Dear Psychiatry

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I ground down in my Self, the one I thought had gone the way of all things when I paid for your stories, to help make sense of my pain.   Those days I washed up on your shore, I was trying to put myself back together when your therapy ...

I ground down in my Self,

the one I thought

had gone the way of all things

when I paid for your stories,

to help make sense of my pain.

 

Those days I washed up on your shore,

I was trying to put myself back together

when your therapy rearranged me

and then your medicine destroyed me.

 

I paid for your philosophy.

I paid you to help me.

I paid you with my life.

 

You told me you could help,

that the pills would

and then you drained my life out

slowly, over the next sixteen years.

Well, I returned home to myself

unmedicated and

found an answer

I sought with you

all those years you called me sick,

when I was already whole.

 

The effects of your pills poured cement

over my self-authority, until

I pried off the heavy glass

layered between

access to a full range of emotions,

memory, my identity

without your permission.

Now, I am reclaiming ground.

 

I sat across from you in that

English racing green leather chair

with brass rivets, and said “No.”

It sounded like silence

when that was all I could afford.

 

Your patients' best interests get in the way

of profits, when health is what you reap

instead of sow.

Now, your white coats and fancy medical degrees

are in my wake,

as I hit the ground and

run for my life,

because the only way back to myself is

away from you

and the cage you filled pill bottles with.

 

Incarceration through diagnostic code:

you MD

you DO

you PsyD.

You,

purveyors of poison for profit.

 

You who use Jupiter and his symbol

to represent the reward.

You decimated me

with chemical infused trojan horses.

Make no mistake

my womb doesn't wander.

 

Research this:

 

barely four months off your “medicine”

my life force flooded back with a vengeance

that transcends your diagnostic criteria

and control.

 

I surrendered to my own body's ability to heal itself,

grounded into

what you called fundamentally flawed,

said was wrong in as many ways

as you could fill your

textbooks

and history.

 

“Whatever you do,

don't stop taking your medication.” you said

 

after the Prozac

and the Paxil

and the Buspar

after the Klonopin

and the Xanax

and the Brintellix

and the Trazadone

and the Zoloft

and the Protriptyline

and the Lamictal

 

After the Hydroxyzine

and the Cymbalta

and the Celexa,

all this time

you claimed to do no harm.

 

I backed up,

told you to back off.

I withdrew and

finally found the answer

on my own without you,

who were no solution.

 

Your kindness and good intentions

aren't enough

when you do harm,

Psychiatry.

 

 

2015 Jyl Ion. All Rights Reserved.

 

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