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Let me get one thing out of the way first: There's NOTHING equitable or fair about life. You can be on top of the world one minute, swimming in the gutters the next. On an inscrutable turn of the Wheel of Fate. And so it goes, and so it goes...and not only on Tralfamadore, where the flying saucers come from, incidentally.
I don't know anything about the pharmaceutical industry except they rake in trillions of dollars destroying lives. They walk hand-in-hand with the "experts" of the "mental health industry" in prescribing drugs for depression and schizophrenia and bipolar and this, and that, and the other; whatever new, hair-splitting category of "mental illness" they've decided that they must treat with mind-melting, zombification powders and other nostrums worthy of a medieval crank. Just like everything else about our hellish modern world, they are presented on talking-head news programs as the "Final Voice of Authority" as to what is "normal and aberrant," "good and evil," heretical, or completely orthodox. In other words: their arbitrament is often needed as to judge that which should be condemned and massively sedated.
I actually know next to zero about Big Pharma and the issues surrounding it, and I don't particularly care. I take it as axiomatic that the massively, ridiculously wealthy are on a different level of playing field than the average peasant. They get "Special Justice" the rest of us are seemingly denied. Okie dokie. I'm rather cynical about these things, and so, that all makes sense.
I understand doctors get free junkets or whatnot: fancy meals, golf trips...and who the hell knows? Coke and hookers, too? I could care less about this as well. Or rather, I just take it as de rigeur that one hand scratches the other, and the vastly wealthy and powerful will always bend to kiss each other's backsides. As Ragnar Redbeard observed, "Lo and behold! All this is fraud."
BUT, occasionally people get hurt. Medicine, very often, has these side effects that are bad. Real bad. You can hear a litany of their badness on those commercials where television yuppies play golf and hug their kids while sitting in some studio backlot rose garden while a space alien voice details how said medication can cause erectile dysfunction, blindness, impotence, night sweats, weight gain and, in RARE instances...death. The ah "cure" is, most often worse than the disease.
I was diagnosed with schizoaffective personality disorder; or, as I call it, "Travis Bickle Syndrome." Travis was played by actor Robert De Niro in the old movie Taxi Driver from the Seventies. Bickle was said to be schizotypal or schizoaffective by the screenwriter or something. The movie is known to have inspired John Hinckley to shoot then-president Ronald Reagan, purportedly to impress actress Jodie Foster, with whom he had become infatuated. But, that's a whole other topic.
The condition has "features of schizophrenia combined with features of a mood disorder." Something like that. DSM4 stuff. Wikipedia it. I won't belabor the details here. This isn't a book.
I was thus diagnosed after a mental breakdown. I was prescribed medications called Risperdal and Invega for said mental health issues. I was injected with these. Never ONCE was I appraised of any long-term side effects of said medications. Not so much as a photocopied sheet of paper ever crossed my palm as to what the LONG-TERM SIDE EFFECTS (a concept, at the time, that was somewhat alien to me) could be. I gained massive amounts of weight, began eating lots of sugary stuff, developed type-two diabetes, and generally went to utter hell for a long, long period of time. I have since lost weight and recovered via fasting and eating keto.
Much thanks to the "mental health" professionals.
I also developed an utterly humiliating and psychologically devastating physical deformity called gynecomastia. "Bitch tits," would be a more accurate label, but it's an insult, and you can Google the details yourself. I spent a long, long time working out and losing weight, waiting for Uncle Slam to agree to pay for the plastic surgery (double mastectomy) that I had to have to correct that particular disfiguring and socially-alienating condition. I cried Mr. Danzig's "thousand tears...of despair" while I was waiting. My eyes are not much drier now.
Post-op, I am looking much, much better, as long as I keep my shirt on. Otherwise, I'm STILL permanently scarred, just by weird, smiley cuts across my chest now. Everything is still there, just buried under what will require MORE liposuction. More surgery. And not the ONLY surgery I will require to fix a disfigurement brought about by weight gain, brought about by medication that I found out I, essentially, could live without anyway. And, keep in mind, I have to fast every day to control the type-2 diabetes I incurred while taking this "medicine."
I was part of a class-action lawsuit against Janssen Pharmaceuticals, the multinational corporation that was raking in billions and billions with what has been alleged to be a "deceptive" marketing ploy for Invega and Risperdal; being a little less than "up front" about those long-term side effects. "Doctors" of "Mental Health" were encouraged, apparently, to prescribe such medications, and got some nice "perks" to do so. C'est la vie!
They have been forced to pay HUGE settlements to young boys who developed gynecomastia, a condition that, as I've already intimated, is not just "fixed" by a simple operation—the operation leaves you scarred, too. I am not, seemingly, eligible for restitution, justice, what-have-you. You see: I'm too old.
I was misfortunate enough to be diagnosed and "treated" for my "illness" slightly beyond the age of thirty. Thus, Janssen Pharmaceuticals has imperiously declared they are, most certainly, NOT going to pay any restitution for victims of their disfiguring, dangerous drugs who weren't below the age of eighteen at the time. I sit here, scarred and having suffered for years physically, socially, and psychologically, and yet, that is NONE of their problem. They, apparently, bear NO responsibility for their dangerous and defective product. And the "Justice System," apparently, agrees.
The "mental health" professionals who prescribed me the medications, without ever appraising me of what they could do to me, are in the clear, too: statute of limitations. But, for me, there is, of course, no reprieve from being physically damaged by their decision to be, shall we say, "less than forthcoming" or honest.
Now, an argument could be made that I, lo those many years ago, should have researched Risperdal and Invega, and perhaps, could have made the decision myself to refuse to take the meds, thus sparing myself all this mental anguish, anger, pain and depression based on "good information." But, I have to wonder: was such information even readily-available at the time? I'm not certain what I would have found. You expect someone going through a mental breakdown to be able to make logical choices? Lucky I didn't just self-destruct to the point that I wouldn't even be here, today, writing this particular kvetch.
Just as I was writing this, yet another law firm called (every few days I get angry enough to start contacting them again, looking for that one "needle in the haystack" that might actually not refuse me); predictably, they slammed the door in my face. Same old excuse: you were just too old. Making me wonder: what the hell difference can it possibly make?
So, here is sit, scarred physically, emotionally, physiologically. Type-two diabetics typically DIE fifteen years younger than most others. I attribute most of this to the medications, which I was never warned about, but for which they people that prescribed me them and the manufacturers themselves bear, incredibly enough, NO responsibility for. It's just, "Screw you buddy! That's your tough luck." Amazing, really.
If I spilled coffee on myself at a fast food restaurant, I could sue for damages. If I was at work, and someone called me a nasty or racist name, I could sue for damages. If a baker refused to cater my gay wedding, I could sue for damages.
Here I sit, permanently scarred for life, feeling physical discomfort and psychological distress, which impairs my ability to work at times, losing me money, and yet...I cannot sue for damages.
Because of my mental condition and bottom-rung social status, I have difficulty fomenting "meaningful relationships." Whatever the hell that means. Now, I've been saddled with the added burden of physical disfigurement. With mental anguish. And, oddly, none of those responsible are, ultimately, responsible. According to the "System."
The final thing I'll say is this: the "mental health" industry is a fraud and a sham. ANY progress I've made over the years has NOT been because of their "help," it has been in SPITE OF IT. And the same goes for the entire System. Quoth Ragnar Redbeard, "Lo and behold! ALL THIS IS FRAUD."
When I take my shirt off in the morning and look in the mirror, I ask myself, "Who is responsible for me looking like this? Did I do this to myself? No? Very curious, this so-called 'justice'."
I haven't taken their medications in years. I write this because, at this point, it's all I can do. And, as a warning. When they tell you they're there to "help," RUN away from them at top speed. They're there to put the System's boot across your neck; they'll destroy your body, mind, and spirit, and then tell you they've done you some great favor and, by the way, how dare you complain and you're owed nothing; so sit down and shut up, piss ant.
Recently, out of desperation, I actually went to the "doctors" over my increasing depression. I was prescribed an interesting medication that I was assured could help. This time, I was careful to research possible long-term side effects.
I found it is said to cause permanent brain damage.
You couldn't pick worse friends than such "professionals."