A recurring theme I’m seeing in some of these thriller/suspense movies involves the use of psychiatric drugs. In movies, writers portray missing a dose as being catastrophic. And taking a dose “fixes” what’s wrong with you, like taking a Tylenol.
I’ve been on psychiatric meds (mood stabilizers and anti-psychotics) for a few years now. Doctors explained these things to me:
- It takes roughly a month for psychiatric medications to build up to therapeutic levels. Therefore, taking one dose isn’t going to help, since these medications don’t work the same as pain killers.
- Keep a record of how you feel/what you experience. Your medicine may need adjustment, or you may need a different script.
- Missing one dose after reaching therapeutic levels won’t hurt you, but make sure not to double up. Doubling up on a future dose can be harmful.
- Never assume a mentally ill person “needs more drugs”. That determination can only be made by a licensed and trained doctor.
- Self-awareness is unusual for a person with psychotic features. Most mentally ill people who experience things that others don’t will typically behave like what they experience is just as real as a door or a chair. But in my case, the “weird things” that I’ve experienced fall under “hallucination,” because I use my logic training to figure out that it’s “not real” because it lacks a real source.
- Psychiatric medication only treats symptoms of a mental illness. They do not fix it permanently. Most people taking these medications don’t know that; they think that they’re “cured” when they feel better, so they stop taking the medicine.
I do hope this blog post is utilized by future screenplay writers. The perpetuation of stereotyped ignorance with regards to psychiatric medication doesn’t help society understand what it’s like for the mentally ill undergoing treatment.
I realize this post doesn’t really match with the site’s current structure. However, I feel that the public must be informed about this “company.”
I was introduced to Writer’s Life through social media. As an aspiring author wanting to improve my skills, I thought I’d take advantage of a couple of their “just pay shipping” CDs–one for beating procrastination, and another for Plot development. After purchasing the plot generator, their site “glitched” and forced me to purchase the door sign. Granted, the sign was inexpensive. However, when I emailed support, one of their “representatives” claimed that these three purchases entitled the company to bill my card over $60 without permission. They claimed that this was a membership fee and that they were totally transparent about all of their transactions, which is a lie.
Another individual posted about this scam on Ripoffreport.com. Said victim was billed about $20. A Writer’s Life “employee” responded to the complaint with the same exact form letter that I was sent. The only differences were the amount billed and the representative’s name.
There’s no reason to waste money on their “resources,” since you can find similar material for free on the Internet. So if you are an aspiring writer, do yourself a favor and do not invest in any of Writer’s Life services. And you may want to let your other writer friends know of the scam as well.
Around the start of this century, I taught classes at a junior college. One of the classes I taught was a computer literacy class. I had a wide range of students. The one student that left an impact with me was a young black man. He really struggled with Windows basics.
I could feel that he didn’t believe that he could learn anything. I could also sense that he had a lot of potential, if he’d only believed in himself. I regret not encouraging him.
A little background first: one time, I experienced what it was like to fly into a blind (berserker) rage. It’s something that terrified me, like a monster in a cage, living in total darkness.
In the dream, there was this thin, blonde woman. There was also a man that used a scythe for martial arts fighting, and there was a General, with his army. They all wanted me to release my “rage monster”. I tried telling them it was a bad idea, and described the “monster”. The man with the scythe wanted a challenge, and the General wanted the fight as a training exercise/example for his men. I tried to remain passive, to keep it from coming out. But the General injected me with some kind of drug.
I transformed into something like a bone dragon. But I stood on hind legs, like a T-Rex. My skull was boxy, like a dump truck. And my forelegs were like backhoes. I defeated the scythe wielder and escaped. They tried tracking me, so I turned into a sparrow and flew back toward the base. They were still tracking, so I evaded them by turning into a hummingbird. When I reached the base, I turned invisible and started walking through refrigerators. I poisoned all of the food on the base, killing everyone.
I’ve been seeing posts on FaceBook about other people being fat-shamed. There’s a common theme cropping up in response. It goes something like, “What if your comment was enough for me to commit suicide?”
While a valid question, it’s complete strangers that are being cruel. They don’t care if other people are wounded enough to commit the ultimate self-harm.
What is more realistic is reminding them that they don’t know if you’re a murderous psychotic with really good stalking skills. I can picture someone being vindictive enough to track down someone that hurt them, and then make their lives a living nightmare.
Just so you know, I don’t condone seeking revenge. Mean, nasty people are usually their own worst enemies. All you need to do is handle it to the best that you can, and live your life. This is advice from someone that’s also been there.
I was at my childhood home. The carport was empty. Some idiots had parked in the front yard, something that never fails to irritate me in this particular dream. I turned my attention to a pile of books and notes in a darkened corner in the carport. I seemed to be in a hurry to learn something, and I seemed to recognize the information being about spellwork.
My attention was drawn to this man that stood in the middle of the street, near the driveway. He had wavy, chestnut hair that cascaded past his shoulders. He wore burgundy-colored silk robes that were quite ornate. I didn’t sense him as a “threat”. He made it clear that he wanted me as his wife. As a measure of good faith, he gestured, and the cars that were on the lawn were hurled far away.
I then noticed that he had a group of people following him. One of them, the mage said was an angel that he’d captured. He ordered her to sing; that was the wedding ceremony. The other people, five or six of them, were witnesses.
The term “political correctness” wasn’t used much, if any, when I was growing up in the 80s. Back then, we called “political correctness” by something else.
We knew it as “good manners.” We were taught certain things were unacceptable to say and/or do.
What I really want to know is: Why do certain Americans hate “good manners” so much? Why is it they protest when others tell them that they are exhibiting “bad behavior?” Were you people not taught this stuff growing up? The real scary part: these same people behaving badly grew up around the same time as I.
It’s taken most of the day to recall these bits and pieces. Watching Netflix has triggered these dream fragments.
In one fragment, I was sculpting “rings” out of modeling clay. I was obsessed with getting the “rings” a certain size with flattened “ropes” of yellow clay. Some pieces of clay were difficult to shape. Looking at my clay table, I realized that my old characters had been dismantled. I couldn’t remember if Dad or I did the deconstruction.
I then went outside. I met a man that was a friend. He showed me a note that he had just found. It was written using Futhark runes. My friend had translated it. The note had been for us, written by a comrade that was stuck in a live RPG in the distant past. We had to find a way to get back to help.
In this dream, I had a multi-trillion dollar fortune, and I owned all of the media. I was on the phone, telling each outlet, “From now on, you report facts only. No opinions. No sensationalism.” I was paying a visit to one location, I want to say it was the brick and mortar location for “The Sun”.
I was walking around the building. Next thing you know, different E.T. ships were landing. One was like a pyramid, and another had caterpillar treads. I surrendered to that ship. The different races piloting each ship were smaller than grey aliens and seemed so child-like.
They all wanted to meet with me for a peace dialogue. Some control-freak man tried butting in, but we all told him to back off. Each race representative was giving me a token from each of their cultures.
One of the aliens gave me what resembled a flint/obsidian arrowhead, but it was red. The representative told me that the arrowhead was pretty useless in her society. She said it purifies contaminated/polluted water. I said we needed such a thing desperately.
In this dream, I had the sense that I was in a computer realm. It had mechanics like MineCraft, but it looked like real life.
I started in a “restaurant” run by a male player. I was the only employee. I remember being obsessed with cleaning, even while we had one table full of customers. I had a “falling out” with the virtual restaurant owner.
I teleported to an empty floor in the building. I sensed that other players were headed my way. I hurriedly turned the walls and doors into “unbreakable” materials, which I thought was steel. I was unable to lock the doors in time. To escape, I spawned these black puddle-like “holes” that would teleport the other players to a lower floor. I teleported to a higher floor to escape. I quickly established a small “safe room,” and was later able to go back to the previous floor to make a very decorative space.
I was also afraid that my “hacking” of the game would get me banned from the server. What they didn’t know is I hacked my account and gave myself “money” without paying for it. So I paid the server admins, and they overlooked my shenanigans.