Symptoms: Akathisia, brain zaps, emotional blunting, cognitive impairment, insomnia, depersonalization/derealization, suicidal ideation, tinnitus, severe anxiety/panic, muscle/joint pain, GI disturbances, irrational fears, histamine issues, vertigo, ocular migraines, agoraphobia
I am two months away from a significant milestone: twelve years off all psychotropic medication. Yet, despite this decade-plus of freedom from prescriptions, I remain housebound. I am one of the “protracted” ones—still battling a rotating carousel of symptoms that fluctuate in intensity daily.
My story began with a diagnosis of postnatal depression after the birth of my first son. Looking back, I firmly believe my vegan diet at the time had left me severely B₁₂ deficient—a condition scientifically linked to psychosis and depression—yet this was entirely overlooked. Instead of looking at my nutrition, I was handed a cocktail of SSRIs, SNRIs, mood stabilizers, antipsychotics, and benzodiazepines.
Over the next twenty years, these drugs didn’t heal me; they dismantled me. I moved through a revolving door of labels: Postnatal Depression, Major Depressive Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, and Bipolar Disorder. With every admission to a psychiatric ward, I received a new name for my pain, stronger chemicals, and deeper scars. I was suicidal, ending up in the ICU multiple times after failed attempts. Never once did the medical staff question if the very medications they were abruptly starting and stopping were the source of my agony.
The turning point came in late 2013. After a period of stability, a surgical complication sent my system into shock. I was put back on psychiatric meds, but my brain reacted differently this time. I was hit with akathisia and chronic insomnia—terrors I had never known. My psychiatrist claimed I had reached “tolerance” and needed higher doses. I didn’t stabilize. My weight plummeted; I became a “pacing skeleton,” frantic and desperate.
The final straw occurred during a re-admission where I was “ripped off” Prozac and Ativan with zero tapering. I spent the night screaming, pacing the hospital corridors in a state of neurological collapse. By morning, my blood pressure was so high I was on the verge of a stroke or seizure. They reinstated Valium for two weeks to stabilize me, then sent me home—again, with zero taper.
The hell that followed is a miracle I survived.
Because I wasn’t told about the necessity of a slow taper or reinstatement, I spent years—no exaggeration—living on two hours of sleep a week, pacing, unable to eat, and riddled with a level of anxiety and anguish that defies language. I was a victim of a medically induced brain injury, left with zero support from the system that caused it.
If not for the work of Baylissa Frederick, the lifeline of online support groups, and the profound love I have for my sons, I would not be here today. I have watched many in the withdrawal community lose their battle, and I understand their pain intimately.
Almost twelve years later, I am still crawling my way back. It is the loneliest, most humanely painful experience a person can be subjected to, but I am still here. I am still fighting.