SPITTING OUT THE CRAZY PILL

A Modern Review of Anti-Psychiatry:

Why do people refuse pharmacological treatment for psychiatric conditions?


Most of you are probably familiar with the famous scene from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, where McMurphy (Jack Nicholson) pretends to consume and then spits out him medication after nurse Ratched refuses to tell him what it is. It’s just medicine, it’s good for him and he shouldn’t be asking questions.angell_1_071411_jpg_630x497_cr

‘If Mr. McMurphy doesn’t want to take his medication orally, I’m sure we can arrange that he can have it some other way. I don’t think you’d like it.’

The film, made in 1975, was based on the book written by Ken Kesey in 1962, at the hight of the anti-psychiatry movement that was pervading the western world. In this period the theme of patients evading pharmacological care became quite common in literary and cinematic depictions of psych wards and mental health. Other interesting readings on mental health care at the time include Michel Foucault’s ‘Madness and Civilisation: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason’ (1961), Szasz’s ‘The Myth of Mental Illness’ (1960), ‘Asylums’ by Goffman (1961) and ‘Psychiatry and Anti-Psychiatry’ by Cooper (1967). The Anti-psychiatry movement mainly questioned three things:

(1) the existence of mental illness and the use of psychiatric diagnosis as a power tool to control social deviants; (2) the power of psychiatrists to detain patients against their will and the use of barbaric methods in psych wards and (3) the medicalisation of madness.

When he spat out the pill, McMurphy was defying a system that was oppressive and malfunctioning, as indeed many internment facilities of the time were. Many of the past treatments used to treat patients with mental instability were primitive and often barbaric: to name a few, trepanning, lobotomies, insulin shock therapy, bloodletting and badly administered electroconvulsive therapy. Similarly their pharmacological counterparts where just as invasive and excessive, and patients were often stuffed to the brim with sedatives such as bromides and barbiturate, and primitive anti-psychotics (chlorpromazine was one of the first), which caused severe side effects, drowsiness and physical dependency.

However, things have significantly improved in the past years, and society’s relationship with mental health is consistently changing towards a world of increasing awareness. Pharmacological treatment in psychiatry has also developed much since its origins. Let us look, for example at the first effective medicine for the treatment of mental illness: lithium carbonate, the effectiveness of which as a mood stabiliser was demonstrated in 1948 by Australian psychiatrist John Cade and approved by the US Food and Drug Administration (FDA) for the treatment of acute mania in 1970.

Although the evidence for lithium as an anti-manic agent is incontrovertible, the drug is also known to cause rather serious adverse effects and carries a “black box warning”. It can cause central nervous system (CNS) toxicity, renal toxicity, thyroid toxicity, and teratogenic effects, all of which can be life threatening. It is also associated with non-life threatening but rather bothersome side effects, such as tremor, excessive urination, dry mouth, nausea, sedation, acne, and cognitive dulling. Mild CNS toxicity manifests as restlessness, irritability, and sedation. Severe neurotoxicity can progress to delirium, with ataxia, coarse tremor, seizures, and ultimately coma and death.

Dr. Lembke at Stanford University writes how earlier studies on the dosage of lithium in treating acute mania advocated a concentration of serum lithium levels between 0.9- 1.4 mEq/L. Severe neurotoxicity is associated with lithium serum concentrations exceeding 1.6mEq/L, but can occur at egonschielelower levels in susceptible individuals. Later studies have illustrated that effective mania response can be achieved with doses between 0.5 – 0.72 mEq/kg/day, corresponding to serum lithium levels below 1.0 mEq/L.

With the reduction in the posology of lithium, patients are much less susceptible to the bothersome side effects associated with high levels, which were extremely common in past times. Today, the optimal dosage of lithium ought to be carefully administered by professionals, with attention to factors such as a limited starting dose, rates of titration, serum concentration for efficacy and toxicity, drug-drug interactions, dosing frequency, and rates of discontinuation.

Furthermore, nowadays patients have increasing access to communication and information technologies, relationships between patient and physician are more dynamic and interactive, there is increasing awareness and de-stigmatisation of mental disorders, and policies are being put in place to assure the equality of human rights for those suffering from psychiatric disorders and mental health difficulties. It would appear that modern psychiatry has worked consistently towards resolving the accusations of the anti-psychiatry movement in the 60’s, even if there still is much progress and research to be made in the field.

Yet out of the three above mentioned critiques, medicalisation still holds a highly significant following in contemporary society, amongst public figures and patients alike. So what is it, in this day and age, that causes patients to refuse their treatment? My conclusion is that three main factor contribute to this issue: (1) fear of social stigma, (2) fear of physical side effects and (3) fear of loss of control.

Let me explain this further through my own personal experience. A few weeks ago, when my psychiatrist suggested I take a low maintenance dosage of Depakine so as to avoid any fall-backs into manic-depressive episodes, my brain automatically started saying: no, no, no, no. Which has led me, over the past few weeks to a great reflexion in what really hides behind my weariness of this type of drug, regardless of being well-informed about its properties, effects and dosages, and confident in the advancements psychiatry has undergone in recent years.

In this post, I would like to share with you my conclusion, as I believe it is a plausible hypothesis for many patient’s behaviour. While I do believe that fear of side effects and/or social stigma can play an important role in an anti-medication approach, I think there is another, more subtle, yet profoundly existential reason to explain this refusal. When I d94412deca31e98092dcef1b5ff532b4advised my psychiatrist regarding my doubts over starting a new drug, her response was one that I have encountered many a time in similar situations, or articles advocating the importance of medication for mental illness.

‘If you were diagnosed with Diabetes, and not Bipolar Disorder, would you be questioning the use of a drug in its cure?’

Well, to be perfectly honest the answer is no. I’ve never really had a problem with taking painkiller, in moderation, for a headache, I daily take medication for my asthma and have used antibiotics in several occasions. (Note: I understand there is a whole school that criticises western medicine in general, as well as the motivations that drive pharmaceutical companies, but this is not the argument I wish to discuss in this post).

None the less, the idea of constantly taking a small maintenance dose of a mood stabiliser gives me the heebie-jeebies. And I do not think this is entirely related to my skepticism towards labelling, although I do believe that a strict adherence to labels in psychiatry may pose some difficulties when dealing with individual cases of patients (which I will discuss further in future). I do not even think it is entirely the fear of losing the manic part of myself, which I have come, after much time and consideration, to view as a diversion and not as an ‘up’ side of my mood and personality.

I think what causes my weariness, is my desire for control over all aspects of my life. What makes psychiatric medication different from other classes of drugs, is that what is acting upon is not a rachel_elise_painting_4physical resentment, but rather a chemical imbalance that plays an enormous role in what constructs my personality. In some way, I suppose my fear is dictated by the possibility that taking such medication, may in some way alter my essence as a human being and my control over my own life.

Let me explain this better. I have been taking 100mg Sertraline (brand name Zoloft, Lustral) daily for almost a year. It is an anti-depressive drug classed as an SSRI (selective serotonine reuptake inhibitor) which essentially means it plays on the level of the neurotransmitter serotonin in my synapses, which is one of the main chemicals responsible for mood. At around the same time I started this therapy, I also undertook many other steps towards well being, such as a better diet, a reduced consumption of caffeine, alcohol and nicotine, physical activity, meditation, therapy and a considerable dose of self awareness and reflection upon my existence.

As of today, I am doing significantly well in my day to day life and, allowing for some minor fall backs, am leading a content, enthusiastic and motivated existence. My main difficulty remains the terror of losing this controlled balance I have cultivated for my self. I almost feel as if I were a blanket hanging precariously on a clothing line, and if one of the many clips holding me up were removed, I may lose my balance, my control over reality. I have found myself asking myself, many a time: how much of my current well being is due to my actions, and how much is due to my pharmacological treatment? Or better, if I had not started on Zoloft a year ago, would I still be in the same place?

I realise now, that this is a rhetorical ‘what if’ question, to which I will never be able to provide an accurate answer. And losing oneself in the hypothetical possibilities of what could have been, is something I hove long deemed unhealthy and unproductive. I spoke with my psychotherapist regarding my skepticism towards medication and a question she asked me really did strike home.

Even if you are doing all these other things for your own stability, and you could potentially be ok without medication, why is it that you still feel inclined to refuse the extra help it could give you, even if it does out-balance the negative effects?

Why is it that we feel inclined to do everything on our own, without other people, without pills, without help of any sorts? Is it fear of weakness? Is it the same reason why so many people around the world art-of-science-3keep their issues in the closet and the same reason for which I myself, for many years, ignored my own pain and instability?

I realised in that moment how much my own preconceptions and perception of control have played a part in my decisions and how hypocritical my weariness of Depakine and Sertraline is. After all, when I drink a beer, spend time with friends, find comfort in a lover, or seek relief in music, art, sex, travelling, food, etc., am I not in some ways asking the world for a helping hand? I fear losing control when indeed I have no control: my existence depends upon the world around me and all of the silly little things that keep me hanging on the clothes line. How is medication any different to them?

So yes, until I am conscious and wise enough to be a blanket that holds itself up on its own, I am not ready to give all of these things up and, for the time being, I need them. I need my friends, I need my family, I need distractions, I need beauty and, as hard as it is for me to admit, I need my medication. What I also realise is that the purpose of all these things is not to ‘hold me up’, but rather to ‘hold me upright’, like the training wheels on a bike that prepare you to ride by yourself. They construct me and make me grow, and allow me to pursue the activities and reflections that make me who I am. And one day, I am certain, I will no longer need these wheels. I will be able to live my life with self-awareness and conscientiousness and experience all around me with light-heartedness and care and no longer with visceral need and dependence.


References:
Cooper, David (1967). ‘Psychiatry and Anti-Psychiatry’ Routledge, Abingdon, Oxon: 2001

Foucault, Michel (1961) ’Madness and Civilisation: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason’ Routledge Classics, Abingdon Oxton: 2005

Goffman, Erving (1961) ‘Asylums. Le istituzioni totali: i meccanismi dell’esclusione e della violenza’ Einaudi, 2010

Kesey, Ken (1962) One Flew over the Cuckoo’s nest. The Viking Press Ink.

Lembke, Anna. MD, Clinical Instructor, Stanford University, Optimal Dosing of Lithium, Valproic Acid, and Lamotrigine in the Treatment of Mood Disorders accessed on ‘Primary Psychiatry’ on Nov 12th 2015. URL: http://primarypsychiatry.com/optimal-dosing-of-lithium-valproic-acid-and-lamotrigine-in-the-treatment-of-mood-disorders/

Szasz, Thomas S. ‘The Myth of Mental Illness Foundations of a Theory of Personal Cunduct’ (1960). HarperCollins: 2011

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Post # 3 On Patience – The Arrogant Pilot

‘I used to think I was clever, those days and weeks when the world rolled under me.’


Patience. I used to think of it as something an honest and creative person can hardly commit to. There are so, so, so many things to do and see and eat and learn, that there literally is not enough time to even think them all, let alone plan them. If you’ve never experienced the watery mouth of a pre-meal Christmas morning, the anxious quivers before an impossible exam, or the eager anticipation before a holiday, date, album release, season, election day, new movie sequel, or silly soap opera new season, you’re either boring, bored or alien. In the first of these cases, I suggest you stop right here – I hardly would expect you to make any sense of this gibberish distortion and you’re probably too down to earth to even try. As for the other two: I don’t flatter myself enough to believe I can wake you from your torpor, or give you an accurate perspective of how complex and weird it is to be so very human. I suggest you humour me in my thoughts.

If, on the other hand, you are human and curious, I believe I can safely say that you must be, to some extent, impatient. If you really fancy something, you’d quite rather have it (or have it happen) now, rather the in a couple of decades. Sure, you might qualm your desires with anecdotes such as ‘it’s worth the wait’ or ‘good things take time’, but let’s be fair to ourselves: if they could put their hands on their object of desire then and there, I sincerely doubt any semi-sane individual would respond with ‘maybe later’.


‘You could be an excellent pilot, but if you don’t take any flight lessons to keep up with your potential, all you’re gonna see is the big ass tree at the end of the runway, before you smash your nose right into it.’


I used to think I was clever, those days and weeks when the world rolled under me. When I was so full of ideas and thoughts and plans that I could do anything and be anything. When my heart raced constantly at the prospect of encountering a new interest, a new person, a new place. When my thoughts were speed of light fast and no-one could keep up. I could learn French, watch three movies, listen to the entirety of Beethoven’s Symphonies, serve drinks in my college bar, go for a walk, climb a tree, eat three meals, go to lectures, talk to people, have a late night chat with someone till the wee hours of the morning and feel the despair of how twenty four hours are such a tiny amount of time to call a day and that sleep is the stupidest human weakness in the world. I could do so, so many things, work and live at a pace that could keep up with a taking off Jumbo, and I was obviously impatient to do them all.

The problem was, I never took off. It was as if I’d stolen someones worn out Champ and tried to keep up with that Boeing 747. You could be an excellent pilot, but if you don’t take any flight lessons to keep up with your potential, all you’re gonna see is the big ass tree at the end of the runway, before you smash your nose right into it. If you don’t train your actions to keep up with your thoughts, you crash. And I’ve crashed. Many a times I crashed, and hard, before I realised that maybe I ought to try something else before getting on the plane again, before I broke my neck and it became to late. Before I was stuck on crutches, or lithium, for the rest of my life.


‘Those thoughts that others couldn’t keep up with? Well, it turns out I couldn’t keep up with them myself.’


I remember what it feels like, that moment of elation when the wheels just barely leave the floor. When beauty fills your hearth with its joyful melody and you feel infinite, like a supernova that’s about to burst into a million shards of light and happiness, and you’re so afraid to lose it all. Sometimes it even last for a few blissful moments or weeks. And then it’s gone. Gone without explosions or spectacular combustion. And you are numb, empty and plain, and you don’t know what happened or how it happened. You’re just there, victim of a crash, incapable of looking after yourself. And it takes time to heal, just like it takes the arrogant pilot time to fix his broken leg and smashed up plane.

Those thoughts that others couldn’t keep up with? Well, it turns out I couldn’t keep up with them myself. They were so fast and confusing that they’d meddled with my brain, with my ability to reason and learn. They were so constant, annoying and invasive that they consumed me and my time, and never left me alone to feel. In all these years, I never once stopped to listen to myself and feel. How can anyone expect to survive a breathtaking sunset from a beach in Ilha Grande, without having learned how to understand and listen to ones emotions? I’m not saying I was a completely emotionless and dead. You can appreciate the aesthetics of a piece of art and even be fascinated by it, without it actually speaking to you. That is precisely how I see my life before I became aware. I lived aesthetically and over enthusiastically, jumping from one idea and affection to the next, and never allowing myself to stop and absorb the intensity of it all.