A Zyprexa Story
I publish a number of zines. And I'm on a number of different zine-related listservs. A little while ago, a girl named Anna posted to one of them, regarding a zine she's working on - a zine about mental health issues and surviving/escaping the psychiatric system. Naturally, I e-mailed her, and after a couple of exchanges, I came up with my submission. I've removed the introduction and bio, because they would be fairly redundant here. But this is the bulk of the piece...
How I Got On Zyprexa:
It was the end of April, 1998. I was 15 and already used to being over-medicated. I was in the adolescent psychiatric ward of Children’s Hospital for the third time that Spring. I don’t remember exactly why I was there that time or exactly how long I stayed, but it was a week or two. It was decided that, while I “needed” to be on anti-psychotics, the old ones weren’t working for me. So a nightly dose of Zyprexa was added to my pill regimen. And soon I was sent back home.
Zyprexa was not a welcome addition to my life. Most anti-psychotics are nothing more than reduced doses of major tranquilizers, and they behave accordingly. I was sleeping all the time. I went to bed early every night and struggled to get up in the morning. I would go to parties and be the first one asleep, passed out on a couch by 10pm. This was not acceptable. So I started buying caffeine pills - just for parties and stuff. Having been raised without soda or coffee, my body was unusually reactive to caffeine. Now I could stay up all night - I thought the problem was solved. But it was too good and too easy, and my use quickly turned to abuse, which then developed into a violent caffeine allergy, and I was done. Back to excessive sleep…
Also, I started packing on weight, another typical side effect of anti-psychotic drugs. In the course of 3 months, I went from a very slim 135 lbs to a very chunky 185 lbs, and my self-esteem plummeted. After the first 50 lbs, my gains slowed but didn’t stop, and I put on at least 10 more pounds before fall. And there was nothing I could do about it. I tried dieting, but to no avail. I worked on a farm that summer and played Ultimate Frisbee every weekend; I was probably getting more exercise than I ever had in my life. In desperation, I tried to stop eating altogether. But, even when I ate nothing, my weight continued to increase daily. And besides, Zyprexa made me hungry. I had already shown signs of disordered eating, and this made me hate my body more than ever before. I even cut myself that summer for the first time in ages. Somehow, I don’t think this was the effect my doctors were aiming for.
I did try talking about my concerns. At that time, I had 2 separate shrinks - a therapist named Molly, and a psychiatrist, whose name I forget. My psychiatrist was expensive, and his office was an hour from my home, but he was “the best.” I’d been referred to him, because he was supposed to be an expert psychiatrist, specializing in adolescent girls. I was to consider myself lucky, having been placed in his care. I hated him. His office was dark and stuffy with lots of wood paneling, uncomfortable furniture, and countless framed degrees on the walls. He was old, stuffy and aloof, with argyle socks and too-short pants. He had no idea how to interact with me.
But for once I arrived at his office with an agenda: get off of Zyprexa. I went in and explained the situation and my deep unhappiness with it. He was unbending: “Those are normal side effects of anti-psychotics.” I protested, “But I’ve been on other ones - it’s never been like this before!” “Well then,” he said, “you were lucky.” And as far as he was concerned, that was the end of the discussion.
How I Got Off Zyprexa:
By early September, I was pushing 200 lbs and sleeping through most of my classes. I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands. Every night, I would stand over the toilet, drop in my Zyprexa, and watch it swirl away. It was great! I had energy, I had passion, and I was dropping pounds by the day. Then, just weeks later, I had a fight with my mother, and she put me into an RTC (residential treatment center.) There I got in trouble for having quit the drugs, then was put back on them and closely monitored. And several more months passed, while I struggled against the fog that Zyprexa put between me and the world. I complained about it regularly to the residential staff, and someone finally helped me to set up an appointment with our unit’s psychiatrist, Dr. Lessey.
Dr. Lessey was an old man with a strange conversational style. I think that, by the time I met him, he was just counting the days until he could retire. At that point, I had seen him only twice: an introductory meeting, my first week, and a brief check-in, months later. So at the designated time, phone calls were made from residential staff to medical staff, and I was ushered down to the clinical wing for my appointment. I sat down, and Dr. Lessey looked at me in his absent-minded, old man way, which was always slightly degrading. He asked how I was doing and then why I was there. “Cuz I want to get off Zyprexa.” I was prepared to be really defensive about this request, and I started telling him how awful it was, as well as how I planned to quit when I was released anyway, so he might as well help me to do it responsibly, and so on. He asked why it had been prescribed in the first place. I wasn’t sure if he was really asking or just testing me. I shrugged, in an of-course-I-know way, and said something like, “cuz it’s an anti-psychotic.” He stared at me for a moment. “You don’t look psychotic to me.” I was shocked. Could this be for real? He asked, “Do you think you need anti-psychotics for any reason?” I gave him an emphatic, “NO,” and that was it. It was almost frighteningly easy.
Dr. Lessey cancelled the prescription, and I was Zyprexa-free within days. I started shedding pounds immediately, and was congratulated by the nurse each week at weigh-in. I started sleeping much more lightly, and was congratulated daily by residential staff for how obediently I got out of bed. (Previously I had been punished for my slow getting-up, nearly every day.) These congratulations, intended as praise, were frustrating. It seemed clear to me that these things hadn’t been in my control, and weren’t really now either. My body had been made into a chemical playground, and I was being held responsible for all of the results.
In what seemed like an unconquerable system of incompetence, injustice, apathy, and poor judgment, I could only be thankful for the incompetence and/or apathy of Dr. Lessey. With every day that passed, I was one day closer to being med-free, one day closer to being myself again.
How I Got On Zyprexa:
It was the end of April, 1998. I was 15 and already used to being over-medicated. I was in the adolescent psychiatric ward of Children’s Hospital for the third time that Spring. I don’t remember exactly why I was there that time or exactly how long I stayed, but it was a week or two. It was decided that, while I “needed” to be on anti-psychotics, the old ones weren’t working for me. So a nightly dose of Zyprexa was added to my pill regimen. And soon I was sent back home.
Zyprexa was not a welcome addition to my life. Most anti-psychotics are nothing more than reduced doses of major tranquilizers, and they behave accordingly. I was sleeping all the time. I went to bed early every night and struggled to get up in the morning. I would go to parties and be the first one asleep, passed out on a couch by 10pm. This was not acceptable. So I started buying caffeine pills - just for parties and stuff. Having been raised without soda or coffee, my body was unusually reactive to caffeine. Now I could stay up all night - I thought the problem was solved. But it was too good and too easy, and my use quickly turned to abuse, which then developed into a violent caffeine allergy, and I was done. Back to excessive sleep…
Also, I started packing on weight, another typical side effect of anti-psychotic drugs. In the course of 3 months, I went from a very slim 135 lbs to a very chunky 185 lbs, and my self-esteem plummeted. After the first 50 lbs, my gains slowed but didn’t stop, and I put on at least 10 more pounds before fall. And there was nothing I could do about it. I tried dieting, but to no avail. I worked on a farm that summer and played Ultimate Frisbee every weekend; I was probably getting more exercise than I ever had in my life. In desperation, I tried to stop eating altogether. But, even when I ate nothing, my weight continued to increase daily. And besides, Zyprexa made me hungry. I had already shown signs of disordered eating, and this made me hate my body more than ever before. I even cut myself that summer for the first time in ages. Somehow, I don’t think this was the effect my doctors were aiming for.
I did try talking about my concerns. At that time, I had 2 separate shrinks - a therapist named Molly, and a psychiatrist, whose name I forget. My psychiatrist was expensive, and his office was an hour from my home, but he was “the best.” I’d been referred to him, because he was supposed to be an expert psychiatrist, specializing in adolescent girls. I was to consider myself lucky, having been placed in his care. I hated him. His office was dark and stuffy with lots of wood paneling, uncomfortable furniture, and countless framed degrees on the walls. He was old, stuffy and aloof, with argyle socks and too-short pants. He had no idea how to interact with me.
But for once I arrived at his office with an agenda: get off of Zyprexa. I went in and explained the situation and my deep unhappiness with it. He was unbending: “Those are normal side effects of anti-psychotics.” I protested, “But I’ve been on other ones - it’s never been like this before!” “Well then,” he said, “you were lucky.” And as far as he was concerned, that was the end of the discussion.
How I Got Off Zyprexa:
By early September, I was pushing 200 lbs and sleeping through most of my classes. I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands. Every night, I would stand over the toilet, drop in my Zyprexa, and watch it swirl away. It was great! I had energy, I had passion, and I was dropping pounds by the day. Then, just weeks later, I had a fight with my mother, and she put me into an RTC (residential treatment center.) There I got in trouble for having quit the drugs, then was put back on them and closely monitored. And several more months passed, while I struggled against the fog that Zyprexa put between me and the world. I complained about it regularly to the residential staff, and someone finally helped me to set up an appointment with our unit’s psychiatrist, Dr. Lessey.
Dr. Lessey was an old man with a strange conversational style. I think that, by the time I met him, he was just counting the days until he could retire. At that point, I had seen him only twice: an introductory meeting, my first week, and a brief check-in, months later. So at the designated time, phone calls were made from residential staff to medical staff, and I was ushered down to the clinical wing for my appointment. I sat down, and Dr. Lessey looked at me in his absent-minded, old man way, which was always slightly degrading. He asked how I was doing and then why I was there. “Cuz I want to get off Zyprexa.” I was prepared to be really defensive about this request, and I started telling him how awful it was, as well as how I planned to quit when I was released anyway, so he might as well help me to do it responsibly, and so on. He asked why it had been prescribed in the first place. I wasn’t sure if he was really asking or just testing me. I shrugged, in an of-course-I-know way, and said something like, “cuz it’s an anti-psychotic.” He stared at me for a moment. “You don’t look psychotic to me.” I was shocked. Could this be for real? He asked, “Do you think you need anti-psychotics for any reason?” I gave him an emphatic, “NO,” and that was it. It was almost frighteningly easy.
Dr. Lessey cancelled the prescription, and I was Zyprexa-free within days. I started shedding pounds immediately, and was congratulated by the nurse each week at weigh-in. I started sleeping much more lightly, and was congratulated daily by residential staff for how obediently I got out of bed. (Previously I had been punished for my slow getting-up, nearly every day.) These congratulations, intended as praise, were frustrating. It seemed clear to me that these things hadn’t been in my control, and weren’t really now either. My body had been made into a chemical playground, and I was being held responsible for all of the results.
In what seemed like an unconquerable system of incompetence, injustice, apathy, and poor judgment, I could only be thankful for the incompetence and/or apathy of Dr. Lessey. With every day that passed, I was one day closer to being med-free, one day closer to being myself again.