I didn’t cry when my childhood psychiatrist died. I didn’t even feel sad. I got the email on my phone Sept. 4 while I was eating Cooler chicken wings. Feelings of grief and surprise washed over me, but a bleak, apathetic state supplanted them.
I first met my psychiatrist when I was in seventh grade. I was miserable at that time in my life, riddled with insecurities and severe fatigue, dominated by paralyzing anxiety. Mornings were cold and isolating. School was worse, and the afternoons and evenings were just as bad. My parents, who were buried in their own professional obligations and personal lives, worried extensively about me. They made the best decision possible given the information at hand — they got me help.
I sat in the fluorescently lit waiting room with my mom while flipping through “The Far Side” on a fall afternoon. Eventually, the elderly, portly doctor led us into his office. White noise speakers played outside of the different offices to insulate the hallway from the depressive conversations between patients and providers.
At first, the cacophony of pills worked. I felt better. But soon I needed more. I kept growing vertically, but my weight remained the same. Eventually, I was near the maximum legal dosage for the ADHD medication Vyvanse. I was skipping breakfast and barely touching school lunch (appetite suppression is one of the most harmful side effects of the drug), and I was still depressed and struggling to focus in school. My mom tried to talk to me about cutting down, but I was fully convinced the pills were a necessary correction to a genetic chemical imbalance. I was taking high-dose pre-workout in the afternoons and smoking knockoff weed cartridges at night. I was getting through life, but I was continuously numbed and unfulfilled.
Drowning in purposelessness and apathy, I spent a lot of time on the internet, oscillating between different populist online circles. Fortunately, I found a temporary solution through natural health communities. Red meat, barefoot walks and fruit saved my life. I felt consistently energetic for the first time in my life.
When I got hearing aids as a child, I told my dad that I could hear rain for the first time. These internet-induced lifestyle changes had an effect of similar magnitude. However, these ideologues came with problems I am still navigating today.
I met the late doctor that fateful fall day in seventh grade, but my parents had known him for years. My oldest sister faced similar struggles in the often disastrous, draconian social experiment known as American middle school. Unfortunately, one of her first introductions to drugs was via the same psychiatrist who treated me. I can picture her, at just about the same age I was, in the same waiting room.
I imagine there is nothing scarier for a parent than to see their kids struggling, for them to see the fragility and finitude of life touch their kids. I saw it in their faces when I struggled, and I saw it most vividly in the tears in my dad’s eyes when my sister died of a drug overdose on the morning of Aug. 5, 2020.
Who knows if her life would have been different if she had never wandered into that same gray waiting room? It is impossible to say. But it is also impossible not to wonder.
I cannot really blame the late doctor for my mismedication. He was an immigrant who, at the same age I am when writing this, chose one of the most important and meaningful career paths available and donated his time without compensation to helping local disadvantaged children. I have no doubt that his care and prescription of psychotropic medications saved many lives.
So, how can this be? How can a struggling kid be led so far astray by the ultimate voice of authority?
In his book Generative Energy (1994), physiologist and philosopher Raymond Peat outlined part of the problem:
“The dean of the Yale School of Medicine said it wasn’t proper for me to think that his school’s research conclusions on the safety of Premarin could be influenced by a gift of a large amount of money from Ayerst (the makers of that ultra-lucrative product), but he refused to tell me how much money was involved. Big money from every major industry has corrupted our scientific culture, and it is important that we consider the scientific alternatives.”
My misery was for profit, not fixed. My sister’s misery led to an even worse fate.
The solution I found was to challenge the fundamental beliefs I held and those of everyone around me, and reform my worldview based on personal experience, intuition and reasoning. I do not think that we can simply “trust the science.” I think everyone, from layman to professional, should challenge the science and ask questions.
This skeptical notion is becoming increasingly important as public funding for science is slashed and replaced by private funding with ulterior motives.
The philosophical, political and financial complexities that shape our perception of reality tend to be ignored rather than addressed and understood. I encourage all of us to take a step back and consider the numerous factors that shape our conclusions and beliefs. While it is true that you should never take a prescription from anyone other than a physician, if you are interested in improving your life, you should learn about your own body.
If you feel hopeless, as I once did, I encourage you to start reading the works of Ray Peat, Broda Barnes, Gilbert Ling and Mae-Wan Ho.
I also encourage you to be thoughtful about what you put in your body. It is easy to be misled by supplement-peddling influencers or the mainstream medical establishment. It can be hard to figure out what the best decision is, but no matter what, do not get trapped in the belief that your misery is inescapable.
Contact Bennett Michaels at bmichaels@oxy.edu
* An update was made Oct. 5 at 5:47 p.m. to remove a person’s name for privacy.
