Big Pharma And Me, 2

One year later, in 2002, I encountered another opportunity to go on medications, this time for my then-recent diagnosis of PTSD.  I met with a psychiatrist, courtesy of my family doctor and in our first interview we were trying to figure out what should be my best line of treatment.  I found him an affable, bright and energetic man in his early sixties.  I would have been forty-six at the time and apparently already well into my recovery.  I was still on social assistance but felt ready to return to the workforce, following a hard fought-for rest won at great effort from a welfare system that had become downright cruel, mean-spirited and punitive.

Primarily I had found safe, affordable and decent social housing, where I am still living.  This alone not only helped facilitate my recovery but made it a no-brainer.  I had also had enough rest and freedom from stress from our horrible welfare system over the past nine months so that I was actually feeling better rested, healthier and emotionally stable.  I was also doing volunteer work for a homelessness and street youth program in a local church.

For a while I actually did want to go on medication, for depression.  The community care lady who was supporting me towards finding housing was very persuasive and successfully convinced me that I was actually severely mentally ill, suffering from acute depression, and that I had might as well consider my life over and ended as a functioning and contributing member of society.  She had me so convinced that I actually began to acquire symptoms of clinical depression.  When my doctor turned me down for medication I felt a bit disappointed but also relieved, and for the same reason: I would from now on be expected to accept full responsibility for my life and for my life choices.

The final clincher occurred after my application for disability was turned down by the government.  I was told by the community support professional to fight it and get an advocate.  I saw an advocate who took one look at me and told me, basically, to go look for a job.  I looked too well and I would never convince anyone to shove out for keeping me alive on a disability pension.

Without the numbing comfort of medication, and without the promise of an uninterrupted government income, I went to work looking for work.  I was already seeing an employment counsellor.  With help and encouragement from EMBERS, a society that helps low income people get started in small business, I was able to successfully establish myself as a home and office cleaner.  Meanwhile I was enrolled at Tradeworks where I learned how to look for a job and how to keep a job.

Four months later I was working in a homeless shelter, making a decent wage and went off welfare.  It is now thirteen years later and I still have not needed to resort to social assistance.  And this without one single pill or injection.