The Nigerian Prince

Today I met the psychiatrist I had given the title, Nigerian Prince. A Nigerian psychiatrist that was going to be my savior. He was going to ride in on his white horse and help this damsel in distress.

It all went down a little differently to this though. I spent the night before tossing and turning and unable to sleep. I was nervous about meeting my new psychiatrist.

The whole consult was spent with him on one side of the table and me on the other – very principal-office-like. He never smiled. We went through the complicated history of my medicine. He didn’t seem to have read the referral notes.

He then starts digging into the past. The broad strokes of it all weren’t good enough though, he wanted details. Details that I’m not even okay thinking about. Thinking this man was going to help me I spewed out the ugly words.

After that he sees marks on my arms and suggests that maybe I’ve done this for attention.

I then got to spend the next 15 minutes crying while he typed his notes without saying anything to me or even looking at me.

At this point I still had faith that he would help me but this idea shattered violently when he told me his plan moving forward.

The plan involved taking me down to the minimum dose of everything I was taking. He could then see what – if anything – the lamotrigine was doing. He seemed convinced it wasn’t doing anything and he had ideas of getting rid of this drug completely.

We would go down in Prozac only because one of the rare symptoms of Prozac is seizures. Didn’t matter I just been striped of 225mg of Venlafaxine which has a higher risk for seizures.

These changes would come with withdrawals. Withdrawals I would just need to suck it buttercup. I’d already tried the reduction in Prozac and it didn’t go well. I was suicidal and I’m not sure how I have kept my job.

I spent $600 to bring up things I didn’t want to talk about, be treated like I was an attention-seeker and freeze in fear at the thought of the experiment he wanted to undertake.

Nobody is listening to me …


Case closed

‘Abby, Bruce is scared of you. You do remember threatening to cut his throat, don’t you? He wrote to me and informed me he was closing your case file’

A psychiatrist who put my life in danger can close the file and walk away. I can’t. I am stuck in the hell he has created for me through his incompetence and neglect.

Not only can you die from seizures but you can receive permanent brain damage. I also had a suicide plan, had bought rope, carved into my legs ‘Sorry’, had picked a location to hang myself and came up with a plan of calling the ambulance immediately before so that no children or community members found me. I couldn’t bring myself to hang myself in my house as my children and husband would have to live with that reminder.

I’d decided that my camera would go to my beautiful friend Bec, all my clothes to be donated and my husband and kids to have whatever they wanted to feel close to this selfish weak girl that would abandon them.

I’m still living in crazy-town. I want to cry because nobody is listening. They just aren’t listening or maybe they think, oh it’s just another BPD patient banging it on.

It’s really hard to believe them when they tell me I’ll feel better soon when I’ve been hearing that for the last six months. I never got the help I needed until after my second seizure and the help I was given was to cold turkey from 225mg of Venlafaxine. Not the best way to spend your Christmas and I’m still feeling it.

I’ve only recently busted out of the Palace (my name for Chisholm Ross Centre) – an emergency hospital ward to keep you from hurting yourself or others. I gave a lot of Dharma wisdom to patients, something I really enjoyed. I came out okay and the days following I crashed.

I’m not good at trying to put myself back together but when the people who are supposed to help you don’t, it means that Buttercup it all rests on your shoulders.