Titillating White Candle Holders

I’ve said it a million times in other posts and I’ll say it again, straight up, for any of the general public people reading this who have never encountered mental health issues of any sort, who have never experienced it themselves, have never taken a psychology class or who have never read up on the development of a child brain: get educated.

I mean, really; 58,000 children without a diagnosed mental health issue taking Anti-psychotics like Risperdal and Abilify?

From ages 1 to 6?

While you’re at it, let your doctor toss ’em a couple painkillers for that scratch they got yesterday when they tripped over the stone; they could have a broken leg.

“Serious behavioral problems such as hyperactivity and aggression”

I’m assuming that means a tantrum? Two year old Little Jimmy didn’t get in the car when you told him to for the fifth time this week and stomped his foot and scared you so horribly you took him to Dr. Pusher who held his mouth open with clamps and tossed in some Risperdal, Abilify, maybe a dab of Prozac or something, some Lexapro. Now little Jimmy sits very quietly and does exactly what you tell him to. Mission accomplished.

“We would hope these would be used cautiously”.

Don’t make me laugh, really. Since when have humans had the capability to do anything cautiously to the extent they should?

Anyway, I got bored tonight and started flipping through articles and if you’ve been following me for a while you know how much I love to rant and rave on this type of shit. I mean, damn, you must have one aggressive one year old to be condoning use of anti-psychotics on them.

But at least I feel content enough to write shit about all this again. I even plowed through my Chem homework like I was going to get a box of kittens afterwards. If I had a box of kittens I’d be so happy. If I had a box of puppies I’d be so happy. If I had a box of kittens and puppies I’d be rolling around in the floor basking in their cuteness and never again step foot on a college campus, let alone out my door. Baby animals are the last bastion of American Freedom.

I never had a problem opening up to animals. They connect with me. Even my boyfriend’s dog, the one who barks and bites at everyone who isn’t close family, the one everyone is scared of, sniffed me and let me be the second time she met me. She growled and bared her teeth the first time she met me, just in case you were wondering.

I was attacked by a Chihuahua when I was two or three, scarring me with dogs for most of my childhood, and those are the dogs that to this day always chase me and bark and lash their teeth out. I don’t know why they don’t think I won’t snatch them and grind them into taco meat.

It took a playful Pit-bull puppy to break me out of my dog phobia, ironically. I still get nervous around dogs; I won’t feed them food and I don’t like letting them lick my hand because I’m convinced they’re going to rip it off, but hey, I’ll pet them and hug them. That’s huge progress compared to the days I would cross the street to avoid people walking their dogs on the sidewalks.

People though, that’s a different story. It’s odd letting go of secrets that have been crowded in your head for so long. They’ve become your little buddies. The musings in my head, the analysis of my feelings and of the world around me that runs on a constant assembly line and probably goes a little deeper than it should, keep me company during the day. A destructive type of company, but company nonetheless.

All I have to comfort me through this uncomfortable time is my music. It’s always there to lend a helping hand. I grew up around live bands and concerts and cope with my daily social anxiety with an earphone in my ear. If I can’t find my earphones before I leave, my entire day if ruined. I’ll get highly aggressive and uncooperative (oh shit, toss me a Risperdal) and I won’t be able to focus. There’s music playing as I write this. There was music playing as I did my homework. I played music going into the library, while I was in the library, while I printed my paper, and while I came back home. I can’t drive my car if I don’t have a sustainable source of music, preferably not the radio but I make it work if I have to. The radio is a last resort, the commercials drive me insane. Literally. My road rage is 10x worse if I have to listen to some chubby muffled voice blurt a bunch of stupid shit about liberals or conservatives or whatever.

If my ear phones break, within the next minute I’m in Best Buy or Sears buying a new pair. That’s a class A emergency, one of the most urgent. Even my parents are aware of this fact.

I usually have four or five fully functional spares and maybe one or two half-functioning (one ear works) spares.

This summer I broke my last functional spare and couldn’t deal with listening to music through only one ear. That also drives me to the brink of insanity; I hate the quiet of my mind, hence the constant stream of music, but I also hate the cacophony of the outside world, hence the constant stream of music.

Anyway, I ordered a new pair of earphones on Amazon because I wanted over-the-ear headphones with good bass. Well, the mail lady put my box in the mail box for the apartment next to me and I received their package. In my blind elation I tore it open without looking at the name and, having already been rather depressed and irritable that week, you could imagine the devilish fury across my face when the two plain, white candle holders stared back at me.

She Must Have Been So Excited To Get These. They’re Absolutely Titillating.

I have trouble talking with people as it is, so my mom went over and informed them our packages had been messed up. They didn’t check their mail for three damn days. I was writhing in silent agony on my bed for three damn days. You couldn’t talk to me without sparking an insult from my mouth or a sarcastic remark. Music withdrawal is a bitch.

Bottom line of this scattered post? Stop giving your 1 year old Risperdal and if you ever meet me in person don’t touch my earphones if you like your head being attached to your body.

Head-Up-Your-Ass Syndrome Is Dangerous

I know I’m going on a bit of a spree talking about fraudulence within drug companies, particularly those of the psycho-pharmaceutical nature (what a brilliant name for them) but I’ve been coming across so much bullshit lately that I feel it a crime not blasting them over the internet. They deserve it; I refuse to feel guilt for anything I say.

I came across this article in the New York Times.

If you’re in the U.S I’m sure you’ve heard plenty on the anti-psychotic Risperdal from those lawyer commercials that pop up and for five minutes talk about how it causes Gynecomastia (boys develop female breasts) and how much money you could get if you file a settlement.

A few days ago, or a day ago, I have no sense of time in this reality, I talked about researchers and corporate bastards lying about the effects of their drug. Well, this article gives you a blatant fucking example of it.

In case you don’t read it, I’ll give you a quick summary in my own words:

  1. Johnston and Johnson’s sneaky ass got caught hiding the information about boys suffering from Gynecomastia and the elderly having strokes (the market they advertised most to). They pleaded guilty for being fucking rats and paid 2 billion dollars.
  2. Out of their 30 billion dollar profit on that drug alone.
  3. Alex Groskey, the chief marketer of Risperdal and the prince of douches, got promoted to C.E.O of Johnston and Johnston. Want the full comprehensive story? I haven’t read it yet but it’s here.
  4. It all started when J&J’s old patent on a previous anti-psychotic ended and all the little executives were all curled up in the fetal position with their heads up their asses at the end of their silk sheets on their bed made of the skin of their customers, weeping like bitches about their plummeting sales. One schemer pulled his head out, looked up to the sky, saw light for the first time in 20 years, and released Risperdal.
  5. The FDA wasn’t having that shit, and said Risperdal wasn’t any better than their other piece of shit, and would primarily be marketed for adults with schizophrenia.
  6. The executives shoved their heads back up their asses and wept. That’s a small market. They wanted money! They wanted it! They wanted it, they wanted it, they wanted it!
Executive Assistant C.E.O.
Executive Assistant C.E.O.
C.E.O of J&J at the FDA conference.
C.E.O of J&J at the FDA conference.

7.Another guy pulled out his head, looked at the sky, cried at the beauty of the world and decided he wanted to be a part of the destruction; they “reinvented” Risperdal to target seniors and children.

8.They paid doctors and got Texas (Damnit Texas, really?) to replace their generics. In numbers, the state paid 3000 dollars for each Medicaid patient rather than 250 dollars.

9.They got nursing home company doctors to prescribe Risperdal. All profits would be shared with the nursing home (#kickback).

10. FDA said “people are dying, dumbfucks!” J&J nodded and went out to a bar to watch the game. Why would they care when they’re more powerful than an organization that’s supposed to be their regulatory boss?

11. Another guy pulled his head out with a “pop” sound (he’d been stuck for a while), and suggested tossing “lollipops and small toys” in sample packages of Risperdal for children.

12. And here we see Risperdal being a 3 billion dollar a year profit drug. They must be so proud.

And a shout out to the Appeal of Conscience Foundation for wanting to honor this great man, Alex Gorskey with an award for being a “man of integrity” and such a wonderful “corporate leader with a sense of social responsibility”. A round of applause, please.

My celebratory speech to Alex.

A moment of silence for the elders who suffered fatal strokes who otherwise wouldn’t have.

A moment of grievance for the boys struggling with Gynecomastia who probably never needed such a heavy drug in the first place.

And most of all, a moment of remembrance to a time when humanity meant something and money meant nothing.

None of this means stop taking Risperdal if you’re on it. This is one of the many cases where the drug itself is not horrible, but the people marketing have the intelligence of Stephan Hawking and the compassion of Jeffery Dahmer. They fit the criteria for Antisocial Personality better than most people diagnosed with the personality.

Let’s face an obvious reality here: these companies are too powerful, too profitable (same difference) for any one, two, three, people to take them down. I don’t care if you have a whole campaign against them, unless you have their money and private investigators snapping pictures of their fraudulent labs, and a hit-man willing to wack a few of the top executives (just enough to scare the rest of the company), you can’t do anything besides be entertained.

But the public can, evasively. How do you put a fire out? Get rid of the oxygen. Stop feeding these assholes. That DOES NOT MEAN stop taking your medication. In fact, that would be the worst thing you could do. What it DOES mean, especially for those of you who have never been on these types of drugs and probably never will, is pay attention.

If little Jimmy’s teacher is coming up to you and saying you need to get him checked for ADHD because he won’t sit still, don’t freak the fuck out and take him to a psychiatrist who will put him on seven different meds to “control his behavior”. Investigate. There are plenty of ways to help kids with ADHD (a very, very COMMON MISDIAGNOSIS) without medication. You know, start by not letting him play on the Ipad and watching all those YouTube videos that record over 60 frames per second. I’ve spoken with a lot of students my age and younger who have a ADHD diagnosis who say sure, they have medication in the back of their closet, but use it only for emergency and have developed ways, with help from their parents and psychologists, to cope with their symptoms.

It’s kids who are a huge victim here because their parents are uneducated. They want the best for their children, but they’re scared; they don’t know a thing about the brain, about corporations, about publication bias, and they don’t have to. All they need to know is that mental disorders (especially ones without psychotic features of any sort), are a product of psychological, cognitive, and biological factors. If your teenager is depressed they probably don’t need medication. Some do. The majority does not. But the majority are medicated. Doesn’t make sense.

If your kid is seeing demons climb up the wall and feeling snakes in their stomach and hearing helicopters from the FBI over their house, they might need a small dose of something. A small dose. Not five drugs. A small dose. The other thing we don’t know shit about is how these drugs, fit for adults, act on the developing brains of teenagers and children.

I hear teenagers being diagnosed Bipolar 1 and Borderline. There are few legitimate bipolar 1 cases in teenagers, I’ll tell you that much right now. I saw one legit case of a seven year old in the midst of mania and I was terrified. So it does happen. But not as often as statistics on the news tells you.

Borderline has a criteria that you should be 18 or older to be diagnosed, and for good reason. If a teenager has anger outbursts, is self-harming, is impulsive, hasn’t formed an identity, is all these other things, they’re most likely unsatisfied with something in their life. They’re most likely depressed; depression shows up differently in a brain that hasn’t got a full frontal lobe yet.

But tag a label on them and now they’re more borderline than ever because you told them they are.

I’m not anti-meds, I’m just frustrated.

There’s only one song fit for this  situation: