While Wendy Burn Plays Mind Games… People Die…

“…Half of all those taking antidepressants experience withdrawal problems when they try to give them up and for millions of people in England, these are severe, according to a new review of the evidence commissioned by MPs….


A recent study touted in the media claims that up to 30% of people on SSRI antidepressants might experience severe withdrawal symptoms. This isn’t news to me, or the millions of people who have experienced severe withdrawal symptoms, and it isn’t news to the researchers, authors, bloggers, journalists, critical psychiatrists, documentary film makers, bereaved parents of SSRI tragedies, psychologists etc- but to the royal college of psychiatry, it seems to be.

Or is it?

It’s been known for at least 16 years in the mainstream UK (since around the time of the BBC’s Secrets of Seroxat documentary) that SSRI’s have a risk of serious withdrawals, however it seems that psychiatry, and psychiatrists (such as Wendy Burn) has been actively deflecting anything that would make SSRI’s look bad ever since.

Wendy (the Royal college of Psychiatrist’s UK president) seems to see her role not as a patient advocate as such, but more of a guardian of the psychiatric paradigm, and even the dogs on the street know by now- the psychiatric paradigm is owned by the Pharmaceutical industry, and has been for some time. Therefore, perhaps Wendy knows not who-or what- she really serves?

(or maybe she knows all too well?)

Wendy, claims that the study -touting 30% will experience severe withdrawals- is not scientific, and that also, we must


“…Remember this is a selected group, not randomly chosen. Terrible for those affected and we must try to help them but it is not 30% of everyone who ever takes an antidepressant…”


Let’s stop for a minute and consider that Wendy is correct (and she might be correct), let’s consider that it is not 30% of people who will have severe withdrawals, let’s bring down our guesstimate to 5% (a really low conservative guess) and let’s apply that to the real world.

A recent article in the UK press said that up to one in 6 people at any time in England will be on an SSRI drug.

….with over seven million adults (16% of the English adult population) being prescribed an antidepressant in England alone last year,” says the review….”


That’s seven million adults in the UK. All on SSRI drugs.

If we take the most conservative estimate of 5%, not the 30% that has been touted in the media, and which Wendy of the college of psychiatrists, says is not an accurate number. Let’s go down by 25% to 5% as our most conservative estimate.

5% of 7,000,000 is


That’s 350,000 people who could be experiencing debilitating withdrawals, withdrawals so severe that they are ill for months, sometimes years. A Withdrawal so severe and horrific that they can’t work, they lose relationships, jobs, their lives, personalities, health and so on. Some might be in such pain from the severe withdrawal that they kill themselves. I felt that way on Seroxat, the despair in a severe Seroxat withdrawal is beyond words.

It’s Stephen King level horror… and then some.

There are no official guidelines for helping those in severe withdrawals, no supports, and outdated advice from NICE. Many people will be left alone in agony and some will die because of it.

But Wendy doesn’t see any of this as a problem.

She doesn’t see that severe withdrawals are a serious problem, and that denial of them is also a problem..

She doesn’t see conflicts of interest between psychiatry and pharma as a problem either.

Perhaps people like Wendy are the problem?



Complelling Description Of Psych Drug (Paxil/Seroxat) Addiction ..

From the Deadmansvitamin Blog

Check it out here:


Psychiatry And One Brave Man

I recently came upon Michael Priebe’s blog where he tells his story of withdrawal from Paxil and Xanax.   The sheer hell he experienced while doing so and his precise accounting of the complete lack of consideration shown him by psychiatrists.  He really hits the mark on that.

His story is told in 3 parts, but I will put it up in its entirety.  Here is a link to his site if anyone wanted to get into communication with him.

The bed was soaked yet again, the sheets saturated with a pungent, urgent sweat caused by nightmares and the prescription toxins that were trying to leave my body. Once again the few restless moments of sleep I was able to “enjoy” were interrupted by the nightly ritual of my wife turning on the lights and stripping the bed so that we could lie on a surface that didn’t feel as if Patrick Ewing had just used it as his postgame massage table.

It was still dark outside—predawn hours—but I had to be up for work shortly. I lived just outside of Milwaukee in Waukesha, WI, but I commuted to my post at Madison (technical) College each day, a trip that took an hour and fifteen minutes one way in good traffic that didn’t include getting stalled by the notoriously long freight trains that passed through Waukesha.

I worked in the Testing Center at Madison College, a position that had me dealing not only with large numbers of students most days but also with the daily ups and downs of office interaction with coworkers.

I couldn’t believe I was still functioning at my job. How did people not know about my illness? When would they find out? How would they find out? How long until I had some sort of public breakdown that ended the whole charade?

Or maybe everyone already knew and was too polite to say anything. I mean, how could they miss the rapid weight loss and the sudden and persistent appearance of midnight-black bags under my eyes? I was sure I looked like a zombie, but maybe it was all in my head. I was getting trapped in my head a lot lately.

As my wife tidied up the bed and quietly cursed my relentless night sweats, I worried about the upcoming workday. How would I make the drive in my sleepless condition? How would I survive the office in my anxious condition? Even the tiniest hint of workplace stress might send my compromised system into a panic that exposed my “secret” illness. I wasn’t well-rested or well-nourished enough to survive the ups and downs that define a normal day for most people. I could barely eat or sleep and I hadn’t been able to do either of those things sufficiently for months, ever since making the decision to stop taking the Paxil that had been prescribed to me for anxiety attacks suffered as a 21-year-old college student.

I was now in my mid-thirties, and I was starting to suspect that prescription medicines were causing me anxiety and a host of other problems rather than fixing much of anything. It took me a long time to come to that suspicion, but as they say, Better late than never.

Paxil—one of the biggest rock stars among the SSRI super pills that flooded our society around the millennium—had been causing certain health issues for me, not just physical ones but emotional ones as well. I had little energy or tolerance for exercise, I dealt with stress by drinking and eating too much, I gained weight, I had elevated blood pressure, I had elevated liver enzyme levels, and I just kind of “floated” through many aspects of life, unable to fully engage with existence the way other people did.

As I found myself within striking distance of turning 40, I desperately wanted the sort of healthy, “normal” life that I suspected other people had, so I finally decided the Paxil had to go.

I thought that life would get better when I quit taking the Paxil—remove the problem and life gets better, I reasoned—but I was wrong. And not just a little bit wrong. Once the Paxil was removed from my life, all hell broke loose and I didn’t even see it coming.

And a short time later, when I began cutting out the Xanax that the family doctor had prescribed to go along with my Paxil, all hell broke loose again. And once again, I truly couldn’t have predicted the strange physical pains and extreme mental anguish that would pummel me and not let up for years.

You see, that’s the problem with antidepressant and benzodiazepine withdrawal—especially the drawn-out or ‘protracted” kind like I experienced: you don’t expect it because few people even acknowledge that it exists. Doctors will dismiss you, loved ones will have a hard time relating to you, and all across the world the gigantic pharmaceutical machine will continue to grind its profitable gears without so much as a hiccup. The lines at CVS and Walgreens never get shorter, and people are still willing to turn their emotions and brains over to the modern inventions of profit-driven chemistry.

If you tell someone in the medical establishment that you are sick because of a prescription medication or because you are trying to quit one, they will most likely tell you that it sounds as if you need a different prescription medication.

Withdrawal? What is that?

The clock signaled that it was almost time for me to leave for work. There would be no more sweating in bed wondering about what new withdrawal-related symptoms the day would bring, because it was time to experience it all firsthand again. I always hoped that one morning it would all be over, but like Groundhog Day, each morning seemed to bring more of the same.

I left the relative safety of my bed and made my way across the hall to the spare bedroom that housed the treadmill. The sun was about to rise, and I needed to get the anxiety out of my system somehow. This wouldn’t be the spiritually refreshing, five-mile morning jog of a healthy man on his way out to conquer the world. No, this would be the uncoordinated and breathless five-minute effort of a man who was hoping for a small hint of calm in the anxious storms that were becoming the norm in his life.

When my short session on the treadmill was finished, I showered, dressed for work, and resolved that I would try to survive another day in the strange and terrifying new reality that was my world since quitting Paxil.

I went into the bedroom and kissed my wife goodbye. Fear was visible in my eyes and pulsated from my fragile body language. I felt as if some demonic force (or even a strong wind) could send me through the earth’s crust and into hell at any moment.

“Pray for me,” I told my wife in a desperate voice, and then I went downstairs to get on with the commute.


November 15, 2016

I awoke to a heavy circle of pain pressing down over my heart. The day seemed pale and gloomy in a way that was out of line for even the most overcast of winter mornings in Wisconsin. My house was full of family—brothers, in-laws, and a new nephew—but I felt alone, and that strange feeling of isolation swirled around the day’s first moments like an ominous wind.

“Good morning,” my youngest brother said in a singsong voice as he lowered my baby nephew close to my face. Playing the role of good hosts, my wife and I had surrendered our bedroom and were sleeping on an air mattress on the floor of my office. I wanted to stay on that air mattress indefinitely. I didn’t want to be awake. A photographer was scheduled to come over later in the day for family pictures, and I couldn’t imagine how I would play the role of “normal human being” for that.

“Say hello to your Uncle Mike,” my brother said to his firstborn.

Baby Jackson: He was tiny and fresh, a physical manifestation of both life’s beauty and God’s genius. I responded to the sight of his cherubic little face by descending even further into my sludgy pit of depression.

The thick blanket of terror and despair that now suffocated me was unlike anything I could recall feeling before. As dull sunlight tried to creep through the blinds of my office windows—as my one-month-old nephew cooed and stared at his confused uncle—I somehow felt that death was upon me.

Life equals death: that was how my mind was working now.

I’d quit taking Paxil the month before, after almost a decade and a half of ingesting it for the “generalized anxiety” that had been diagnosed by a family doctor and a short self-assessment checklist. Ever since quitting, my life had gotten confusing and sinister in a way that seemed to speak of impending doom.

I was 35 years old, and I truly felt that my best days were behind me.

Looking back on those first months of Paxil withdrawal, I can now recognize that some characteristics of my emotions were bubbling to the surface after years of being suppressed in some way. After spending so much time under the depths of medication, the emotions were understandably waterlogged and confused, so their first attempts to speak came through as some inexplicable depression—the kind one experiences when looking at a precious newborn baby, of course.

During antidepressant withdrawal, a certain numbness slowly gives way to the tingles of normal emotional experience, but nothing feels normal for a long time. In fact, a few months after suffering that baby-induced episode of depression, my younger brother and his wife were visiting again when I was overcome by another confusing sensation, a pain really.

We were watching the movie Ted—that classic, raunchy comedy starring Mark Wahlberg and a stuffed bear—when I noticed something strange happening to my face. It hurt in a way I didn’t recognize.

I’d been having weird body pains ever since taking that last dose of Paxil, but this sort of facial discomfort was a new one. My cheeks ached in a sharp way, especially near the dimpled areas involved in smiling and laughing.

Then I realized, my face was hurting because I’d been smiling and laughing. It wasn’t used to being stretched by such spontaneous displays of joy anymore.

My face had been frozen in some painful mask of withdrawal-induced stoicism for months, but now it was becoming “unfrozen.”

Becoming unfrozen: that’s an apt way to describe the profound and painful thawing process that takes place as prescription medication fades from a person’s mind and body. There is so much blunted awareness that wants to come back to life, and there are so many repressed emotions that want to have a voice, but the person in withdrawal really isn’t ready for such a flood of activity. He or she really isn’t strong enough. The person who was taking medication was flying around the edges of life without truly feeling or noticing thoughts for a long time, and then BAM. The pills are gone, and the icebergs start to melt. It is overwhelming and confusing.

Tears flow for little or no reason—sobs can be sparked by the last few “teachable” minutes of a family sitcom or by the melodrama of a Lifetime movie, for example—and then there is the unprovoked depression, the twisted anxiety, and the legions of thoughts that race day and night.

Day and night the thoughts and emotions run wild and confused, and after several months of this, when all of those thoughts and emotions continue to gather en masse and dance and fornicate like some sleepless group of college students on ecstasy, a person starts to wonder if maybe he’s insane.

And that’s when beginning the prescription madness anew starts to seem like a reasonable idea. Maybe the old pills were necessary. Or maybe some new ones are needed.

I had wanted so badly to be free of the medication, but shortly after quitting Paxil, I began to wonder if maybe it wasn’t time to admit defeat. Maybe I simply had to accept that I was broken in a way that could only be fixed by the contents of little orange bottles. I thought that I’d been making progress—painful progress in small increments, but progress nonetheless—but maybe I’d just been kidding myself.

Maybe the doctors—the ones who had played no small role in creating my current lunacy—really did have the answers, and maybe those answers only existed as 21st-century pills. Despite my misgivings, maybe I needed to go see one of them again, at least to make sure that I wasn’t dying. What was the worst that could happen if I went back to the “experts” in white coats, or maybe even went back to the Paxil or something similar?

I was about to find out.


January 18, 2017

As the world around me enjoyed a pleasant Saturday afternoon, I sat on my bed trembling, wondering if I was dying or going insane. While other people sipped lattes at coffee shops and ran casual errands or watched movies or college football, I fought to keep a faint grip on some sense of normalcy and well-being. I was 35-years-old and I felt utterly alone, as if I were some unfortunate astronaut whose tether to the mothership had been tragically severed while he was performing exterior maintenance on the craft.

Whoosh. Away I flew into a vast, empty darkness. As I careened by the occasional burning star or foreign sun, I could still see, faintly, the people and the life that I’d left behind. However, like a ghost, I could no longer touch my loved ones or share with them a laugh or a bit of sunny enjoyment on a weekend. I could only wonder about my murky place in the universe and hurt.

Two months or so earlier, I’d quit taking the Paxil that had been prescribed to me in college for that nebulous, modern affliction known as Generalized Anxiety. Since taking my last dose of those pink pills, the world had become a ghoulish place indeed. The physical symptoms of the drug withdrawal were uncomfortable—the constant nausea, chronic insomnia, and damned fatigue were draining—but it was the mental and emotional troubles that were truly frightening.

I could no longer make sense of or enjoy a normal day because my system was a toxic stew of depression, guilt, and dread. And I was routinely getting “trapped” in my own head, sequestered in uncomfortably close quarters with a motley mix of intrusive and negative thoughts. I was alone in such a way even when surrounded by loved ones. I was constantly slipping further and further into that empty darkness, and there only seemed to be one solution: I needed to get back on the Paxil.

Despite all the hard work I’d done up to that point to quit the potent medication—and despite the physical and emotional side-effects that had compelled my decision to quit in the first place—I reluctantly ran backward, back toward the prescription bottle that I still kept in my office, ostensibly in case I needed to pursue an emergency reinstatement such as this.

I fished a little pill from the orange, plastic bottle that had become such a familiar sight over the years, and I swallowed the bitter pharmaceutical hopefully. However, almost immediately I knew there was a problem. My bedroom started spinning and shifting, and I felt a nausea so profoundly upsetting that it seemed as if I were receiving some divine punishment from above—a punishment for crawling back to the devil instead of seeking God in my hour of need.

Because my body had fought so valiantly to rid itself of paroxetine’s chemical intrusions—after my tired mind had perhaps seen some reprieve in the near future—the entirety of my being protested the medication’s sudden return. My systems began to kick and scream, yelling at me, What have you done? My world seemed to be crashing down quickly, so I did what any married man in his midthirties would do under such duress: I called my mom.

“Please, please don’t think less of me for taking the pill,” I cried into the phone. “If I really need this medication because I’m sick, then please don’t think less of me.” I’d said that I was going to stop the medication and get healthy, but now I wasn’t sure what healthy was. Was it quitting the pills or taking them? Was I now sick because I’d been duped into taking the pills, or had I really needed the pills all along because I was born sick, the woeful and unlucky recipient of a deficient serotonin or norepinephrine supply.

As my mother listened to me cry and ramble, I felt like a scared little child who just pretended to be a man at times. Maybe I would never accomplish anything in life, not even the basic goal of sorting out my own wellness.

“You know that your dad and I would never think less of you,” my mom reassured me as only a mother can. Her words made me feel a little less like a failure, but I still felt gut-wrenchingly sick from the pill I’d swallowed. I wondered when the effects of that pill would subside, and I wondered when my wife would be getting home.

Dr. Feelgood was tanned and confident. He had a nice haircut and a paunch that seemed to speak of nice restaurants. He smiled often through the adornment of his goatee, and he often tried to reassure me that we were buddies more than anything. He acted casual and cool by throwing me winks and even the thumb-and-index-finger gunshot on one occasion, and he always gave me more pills when I asked for them.

Now that I was trying to get off the pills, Dr. Feelgood didn’t seem to fully understand me anymore. Either that or he didn’t want to admit to playing any part in the gruesome scene I was now presenting to him. I was in pain, all the time, and I was looking for answers and reassurance.

“Well, any withdrawal effects from the Paxil should have been relatively minor,” Dr. Feelgood said, “and they should have been over after a week or two.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I’d been off the Paxil—with the exception of that one, ill-advised reinstatement dose—for about four months, and nothing felt close to being over. If my harrowing pains and mental fog weren’t withdrawal, then I was seriously ill with something that seemed willing and able to kill me.

“It sounds like your pains are mostly stress related,” Feelgood said. “We all channel stress in different ways. If you don’t want to take an SSRI antidepressant, then maybe you’d have some luck with Wellbutrin.”

During that first, confusing half year of withdrawal, I ended up trying Wellbutrin, a norepinephrine-dopamine reuptake inhibitor that can apparently be prescribed for just about anything. I would later learn that the medication is marketed as both an antidepressant and as a smoking cessation aid (in addition to being used in an “off-label” manner for ADD and anxiety), and at Feelgood’s suggestion I took the multitalented pharmaceutical for about a week, until I could no longer stand how it filled me with useless adrenaline and agitation.

After the Wellbutrin, I almost tried other prescriptions, too. Every so often at work—when the withdrawal had me feeling as if I were about to lose my mind or go into cardiac arrest—I’d step outside and place a frantic phone call to Feelgood’s office. “Maybe Pill X or Pill Y will help,” I’d suggest to his nurse hopefully, but I never followed through on those suggestions, because the thought of eventually having to tackle yet another pill withdrawal was more than I could stomach. In addition to quitting the Paxil, I’d begun a tapering schedule to quit the Xanax that had been prescribed alongside the Paxil so many years ago (for acute instances of panic), and it was starting to seem like more than coincidence that my body pains and mental confusion increased as my levels of medication decreased.

After a while, I wanted nothing more to do with medications. I just wanted my doctor to define my situation and offer me hope that it would get better. I just wanted to know that I wasn’t dying, really. I wanted expert guidance that would take me through the prescription drug withdrawal process, but unfortunately, Dr. Feelgood didn’t have much to offer in that department.

“You should have quit the Xanax first,” was about all Feelgood had to say when I outlined my situation for him and pressed for withdrawal-specific information. I’m still not sure of the logic behind that statement, but I think he was giving a sly nod to the pain he knew I was yet to endure if I continued to cut my Xanax dosage. I’m almost certain that he had seen my sort of situation before (how could he not have?), but he never came out and said so. Instead, he acted a little confused.

I was starting to feel hopeless. Was I somehow imagining it all? Where besides the Internet could I find information regarding the strange physical and mental symptoms that had been torturing me for months? Where could I turn for help?

Oh, how I wished that I’d never left my first doctor. Some time earlier, when that primary care physician whom I’ll call The Good Doctor had started to get squeamish with my Xanax levels and refused to increase them any further, I’d sought a replacement for him and quickly found a sympathetic goatee in Dr. Feelgood. But now I desperately wished that I’d never switched loyalties.

The Good Doctor was a man who truly cared about his patients. He had a healthy BMI, a clean-shaven face, and a compassionate demeanor. He’d truly seemed to care about me. The Good Doctor had preached about the need to attack anxiety and other illnesses with methods other than pills, and when he didn’t understand something—as was the case when he admitted to being a little green about clinical levels of anxiety—he acknowledged his ignorance and tried to make a wise referral (in my case, a referral to a therapist whom I don’t remember ever calling).

The Good Doctor had been so kind and concerned. He’d talked about total wellbeing and things like exercise and a healthy diet. Appointments with him might last upwards of 40 minutes—well, well past the 15 minutes or 20 minutes that I’m sure the clinic held as sacrosanct “best-practice” parameters—and he was not a man who relished reaching for the prescription pad, which seemed to be a last resort for him.

The Good Doctor was the opposite of Dr. Feelgood in nearly every way—you would never be able to picture him going on the lecture circuit for big pharmaceutical companies or complying with calloused appointment time limits—and after a while, I think he was forced out of the medical establishment because of his unique posture.

One day, after I’d already been seeing Dr. Feelgood for some time, I received a letter from The Good Doctor, a communication he must have sent to all current and former patients. The letter said that he was leaving the medical profession to teach middle school. The Good Doctor said that he was looking forward to helping children learn about the planets.

Because my interactions with Dr. Feelgood had been disappointing—because the medical establishment didn’t seem to recognize prescription drug withdrawal as a condition that might last for months or years—I stayed away from doctors for a while, hoping that my situation would resolve itself so that I wouldn’t feel the need to talk to people in white coats anymore. However, when every new cut to my Xanax dosage brought with it otherworldly pains that left me searching for answers, I relented and made an appointment with Dr. Dipstick, a colleague of Feelgood’s who worked at a clinic across town.

By this time my situation had become more confusing than ever. I was often depressed, perplexed, fatigued, paranoid, and anxious, and new and fantastical body pains arrived on my doorstep regularly like taunting packages that had been sent by GlaxoSmithKline or Pfizer.

When I arrived for my appointment with Dr. Dipstick, I was broken, fragile, and nervous. I was desperately looking for someone to help me, but would he be the one? I tried to remain optimistic. Maybe he would smile and tell me, “The truth is that we see this all the time. We prescribe A LOT of these medications, so we have to help a lot of people get off them, too. Don’t worry, you’re not dying (friendly chuckle), you’re just going through withdrawal. You’re going to be all right, and I’m going to help you until you are fully recovered.”

But Dr. Dipstick didn’t say any of that. Instead, he was at first indifferent and then insulting. He actually made me feel foolish and ashamed for coming to him, and he often seemed confused as to what I wanted out of the visit. I tried to explain to him how I’d been suffering since quitting Paxil and then embarking on a Xanax-reduction schedule, but my words hit a wall. Maybe he was ignorant of prescription drug withdrawal, but if he was, he could have admitted that ignorance and providing a referral to someone else like The Good Doctor would have. Instead, he began to fill the void with blame.

“Do you ever need an eye-opener?” Dipstick asked me accusingly. His full beard made him appear gruff and even menacing.

“I don’t know what that is,” I told him.

“It’s when you need a drink to get going in the morning,” he explained, certain that he wasn’t telling me anything new.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Well, you said on your intake form that you drink beer pretty regularly, and just going through your medical history here, I see that you’ve had some elevated ALT and AST liver function numbers in the past.”

I tried to steer the conversation back to the Xanax taper that I was in the midst of—back to the anxiety and pains that increased with each step in that reduction schedule—but he just didn’t seem interested.

“Maybe you could refer me to someone who could guide me through this?” I asked, shaking. “Maybe to someone in your psychiatry department who specializes in anxiety and the medications used to treat anxiety.”

“I don’t know of anyone like that in particular,” Dipstick said flatly. “I can give you the general triage number for psychiatry, and they’ll probably have you speak with a social worker who will assess your needs.”

“How would a social worker help me?” I asked desperately.

“Well, maybe they’d refer you to a substance abuse treatment facility.” Dipstick answered, and my stomach sunk to previously unknown depths of despair.

I was beginning to see a disturbing picture emerge. When I’d been dutifully taking the medications, I’d been a valued patient. The doctors had happily provided with information about “transition periods” and side-effects. But now that I was quitting the medications, I was nothing to them but an addict or neurotic who needed to help himself. They had no medical information for me, and they seemed to have no insight into the many symptoms that were making my life hell.

The visit to Dr. Dipstick was beyond disheartening. I could have gotten more sympathy for my situation by talking to the clerks at the corner gas station, and I could have gotten more information by staying at home and using Google, which would ultimately prove to be an invaluable resource during my ordeal.

The visit to Dipstick was bad, but the paperwork I received from his office several days later was almost worse. Under Reasons for Visit, Dr. Dipstick had written Alcohol Abuse. My mind raced, wondering why he was doing this. Was he a friend of Dr. Feelgood? Was he trying to protect his friend—the one who had seen my Xanax prescription balloon under his watch—from some sort of lawsuit? Whatever the case, the comments he’d added to my official medical record had just further muddied the waters of my situation at the clinic. Those comments would be the first thing that a new doctor would read (if I went to one), so there was now zero chance that I’d get any educated help.

A few days after my visit with Dr. Dipstick, I called his office and spoke with a nurse, relaying to her my concerns about the Reasons for Visit remarks that Dipstick had stamped onto my record. I asked her if she could please have the doctor remove those remarks, and a short while later she got back to me.

“Dr. Dipstick says that he won’t do that,” she said, not unkindly. I was both heartbroken and furious. I wanted to drive to the clinic and confront the doctor in person, but of course, withdrawal had left me too timid and weak for such a heroic effort. Instead, I wrote a letter to the clinic a few months later.

As I wrote my letter, I tried to channel my frustration and righteous anger. I told the clinic about Dr. Dipstick’s dismissive and judgmental demeanor, and I told them about how the increase in my liver enzyme numbers—the increase that Dipstick had attached, along with my withdrawal pains, to beer drinking—appeared to have been just another dangerous effect of the medications I was quitting. Those numbers had returned to normal once I’d quit Paxil and started reducing Xanax dosages, so I felt that such a fact needed to be entered into some official record. I wanted to enter every last bit of my situation into some official record so that future withdrawal cases wouldn’t be dismissed so easily.

But I never sent the letter, just in case I needed an appointment in the future.

As it turned out, I did make another appointment with the clinic, a final visit to Dr. Feelgood that would be my last doctor appointment to date. By that time I’d been off Paxil for nearly 16 months and completely free of Xanax for about four months. New physical and mental pains were still arriving every week, and although I doubted Feelgood had any new insights for me, I wanted him to run some tests to make sure that I wasn’t seriously ill with something other than withdrawal.

“I could prescribe you something for Fibromyalgia pain,” Feelgood suggested almost sheepishly, “but it doesn’t seem like you want to go the medication route anymore.”

I shook my head. “I just want to make sure I’m not dying,” I said.

“Well, we can definitely run some tests,” Feelgood said. “We will definitely try to rule things out.”

 “And I want to start cutting back on my blood pressure medications, too,” I said. “Now that I’m getting healthier, I just don’t think I need them anymore. Certainly not three of them.”

“We can start reducing those and see how it goes,” Feelgood said without much hesitation. He demeanor was friendly, and I even thought I sensed a newfound respect coming from him. I don’t know if he’d ever seen a patient of his successfully quit multiple medications or not, but now that he’d seen me do it, maybe he would have something hopeful to tell future patients who were suffering through similar scenarios. Or maybe I was just imagining increased attention and thoughtfulness on his part. Maybe I just wanted to see something positive in the situation.

Thankfully, my lab results from that last visit to Dr. Feelgood all came back normal. However, the pain of prescription drug withdrawal continued for a good while. Even the blood pressure medications that I was able to give up after getting back to a healthy lifestyle came with a ridiculous amount of withdrawal effects, things that could lead a person to believe that he was losing his mind or dying if he didn’t know better.

Pills do have consequences, even if a trusted doctor is prescribing them and even if health insurance is paying for them. Prescription drug withdrawal is real, even if a relatively small number of people are talking about it. It’s as real as any purported benefits of the medications that are so readily given out nowadays for every ailment under the sun. Think about it: if a designer mix of chemicals is introduced into a person’s system with the intent purpose of altering how the mind and body function, then why wouldn’t there be severe physical and mental repercussions when that mix of chemicals is taken away? I’m now of the opinion that patients should almost always look at prescriptions as a last resort: there are simply too many known instances of modern drugs making people’s physical, emotional, or mental health worse.

Recovery from prescription-drug withdrawal is possible: that’s important for people to know. I’ve now been free of Paxil for almost four years and off of Xanax for a little more than three. I consider myself mostly “cured” of withdrawal (time and healthy self-care habits seem to be the only remedies, by the way), but I still occasionally wonder if I might have some lingering fatigue, confusion, or other symptoms that are the result of taking or quitting the medications (although I realize that such complaints might also just be a common part of approaching 40 in a competitive and stressed-out society). And about the anxiety? I still get flustered and worried at times, but I’ve found that there are ways to fight through such emotions (or avoid them) without making a Faustian deal that involves sacrificing parts of my greater well-being.

I often wonder how different my life might have been if I’d never taken those damned pills in the first place. But such wondering is useless, as useless as the idea that doctors and their pills can keep a person healthy in the first place. True health requires nutritious eating, regular exercise, adequate downtime, meaningful relationships, spiritual enrichment, and professional fulfillment. The Good Doctor would probably tell you that, but unfortunately, he’s not practicing anymore.

Hello To The World Health Organization (WHO)…

I get views regularly from organizations as diverse as the WHO (World Health Organization) and the MHRA, to the US government and the European Medicines Authority. It’s interesting that the WHO were viewing today, because it was back in 2002, that the WHO reported that Paroxetine (Seroxat/Paxil) topped the list of withdrawal symptoms for SSRI drugs.



“Dr Healy told BBC News Online, of the 100m people world-wide who were on Seroxat, one in 1,000 could have a suicidal reaction.”

Withdrawal problems

A World Health Organization report which ranked antidepressants in order of withdrawal problems found Seroxat was the hardest to come off.


Seroxat Study 329 : The Taper Phase (New Post On Dr Healy’s Blog)


Study 329 Taper Phase

October, 10, 2016 | 1 Comment

Psychiatrist and Blogger (1boringoldman) Mickey Nardo Writes About Paxil (Seroxat) Withdrawal

Posted on Thursday 20 August 2015

As I’ve mentioned before, back in the early days of SSRIs, I was lucky to have a good friend whose wife, a sophisticated Social Worker, had taken Paxil shortly after it came on the market. When she stopped, she got ill and was perceptive enough to recognize that it wasn’t anything like her “depression coming back.” It was something else. It was a withdrawal syndrome. She described it clearly back then, including “brain zaps,” just like we’ve come to know it now that it’s more recognized and well characterized. So I knew about withdrawal early, and began slow tapering off of SSRIs a long time ago with all of them [never prescribing Paxil]. When I mentioned it to colleagues, they didn’t know what I was taking about.

Today, I ran across a post from Bob Fiddaman, a long-time reference source on all things Paxil [Seroxat], linking two previous posts of his I’d missed. He’s been on the trail of some Clinical Trials of Paxil done in Yugoslavia [back when there was a Yugoslavia to do trials in].
Here’s the gist of the story. Back in 1988, SmithKline Beecham initiated a trial [called the relapse trial].
At this time, SKB were seeking approval of Paxil and the Yugoslavia trial was to show the FDA (the US drug regulator) how effective Paxil was in treating depression – they would also try to show the FDA how it was important to keep taking Paxil and not to stop… because if you did stop then you would go into relapse, in other words, SKB were trying to prove that stopping Paxil meant the patient’s original illness would return.
So, after a period on Paxil, half the patients changed to placebo, and sure enough, they got ill – interpreted as a return of the illness:
With the results they wanted, SKB then provided the FDA with apparent evidence that showed patients staying on Paxil continued to enjoy a normal, “depression free” life, but that those abandoning the drug would  suffer relapse back into a depressive state. One thing that was irksome to SKB was that they had to convince the FDA that the relapses shown in the study were not simply patients suffering withdrawal.
Bob’s source is the transcript from a suit resolved in 2002 Nguyen & Farber, plaintiffs vs. SmithKline Beecham Corporation. The transcript goes on to describe how SKB was able to essentially game Dr. Thomas Laughren into helping them convince the FDA panel that this was recurrent depression rather than withdrawal. When Bob wrote the MHRA with an FOIA request, they wrote back that they didn’t have any records. The MHRA official is a former GSK employee.
The thing that struck me in this story is that they even did the relapse trial in the first place. They must’ve known about the discontinuation syndrome early on and actually did this Clinical Trial to spin it away.

That brings up something that has nagged at me for years. I still see depression in two major categories, just as I did before I even came into psychiatry. Depression [with a capital “D”] meaning Melancholia, the Depressive Episodes of Manic Depressive Illness, Post-Partum Depression, etc. And depression [with a little “d”] as in everything else [formerly known as Neurotic Depression]. Whichever the case, depression is a time-limited condition – and medication for depression is a time limited medication. The guideline I recall from the days of the Tricyclics and MAO Inhibitors was that patients who had responded to these medicatiuons should continue them for 6 months before stopping to prevent a relapse [I have no clue how that guideline got into my mind so long ago].

I followed that practice even after the SSRIs came along. Years later, when I retired and started seeing patients in a clinic where patients had been medicated by someone else, it was apparent that the rest of the world saw things differently. Patients had been on an antidepressant for years and obviously thought it was keeping their depression away. And getting them to give it up required knowing them for a while, and withdrawing slowly as a trial. Otherwise, it was like taking away a talisman, or a comforting blanket. I’ve wondered how that idea of antidepressant as preventative-forever ever came about. Avoiding withdrawal may well be the answer…

An Anecdote: The last time I worked in the clinic, I was seeing a woman with a fairly striking anxiety syndrome, persistent since getting out of a physically abusive relationship [actually a life-threatening physically abusive relationship]. She was accompanied by her current boyfriend, a nice and supportive biker-guy with cap on backwards, tank top, and liberal signage [tatoos]. She and I were discussing medication, and he piped in. “Man, don’t give her that Paxil. Miss a dose of that stuff and you’re Jones-ing – sure enough.” I guess if a biker type in rural Georgia knows about Paxil withdrawal, it has to be a widespread problem…

Jailed Hacker Blames Profanity Laced Youtube Videos On Paxil Withdrawal (Jan 22, 2005)

I have been alerted to a very interesting story about a hacker who was jailed for making threats on youtube against FBI agents who were investigating him. In the court proceedings in this case the accused blamed his out of character- behavior on Paxil withdrawal. This case doesn’t surprise me, in fact it makes perfect sense to me, as I have experienced similar effects from Paxil (Seroxat) as have many others. Paxil can cause all sorts of personality problems, it can literally change your whole character, and in withdrawal you basically go clinically insane in various ways, including mania, depression, anxiety, de-personalization, de-realization, akathisia, aggression etc. In other words you go completely crazy, mad -out of your mind- bonkers. Imagine nicotine withdrawal by a million times the intensity and you might come close to getting how utterly torturous this feels, then imagine that going on for months on end… I don’t know the full details of this case, but I feel for anyone who experienced these horrible Paxil effects, and when this kind of trouble is the result, it makes it all the more tragic….

Hacktivist Barrett Brown Sentenced to Five Years


DALLAS (CN) – Anonymous-linked hacktivist/journalist Barrett Brown was sentenced Thursday to five years in federal prison after pleading guilty to three charges accusing him of posting a hyperlink to stolen credit card information and interfering with execution of search warrants.
At sentencing, U.S. District Judge Sam Lindsay said Brown’s posting of the link “is more than that appears,” citing testimony and documents showing that Brown was an active participant rather than just a mere observer.
“In my mind, it is more than just posting the link,” Lindsay said at the sentencing hearing. “What took place will not chill the First Amendment rights of journalists.”
In his plea agreement, Brown, 33, of Dallas, admitted he hid his computers during execution of a search warrant at his mother’s home, and posted profanity-laced videos of himself threatening to shoot FBI agents investigating him, including Special Agent Robert Smith.
Brown was indicted in October 2012 on charges of making an Internet threat, conspiring to make restricted personal information of a federal employee publicly available, and retaliating against a federal law enforcement officer.
He was indicted a second time and accused of linking to stolen credit card information obtained from Anonymous’ 2011 hacking of Austin-based security firm Stratfor Global Intelligence. Prosecutors claimed the link led to 5,000 credit card account numbers.
A third indictment alleged obstruction of justice for the FBI raid on his mother’s home.
Brown was angry that agents confiscated his computers and questioned his mother, who was later sentenced to one year of probation for obstructing a search warrant. Brown agreed to plead guilty to one charge from each indictment, ending the criminal case against him. He said he had rejected an offer of pleading guilty to one fraud charge even if it meant a lighter sentence.
Judge Lindsay was not persuaded by pleas for leniency by Barrett’s attorneys, who said Brown should be sentenced to 30 months in federal prison and be released immediately with time served.
Lindsay agreed with prosecutors and sentenced Brown to 63 months in federal prison, the maximum allowed under federal sentencing guidelines.
Lindsay also ordered Brown to pay $900,000 in restitution and fines and to serve two years of supervised release.
Defense attorney Charles Swift, with Swift McDonald in Seattle, asked Lindsay to put Brown’s threats against the FBI agents in the context of the “unique world of the Internet.”
Citing this week’s “Deflategate” controversy involving the New England Patriots football team, Swift said the comments people posted with news stories about the controversy as being “over the top” and not the kind of comments people “would make in a public square.”
Linsday was not swayed, pointing to Brown’s hiding his computers and the investigation against his mother as reasons why Brown would be upset.
“I don’t know if your analogy is on point,” Lindsay said. “We have threats being made here during a federal investigation.”
     But Swift urged for a lighter sentence, saying that Brown’s “uncharacteristic rage and mental state” at the time was the result of a drug dependency that he was trying to break.
“Brown has used narcotics from an early age and his personality changed when he tried to go off” them, Swift said.
Lindsay was not persuaded, citing the threats made against Smith and his children.
“As a public official, I have no way of assessing his mental state if he makes threats against me,” Lindsay said.
The judge added that if allowed to stand, the threats would have a chilling effect on federal officials who were doing their jobs.
Lindsay cited several letters in support of Brown by other journalists and members of the public. He also listened to a statement by D Magazine editor Tim Rogers on Brown’s behalf, who told the judge that Brown had been writing for his publication while in jail and that he would hire him if he were released.
Speaking on his own behalf, Brown expressed his regret for “some of the things I have done.”
     He blamed his “manic state” in the videos on “sudden withdrawal from Paxil and Suboxone.”
“I don’t think anyone doubts that I regret quite a bit about my life, including some of the things that brought me here today,” Brown said. “Your Honor has the acceptance of responsibility document that my counsel submitted to you. Every word of it was sincere.”
Brown denied being the spokesman for Anonymous, but acknowledged his ties to the hacktivist group.
Brown acknowledged that he “didn’t have the right” to hide his computer files from federal agents, and said he would have been better off trying to protect contributors to his ProjectPM “think tank” by going through the courts.
Brown also thanked Lindsay for overruling an earlier request by prosecutors to subpoena information about those contributors.
“I do not want to be a hypocrite,” Brown said. “If I criticize the government for breaking the law but then break the law myself in an effort to reveal their wrongdoing, I should expect to be punished, just as I have called for the criminals at government-linked firms like HBGary and Palantir to be punished.”
Immediately after sentencing, Brown released a statement mocking federal officials for prosecuting his case.
“The U.S. government decided today that because I did such a good job investigating the cyber-industrial complex, they’re now going to send me to investigate the prison-industrial complex,” Brown said.
“For the next 35 months, I’ll be provided with free food, clothes, and housing as I seek to expose wrongdoing by Bureau of Prisons officials and staff and otherwise report on news and culture in the world’s greatest prison system. I want to thank the Department of Justice for having put so much time and energy into advocating on my behalf; rather than holding a grudge against me for the two years of work I put into in bringing attention to a DOJ-linked campaign to harass and discredit journalists like Glenn Greenwald, the agency instead labored tirelessly to ensure that I received this very prestigious assignment.”

What Did They Prescribe Andreas Lubitz?

In a 2010 article in the Huffington Post, MIA Blogger Peter Breggin lamented that the FAA had recently lifted its absolute ban on antidepressants and was instead providing a “Medication Guide to patients and their families that warns about dangerous drug-induced reactions including suicide, violence and a variety of unexpected negative behaviors.” Breggin warned that, “The FAA should reverse its ruling before it’s too late and hundreds of lives are lost when a pilot becomes impulsive, suicidal or violent–or just loses his sharpness–under the influence of antidepressant medication.”

I have been drawing attention to the dangers of SSRI medications for over 8 years now on this blog, and since that time I have also drawn attention towards the various cases, of SSRI induced violence, including suicide, homicide, and murder/suicide. I was on Seroxat (Paxil/SSRI) for 4 years, I was never aggressive until I started to take it. I experienced suicidal thoughts, homicidal thoughts, increased hostility, irritability, and numerous other side effects which were all caused directly by Seroxat. Many other SSRI’s and psychiatric drugs have the same effects. They even warn on the packets that they have these effects. Murder/suicides, and in particular, mass- murder suicides have been linked to SSRI/anti-depressant/psychiatric drug use, and withdrawal for decades now. I have spoken to dozens of people who have had these effects, there are literally tens of thousands of online forums where people are expressing their horror stories of SSRI’s and psychiatric drugs, many of these horror stories include behavioral changes, major mood swings, impulsiveness, violent thoughts and actions, etc etc. These are all side effects of SSRI’s, they are well documented. These are not conspiracy theories- these are facts.

Andreas Lubitz, killed himself, and hundreds of plane passengers, while under the ‘care’ of the psychiatric profession. There has been much speculation today in the media about what drugs was he prescribed, how bad was his depression, how long did he have it etc etc but very little attention has been put on the side effects of the drugs he might have been on, the dangers in withdrawal (where the effects are horrendous) and the fact that these drugs are ‘mind-altering’ (the clue is in the word- ‘mind-altering’).

In one article, high-profile psychiatrist, Simon Wessely has been warning of the dangers of a knee-jerk reaction to this case. He says that we should not stop depressed pilots from flying because this is an utterly bizarre and unpredictable event’…

Wessely then goes on to say:

“What does cause trouble is saying that if you ever have a history of depression then you should not be allowed to do whatever. That is wrong, as much as saying that people with a history of broken arms shouldn’t be allowed to do something.’

“Prof Wessely also stressed there was not a link between depression and aggressive suicide.”

Furthermore, the piece says, “around 100 commercial pilots in the UK have a history of depression with 42 currently on medication”.

I agree with Wessely that there is no link between depression and aggressive suicide (and it’s heartening hearing a psychiatrist admit this, because many don’t). However, I don’t understand why he doesn’t warn the public about the link between anti-depressants and aggressive suicide/homicide/self harm and hostility. Why does he not warn the public of the dangers of anti-depressants? These effects are not as unpredictable and bizarre as psychiatry would like to make us believe they are. The acts of SSRI induced murder, suicide and murder/suicide might be rare, but the SSRI induced suicidal/homicidal ideation is more common than people realize.
There might be a statistically small chance that someone will act on the murderous and suicidal impulses induced by SSRi’s but does that mean we shouldn’t warn people of it?
From my experience on SSRI’s, I know they can cause suicidal thoughts, homicidal impulses, hostility and aggression. Most people would be too embarrassed to report these things to their doctor or psychiatrist, but there are literally tens of thousands of online ‘mental health’ forums documenting people’s horrendous reactions to SSRI’s. Many of these stories illustrate how SSRI’s can make people dis-inhibited, act out of character etc.
I found it difficult to drive a car on an SSRI, and I often had impulses to drive it into a wall or another car. These drugs have a hypnotic-narcotic effect, you do things which you would not normally do. These drugs fry your brain, and your personality, so I can only imagine how dangerous it is to have vulnerable pilots flying whilst dosed up on them. They literally are ‘mind altering’, they’re mind-bending too, and in withdrawal- they are hell. Hell on earth.
My heart goes out to all the people who lost their lives in this tragedy. Their families must be heartbroken, I hope they can find peace. I also hope that they find out what Andreas Lubitz was prescribed so that people can be warned of the dangers of psychiatric drugs…

Treatment may not have precipitated what happened in this case but there are many people in the pharmaceutical industry who have known for a long time that something like this can happen on their medication and they have done nothing to put in place systems to manage these risks or to dismantle the system that gives rise to risks like this at a much greater rate than we should have to tolerate.

That corporations might do this is not a conspiracy theory. In the famous Ford Pinto case, a Ford executive made aware of risks that their car would lead to a regular number of drivers and passengers being incinerated each year – a problem that could have been inexpensively put right – famously wrote

“it’s cheaper to let them burn

The powers that be have been winging it for decades.

Some Recent Seroxat Stories From The Seroxat Secrets Blog: Why The Hell Is This Vile Drug Still On The Market?

Robyn Says:

I was on 20 mg of Seroxat for nearly 2 years. I’m being weaned off on 10 mg. It’s only been a couple of weeks but already I feel I am getting anxious and paranoid. I had been feeling great up until I reduced. Now I’m worried that this is what I’ll be like or worse if I come off seroxat completely and that my depression will return. I don’t really want to be on antidepressants for ever because I did feel that they made me feel calm and confident but emotionless and even almost uncaring to a degree. I suppose you can’t have everything but I suppose I don’t know what normal is now. Does anyone identify with this?

  • admin Says:
    I identify with everything you wrote – I think that what you’re feeling is withdrawal from Seroxat rather than your “depression returning”.

    Just make sure you keep your doctor informed about what you’re doing – get the liquid Seroxat and withdraw very, very slowly.

    Good luck.

Jane Says:

I was on seroxat when I became pregnant with my son. I gradually weaned myself off it during the course of my pregnancy. However, my son who is now 9, has working memory and expressive communication problems. It could be just one of those things, but I wondered if anyone knows/point me in the direction of any website/research that has been carried out into whether there are any long term effects on child development if mother was taking seroxat while pregnant (I’ve found a lot of info about new born withdrawal but can’t find out if any longer term effects).
Any pointers very much appreciated
Thank you


franky Says:

i had experianced suicidal notions that where very dificult to stop,it got to the point i was standing with a friend at a very busy road crossing waiting for the lights to go red so we could cross, and as the traffic raced past i got an incredable erge to run out to escape my state of mind, totaly out of the blue, and as i tried to control it i was sweating and deep in a panic attack, this is just 1 of many nasty experinces on soroxat

“HI I am Paul,

I take 60 mg of the drug seroxat a day and I have been taking this for nineteen years, that;s right. The thing i have just
found out about is seratonin syndrome which can kill you. I am reaching a point where I am heading for a complete breakdown, over the years I have had real bad points taking this drug and after any long period i found that i would start to have withdrawal effects from the drug. this first happened about 1997 after my divorce and I was increased from 10 mg to 20 mg a day, the withdrawal was so bad i was thinking of suicide for the first time, it went so far as to putting a rope in my car and sitting near a wood to hang myself, but happily there where children playing near the only big enough tree.
i went to see someone and talked for along time after a year i was discharged and put up to 30 mg a day to keep my mood stable, I know that all you depresee’s out there know that there is never any discharge for depression as it sneaks back into your life when you are least expecting it.. I have never being truly happy in the last twenty years and when I reached 30 mg per day I thought that this many been the end and I may be able to laugh again as i had forgot what I sounded like.

I have so many side effects now that I cry at night as sleep never comes and if it does the dreams i have scare the crap out of me. The fatigue, head aches and anxiety are one thing but I can go from zero to rocket attitude at the drop of a hat, The constant sweats and high body temp that comes with anxiety and confusion drive me to distraction. If you think that you can distract yourself and have a good sex life, wish again because as well as having to struggle to pass water you are not going to be passing anything else out of the end any time soon.

I know for me that I cannot hope to be put right or receive any compensation as Glaxosmithshithead have greased someone down in whitehall or westminster so no court case can be heard and a big brush will sweep it all away and leave all of us without any hope of a cure for the addiction that glaxosmithshithead have caused and the body count that will continue to grow with every perscription wrote for 5 or 10 mg of seroxat. I only hope that one day everyone will be cured or de-addicted but until that day i will continue to shed my tears each night for all you who have to take those white and blue tablets to try and become less depressed with the knowledge of the nightmare you have to swallow with the hope of a happy life. So I wish you all a happy life, because you deserve it.”

seroxat secrets