Over-Medicated
2026-07-17
The last few days have been intense, haven't they? Well, thankfully, my personal barometer is reading a bit lower today. Some days, I have a decent idea of what I want to write here and can follow a basic framework, but today is one of those days where I opened up my text editor with no idea what I wanted to write about—so now I get to indulge you with a real-time centering exercise. Isn't that nice? I will say that my energy has been better these recent weeks; since I started taking more of my buspirone, I've felt it helping quite nicely. Typically, I'd take 15 mg right before bed, but I wouldn't take any during the day because it made me too tired. However, I haven't been as tired lately and have been struggling more with anxiety instead. So during the day, I'll take 7.5 mg a few hours after I wake up and then the other half sometime in the late afternoon. Then, of course, I have my hydroxyzine that I take as needed throughout the day—usually no more than 100 mg on a given day, typically taken in 25 mg doses.
One of the most important hard lessons I've learned—that no one will ever teach you unless you've been through the psychiatric system—is that with medications, less is more. Most psychiatric providers grossly over-medicate their patients because patients usually only visit those providers when they're having problems. Therefore, most providers use the only solution they know: adding another pill to the regimen. I have never been asked about the frequency at which I take my medications, what side effects I've been experiencing, or really any kind of deeper question at all. Most appointments last barely ten minutes, and that's usually just to get a stupid refill or a new prescription. If a psychiatric provider has to administer half a dozen different medications to a patient, you'd think more time would be taken to educate the patient or add each pill one at a time, but that is hardly the case. I realized something horrendous after about my fourth or fifth year of seeing psychiatrists:
They're all fucking idiots.
Seriously, after talking to almost a dozen of them at this point, I've realized that there is not a damn thing any of them can do to help anyone with chronic and severe neurological problems. Not to sound arrogant, but I've gotten to a point where I think I know more about psychiatric medications than most of the nurse practitioners I've seen. I've literally had to tell providers, "Hey, you can't put me on Wellbutrin because I have a history of seizures that you didn't ask about," after which they'll sheepishly jot that down on their notepads. I remember in college, I had a stint as a pre-med because I wanted to be—you guessed it—a psychiatrist. Funny how the tables turn, huh? Granted, I was really into Jung and psychedelics at the time, which was the main impetus. All the while, I was battling internally about whether or not I had bipolar disorder. I didn't think I even needed to ask for help, and lo and behold, a few stints in mental health treatment facilities showed me exactly where I needed to be.
I ended up foregoing a career in medicine because, after looking into it, I realized I didn't want to be a slave to the insurance companies who run everything; if I wanted to actually help people, it wasn't going to be as some quack doctor. I did fine in my science classes and such, but I realized the stress wasn't worth the minuscule payoff of being rewarded with even more stress. Now that I'm a bit older, I've realized that I have a hard enough time helping myself, let alone anyone else. No, I get to be an arrogant and entitled patient instead. What a lovely life I live, don't I? I don't regret any of the choices I've made because even though I've made more mistakes than I can count, they all somehow led me back to the Church and to my Lord Jesus Christ. Even through the battles, the demons, and the self-imposed torture, I found myself in a position that I really enjoy; even if it's just a humble blog, I don't mind it.
Clearly, God has different plans for my gifts, and while I can't tell you what they are, I can say for certain that they are good and perfect. It feels nice to express myself in this way, and while it's a tough thing to cultivate the words needed to exhibit a true life lived on the page, it's a labor that I know, with absolute certainty, I can perform with diligence, patience, and love. No amount of money in the world could ever give me what this practice does; everything else in life is just a simple byproduct of this constant, undying impulse and heartfelt practice. It doesn't matter where any of it goes, because it's perfect where it's at right now, and for as long as I live, I will keep writing. Even if it's not a war I engage in public after some point, it'll still get me through to the next day, privately or otherwise. Until then, I'll keep fighting on.
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