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Rx Drug Induced Suicide

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Rx Drug Induced Suicide

By Marilyn A. Guinnane

12-18-4

Had my husband not been on a myriad of psychiatric drugs for both

depression and anxiety, I think it's safe to say he'd still be alive.

had had pulmonary edema hit him in July, 1995, which

necessitated open heart surgery. A triple by-pass and a double heart valve

replacement was performed a few days after an ambulance delivered him to

Emergency. A mechanical sound, a sort of clicking, emanated from his chest after

that. He lost his job, the FAA having pulled his medical certificate. Moreover,

eight hours in surgery under anasthesia dealt him a blow neither of us would

have expected: the part of his brain where the sex drive is located was

irreparably damaged. He lost all desire. It never came back. A creeping and

debillitating depression engulfed him, though that was normal the surgeon said.

It would take time. Happened to almost all heart surgery patients.

Rich was becoming increasingly irascible, swimming as he was in an

ocean of misery. Finally I convinced him to seek help. It was prompted as much

by a recognition for self-preservation as a desire to help my husband, as he was

bringing us both down with his morose anger. Soon I wouldn't be any help to him.

Soon I would be in the mud puddle with him, instead of offering him a stick.

The psychiatrist put him on all sorts of drugs and, yes, he stopped

being quite so depressed, so angry, so anxiety ridden. But was he his old self?

No. In fact I didn't know who he was anymore. A completely different had

evolved, one who still became deeply depressed, just in a different way. He

would break down sobbing instead of becoming angry. Here he'd been so macho all

the years I'd known him, all the years I'd been his wife. Rode a Harley, fixed

our cars, had been a flight engineer, later Chief Engineer for one of the

biggest air freight companies, was a fisherman, rode horses . . . in short,

masculine. What my mom used to call a man's man. And now I would find him in

paroxyms of crying, tears running down his Marlboro man's cheeks, shoulders

heaving. He would accept no comforting hugs, he would shove me away, yelling at

me to leave him alone.

He began talking suicide. Then double suicide. I tried cajoling him

out of it, but his old sense of humor was gone. Where was the man I'd married

back in '79? Damned if I knew. And damned if I knew how to cope with what was

happening. " Snap out of it, Rich! Get a grip! " I would counsel, then beg. No

longer trusting psychiatry, I asked him to gradually go off these awful pills

that had turned him psycho, and he complied. But the damage was done.

Walking my dog up the hill by our house one day, I heard a rifle shot.

It was the loudest shot I'd ever in my life experienced. He had taken his rifle

apart, had taken the barrel off, the police told his daughter later. And then

he'd done something a 'suicide' never does---he left the garage door open. He

had completely lost touch, in my opinion, as there were two bullets loaded into

that rifle. One would up in his chest and the other, given his double suicide

bent, had most likely been meant for me.

Do I believe he'd have murdered me? No. I think he wanted me to

re-enter the garage so he could've given me the choice to join him, though. How

would I have handled the situation? What would I have done to calm him down? And

if I hadn't been successful? Would he have taken his life in front of me? Was he

in fact so far gone that he would've taken my life, after all? I live with all

this.

One thing I do know: Those drugs messed up my husband's brain. They

changed his personality in a bizarre and macabre way. And now the Bush

Administration, may every neo-con rot, wants to test children for psychiatric

disorders so that kids may be placed on these drugs, as well. You know: To make

pharmaceutical fat cats fatter. That's what it's about, along with mind control

and a Satanic vision of an insane population.

I never saw my husband's rifle, secured to his work bench by his drill

press/vise. Because I've never panicked in an emergency situation, I went on

auto-pilot, so to speak, running into the house, dialing 911, giving the

information as I had it to the fellow who took his time answering, (five rings

is an eternity, I'll have you know.) Then I returned to Rich and tried giving

him mouth to mouth prior to the paramedics' arrival, and the police. But my

husband's eyes were open and blank; I hadn't been able to get a pulse moments

prior. I knew. Even if I had entered a state of shock from which I've yet,

eighteen months later, to fully recover.

The point of this piece, in the end, is to proselytize; to instruct

all parents to protest what our burgeoning fascist government wants to do to

your children. Stop the insanity, damn it! Stop trusting pharmaceutical medicine

and stop trusting your government. Recognize your responsibility to protect your

progeny!

I want you to think about my husband, father of three, lying on that

cold garage floor, a bullet in his chest, his life having oozed out of him in a

pool of blood. While you're drawing that mental picture, keep Columbine in the

slide show line-up to be projected next in your mind.

When those imbeciles try to give your child Ritalin, realize it's the

chemical additives in all the artificial foodstuffs that's causing ADD, not some

deficiency in your child's brain. If your teenager is depressed, take him/her to

Yosemite. Start feeding them organic food, even if it means only having meat

once a week. It won't kill you; quite the opposite is true.

Remember my words: DRUGS ARE NOT THE ANSWER.

Let us not have an entire generation wind up like my husband.

Just say no to drugs, to quote good ol' .

Disclaimer

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http://www.rense.com

This Site Served by TheHostPros

[Guest guest]

Rx Drug Induced Suicide

[Power Hour II] Emailing: ssusi

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rense.com

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rx Drug Induced Suicide

By Marilyn A. Guinnane

12-18-4

Had my husband not been on a myriad of psychiatric drugs for both

depression and anxiety, I think it's safe to say he'd still be alive.

had had pulmonary edema hit him in July, 1995, which

necessitated open heart surgery. A triple by-pass and a double heart valve

replacement was performed a few days after an ambulance delivered him to

Emergency. A mechanical sound, a sort of clicking, emanated from his chest after

that. He lost his job, the FAA having pulled his medical certificate. Moreover,

eight hours in surgery under anasthesia dealt him a blow neither of us would

have expected: the part of his brain where the sex drive is located was

irreparably damaged. He lost all desire. It never came back. A creeping and

debillitating depression engulfed him, though that was normal the surgeon said.

It would take time. Happened to almost all heart surgery patients.

Rich was becoming increasingly irascible, swimming as he was in an

ocean of misery. Finally I convinced him to seek help. It was prompted as much

by a recognition for self-preservation as a desire to help my husband, as he was

bringing us both down with his morose anger. Soon I wouldn't be any help to him.

Soon I would be in the mud puddle with him, instead of offering him a stick.

The psychiatrist put him on all sorts of drugs and, yes, he stopped

being quite so depressed, so angry, so anxiety ridden. But was he his old self?

No. In fact I didn't know who he was anymore. A completely different had

evolved, one who still became deeply depressed, just in a different way. He

would break down sobbing instead of becoming angry. Here he'd been so macho all

the years I'd known him, all the years I'd been his wife. Rode a Harley, fixed

our cars, had been a flight engineer, later Chief Engineer for one of the

biggest air freight companies, was a fisherman, rode horses . . . in short,

masculine. What my mom used to call a man's man. And now I would find him in

paroxyms of crying, tears running down his Marlboro man's cheeks, shoulders

heaving. He would accept no comforting hugs, he would shove me away, yelling at

me to leave him alone.

He began talking suicide. Then double suicide. I tried cajoling him

out of it, but his old sense of humor was gone. Where was the man I'd married

back in '79? Damned if I knew. And damned if I knew how to cope with what was

happening. " Snap out of it, Rich! Get a grip! " I would counsel, then beg. No

longer trusting psychiatry, I asked him to gradually go off these awful pills

that had turned him psycho, and he complied. But the damage was done.

Walking my dog up the hill by our house one day, I heard a rifle shot.

It was the loudest shot I'd ever in my life experienced. He had taken his rifle

apart, had taken the barrel off, the police told his daughter later. And then

he'd done something a 'suicide' never does---he left the garage door open. He

had completely lost touch, in my opinion, as there were two bullets loaded into

that rifle. One would up in his chest and the other, given his double suicide

bent, had most likely been meant for me.

Do I believe he'd have murdered me? No. I think he wanted me to

re-enter the garage so he could've given me the choice to join him, though. How

would I have handled the situation? What would I have done to calm him down? And

if I hadn't been successful? Would he have taken his life in front of me? Was he

in fact so far gone that he would've taken my life, after all? I live with all

this.

One thing I do know: Those drugs messed up my husband's brain. They

changed his personality in a bizarre and macabre way. And now the Bush

Administration, may every neo-con rot, wants to test children for psychiatric

disorders so that kids may be placed on these drugs, as well. You know: To make

pharmaceutical fat cats fatter. That's what it's about, along with mind control

and a Satanic vision of an insane population.

I never saw my husband's rifle, secured to his work bench by his drill

press/vise. Because I've never panicked in an emergency situation, I went on

auto-pilot, so to speak, running into the house, dialing 911, giving the

information as I had it to the fellow who took his time answering, (five rings

is an eternity, I'll have you know.) Then I returned to Rich and tried giving

him mouth to mouth prior to the paramedics' arrival, and the police. But my

husband's eyes were open and blank; I hadn't been able to get a pulse moments

prior. I knew. Even if I had entered a state of shock from which I've yet,

eighteen months later, to fully recover.

The point of this piece, in the end, is to proselytize; to instruct

all parents to protest what our burgeoning fascist government wants to do to

your children. Stop the insanity, damn it! Stop trusting pharmaceutical medicine

and stop trusting your government. Recognize your responsibility to protect your

progeny!

I want you to think about my husband, father of three, lying on that

cold garage floor, a bullet in his chest, his life having oozed out of him in a

pool of blood. While you're drawing that mental picture, keep Columbine in the

slide show line-up to be projected next in your mind.

When those imbeciles try to give your child Ritalin, realize it's the

chemical additives in all the artificial foodstuffs that's causing ADD, not some

deficiency in your child's brain. If your teenager is depressed, take him/her to

Yosemite. Start feeding them organic food, even if it means only having meat

once a week. It won't kill you; quite the opposite is true.

Remember my words: DRUGS ARE NOT THE ANSWER.

Let us not have an entire generation wind up like my husband.

Just say no to drugs, to quote good ol' .

Disclaimer

MainPage

http://www.rense.com

This Site Served by TheHostPros