine, 8 grams of prothipendyl, 1.5 grams of chlorprothixine, 4 grams of tramadol, 3 grams of codeine and 1 gram of diazepam. and some metoclopramide to prevent me from vomiting all that up again.
i was found about 36 hours later by my uncle who was once an EMT and he noticed that my breathing was extremely shallow and then saw all the empty pill packages and drew the logical coclusion and called an ambulance. for the next for days i was in a coma i guess, then came four days of massive, complete delirium. when i started to regain my senses i was fixated to a bed with a tube down my dick. how i managed to convince the doctors to let me out of that hospital without a psychiatric evaluation is behond me to this day.
i first went to a pychiatrist while my mother was dying of cancer. before that i had been already prescribed diazepam against panic attacks, the first one i had with 17, i still remember it vividly... anyway. back then my panic disorder wasn't that severe, meaning not the attacks but the frequency. i had one may once, sometimes twice a month, and 10mg diazepam worked wonders against em back then. ah, the good old days of having absolutely no benzo tolerance. he'd never prescribe more than 10 at a time, and i'd sometimes use them recreationally, but my main drug back then was pot, but sometimes would also indulge in some uppers (mostly mdma, but sometimes also coke and speed) but that didn't happen more often than maybe once every two months. alcohol i drank more often but always in company, sometimes to excess, sometimes not. drinking alone at home was not something i did often, no more than maybe once per month.
in retrospect it's really hard to gauge the frequency of shit like this since it's been almost ten years and i have not been kind to my brain since then.
my mother was diagnosed with a malignant tumor about the size of a tennis ball in her uterus. however, the doctors gave her a good chance to survivie, if she immediately got her uterus removed and had chemo and if need be radiation therapy. my mother however, being my mother refused any treatment. why? because she was a firm believer in the 'fact' that all of the established and recognized medical treatments where just for the profit of the pharma industry. she was what you would call 'spiritual'. you know, auras, tarot card, faith healing, astral projection and all that other bullshit. she then read books on cancer written by people i would hunt down and kill if i could get away with it. anyway based on this books, she believed that cancer with a combination of quark and linseed oil, homeopathic medicine and the laying of hands by someone 'blessed'. she found this someone in austria (a good 8 hour drive away from where we lived) and spent tenthousands or euros there (again, someone i would very much like to kill), and since the cancer didn't have any symptoms at this stage she thought it was working. that's how deluded she was. come summer (i was on vacation in canada during that time) she developed some moderate strong pain, and voila, she turned back to that dreaded thing that is actual working medicine based on decades of scientific research and verified facts. she was prescribed tramadol, which she i imagine rather reluctantly took. i returned from canada in early september, had been gone six weeks, and upon seeing her i knew things were fucked. there had been a marked deterioration of how she looked in that time, when i left she looked still looked reasonably healthy and normal, when i came back she did not.
in the first night back home, she came into my room saying something was wrong and collapsing shortly afterwards. i instantly called for an ambulance, she was rushed into surgery, where the doctors found out two things: 1. she had very nearly died from internal bleeding, 2. the cancer had spread to metastasized to basically everywhere important, and no known medical procedure had even a slim chance of curing her. she was going to die.
after being released grandparents took her in, who lived not far from where we lived, a five minute walk maybe. and then i witnessed what cancer does to a human, a day at a time. i did not have a good relationship with my mother, in fact i to this day resent her in a lot of ways, but since she was dying i felt like it was my duty to come every day to visit her. as the cancer progressed, she was given strong pain meds, morphine and oxycodone mainly, but also fentanyl patches and buprenorphine. before that i had only taken weak opioids like tramadol and codeine before and was fully aware of the recreational potential of those substances. my mother hated taking pain meds, because even at this point she firmly believed that she would fully recover by divine intervention or something and wanted to become addicted. so she never took as many as she was alotted daily, and after a while i said fuck it and took two of her oxys, 10mgs each. strictly as a one-time experiment you see. i was at some really shitty party my then-girlfriend and major cunt dragged me to and i hated it there. a sat there in a sour mood for about an hour, not socializing at all, then remembered the pills, chewed them and swallowed them and lo and behold everything was different. everything was beautiful. hence started my abuse of my mothers painkillers. i took whatever i could get away with, and during this time my anxiety disorder reached a new height. a height that was not managable with the occasional bar of diazepam. the painkillers helped incredibly well off course, but i could only ever take as much as my mother didn't need and as the cancer got worse and worse so also got her pain. long story short: not enough oxy, too many panic attacks.
the psychiatrist prescribed me the rohypnol and ambien i asked for he prescribed without hesitation considering the the circumstances. flunitrazepam is about equally effective against a panic attack as alprazolam, which i didn't know of back then, as it's not a drug that's generally known outside the medical community in germany, very much opposed to north america. i needed about a box of rohypnol a week (a box containing 20 1mg pills is the most any doctor is allowed to prescribed) on top of the painkillers i also took. not meaning i combined them, meaning i alternated between oxy and rohypnol for the panic attacks. this is getting too long (sorry, im on 60mg MPH) so bla bla bla mother died, i was in a horrible state, girlfriend left me, utter collapse and rampant drug abuse (yet still not much alcohol). my father, a psychologist suggested i try clorazepate instead of flunitrazepam because i still had a job in those days, and the flunitrazepam made it hard to function properly at times. so clorazepate it was, along with a lot of useless antidepressants (TCAs all).
fast forward two years, no more job, anxiety and panic disorder still strong along debilitating unipolar depression. at this point i had switched from clorazepate to alprazolam and was managing the anxiety shit fine with that, but the depression had zapped almost all ambition out of me, i did nothing but read, lounge around at home in my underwear. i still met my friends maybe 2-3 times a month for a drink and usually would excessively drink then, but only then. until one fine day, my psychiatrist prescribed me paroxetine. the medication did not agree with my body at all, made me nervous, twitchy, completely fucked up my whole digestive system, and heightened my anxiety issues. since i only had so many alprazolam pills per month, i couldn't manage my anxiety anymore with them so when i went grocery shopping, now along the obligatory packs of unfiltered camels was always a case of beer. i found alcohol helped to an extent, and when the anxiety lessened along with the other side effects i found i had acquired quite a taste for it. drinking while being on paroxetine felt different than before, i was very sociable and self-confident, but without alcohol paroxetine did not affect my anxiety at all. soon i switched from beer to hard liquor, mainly vodka and sometimes single malt if i could afford it. during my next visit i told my psychiatrist all this, his answer: 'well, just stop drinking' while upping my daily dose of paroxetine. i don't remember exactly how much it was, but it was the maximum recommended daily dose. this went on for another four months, me binge drinking about 4-5 days a week, until i said, well, fuck this. i dumped the rest of the pills into the toilet (which as i was soon to find out was a mistake) and decided to also quit drinking so much. the first day without the pills in the morning was fine. the second was managable. the third the full withdrawal hit me with a panic attack of a such ferocity that i had not experienced since that whole ordeal with my mother, so i took 4mg of alprazolam with a few beers and felt fine again. it was during this time that my psychiatrist decided not to prescribe me benzos anymore as they were too addictive. so instead of finding a new doc who realized i had a genuine medical need for them, i resorted to using alcohol in their place. and then just using alcohol. and while it is a sorta halfway working anxiolytic, it made my depression worse and worse and worse. up to the point where i decided to end my life. i had just been in detox for the first time and had relapsed pretty soon after, and i honestly saw no way out. some of the drugs i was given in detox they recommended i continue to take (quetiapine, prothipendyl & chlorprothixine) so i had a full stock of those, but a quick internet search revealed that even when taken in together in large doses with alcohol, they lacked the toxicity to ensure death. it took me a month, but finally i had acquired a cocktail i was sure to kill me. i had found someone who sold tramadol, codeine and diazepam. i bought everything he had, then spent my last cash on a 21-year old bottle of macallan. when i was nearly done with the bottle, i took out all the pills (they were quite a lot) and started taking them, substance by substance. all in all 10 grams of quetiapine, 8 grams of prothipendyl, 1.5 grams of chlorprothixine, 4 grams of tramadol, 3 grams of codeine and 1 gram of diazepam. and some metoclopramide to prevent me from vomiting all that up again.
i was found about 36 hours later by my uncle who was once an EMT and he noticed that my breathing was extremely shallow and then saw all the empty pill packages and drew the logical coclusion and called an ambulance. for the next for days i was in a coma i guess, then came four days of massive, complete delirium. when i started to regain my senses i was fixated to a bed with a tube down my dick. how i managed to convince the doctors to let me out of that hospital without a psychiatric evaluation is behond me to this day.
