Read Online Against Medical Advice by James Patterson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Patterson
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a half pills, I developed a new tic of head twisting and foot tapping in sequence. My weight had already gone up about forty pounds.
At two and a half pills, the foot thing stopped, but my tics became wilder and more unpredictable than ever.
Then came three pills. And four.
Suddenly I’ve become afraid of everything I used to like. I’ve always loved the ocean — the bigger the waves, the better. Lifeguards have had to order me out of the water after everyone else has left because of undertow or rip currents. With the increase in Risperdal, I’ve become afraid to go into even the calmest water. I’ve also started to suffer from vertigo and was so terrified of taking the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard that I almost ruined our family vacation. I heard Dad saying to my mother that Risperdal took away my courage.
Still, in the hope that Risperdal would eventually help, we got up to six pills a day, a dose that would make most people catatonic. One time my father accidentally took a single pill thinking it was something else, and he slept almost all day.
The high dose calmed me down enough to stop me from bouncing off the walls, but I began to shake my head so hard I was sure I’d damaged my brain. The increased dosage also shot me up to nearly 230 pounds, a lot for somebody who’s five foot seven. I was afraid of doing anything that had the potential to hurt or scare me. And that’s when enough became enough.
The decision to start taking me
off
Risperdal was harder than the one to put me on it. Internet chat rooms are full of horror stories about the physical pain of withdrawal from this drug, even when it’s taken away a little at a time. And the accounts are all true. There were days when I screamed, and cried, and just wanted to die. My depression deepened, and I began to believe that the only purpose of my life was to be in pain.
Given how bad the withdrawal was and the fact that Risperdal had at least helped my behavior, I
had
to start back on some of it again. We also tried it in combination with old and new drugs such as Orap — which made me totally wild — and Zoloft and Klonopin. So many that I can’t remember them all. And nothing helped.
During this period, out of desperation, my parents found a chiropractor two hours away in Connecticut who said he could help my movement disorder by snapping a part of my upper spine. My father was worried about that and asked the chiropractor to demonstrate it on him. It was such a violent snap that my father said he actually saw stars, and he decided it was too risky for me.
After that, we found an unusual environmental allergist in the southern part of our state. He believed that my problems were caused by ingesting the wrong foods or chemicals, and that if he could figure out what they were, he could fix me. He may have been right, but I’ll never know. He wanted me to go on a diet that was too strict to even try. With Risperdal making me hungry all the time, and with eating now an obsession, the thought of losing my favorite foods was unbearable.
The most extreme thing we almost tried came up while we were on vacation in Florida. A social worker by the pool noticed my movements and introduced herself. She said that I should try
swimming with dolphins
because they had healing powers that could take away my Tourette’s. It sounded crazy, but she seemed pretty smart. My mother tried to set it up, but all the time slots were filled. Otherwise I would have gone for the swimming-with-dolphins treatment.
Which explains why I’m here today, turning onto the side street that leads to the Stringer Clinic for Neurological Movement Disorders.
It sure sounds like my kind of place.
Hope Against Hope
Chapter 27
AS MY PARENTS and I travel up the elevator to the third floor to see the doctors, my tics get the message and shift into high gear. The doors open onto a long, narrow waiting area with a single wooden bench that runs along one wall.
It’s before nine a.m., so
At two and a half pills, the foot thing stopped, but my tics became wilder and more unpredictable than ever.
Then came three pills. And four.
Suddenly I’ve become afraid of everything I used to like. I’ve always loved the ocean — the bigger the waves, the better. Lifeguards have had to order me out of the water after everyone else has left because of undertow or rip currents. With the increase in Risperdal, I’ve become afraid to go into even the calmest water. I’ve also started to suffer from vertigo and was so terrified of taking the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard that I almost ruined our family vacation. I heard Dad saying to my mother that Risperdal took away my courage.
Still, in the hope that Risperdal would eventually help, we got up to six pills a day, a dose that would make most people catatonic. One time my father accidentally took a single pill thinking it was something else, and he slept almost all day.
The high dose calmed me down enough to stop me from bouncing off the walls, but I began to shake my head so hard I was sure I’d damaged my brain. The increased dosage also shot me up to nearly 230 pounds, a lot for somebody who’s five foot seven. I was afraid of doing anything that had the potential to hurt or scare me. And that’s when enough became enough.
The decision to start taking me
off
Risperdal was harder than the one to put me on it. Internet chat rooms are full of horror stories about the physical pain of withdrawal from this drug, even when it’s taken away a little at a time. And the accounts are all true. There were days when I screamed, and cried, and just wanted to die. My depression deepened, and I began to believe that the only purpose of my life was to be in pain.
Given how bad the withdrawal was and the fact that Risperdal had at least helped my behavior, I
had
to start back on some of it again. We also tried it in combination with old and new drugs such as Orap — which made me totally wild — and Zoloft and Klonopin. So many that I can’t remember them all. And nothing helped.
During this period, out of desperation, my parents found a chiropractor two hours away in Connecticut who said he could help my movement disorder by snapping a part of my upper spine. My father was worried about that and asked the chiropractor to demonstrate it on him. It was such a violent snap that my father said he actually saw stars, and he decided it was too risky for me.
After that, we found an unusual environmental allergist in the southern part of our state. He believed that my problems were caused by ingesting the wrong foods or chemicals, and that if he could figure out what they were, he could fix me. He may have been right, but I’ll never know. He wanted me to go on a diet that was too strict to even try. With Risperdal making me hungry all the time, and with eating now an obsession, the thought of losing my favorite foods was unbearable.
The most extreme thing we almost tried came up while we were on vacation in Florida. A social worker by the pool noticed my movements and introduced herself. She said that I should try
swimming with dolphins
because they had healing powers that could take away my Tourette’s. It sounded crazy, but she seemed pretty smart. My mother tried to set it up, but all the time slots were filled. Otherwise I would have gone for the swimming-with-dolphins treatment.
Which explains why I’m here today, turning onto the side street that leads to the Stringer Clinic for Neurological Movement Disorders.
It sure sounds like my kind of place.
Hope Against Hope
Chapter 27
AS MY PARENTS and I travel up the elevator to the third floor to see the doctors, my tics get the message and shift into high gear. The doors open onto a long, narrow waiting area with a single wooden bench that runs along one wall.
It’s before nine a.m., so
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