Confessions of an Rx Drug Pusher Read online

  Confessions of an Rx Drug Pusher

  Gwen Olsen

  iUniverse Star

  New York Bloomington

  Confessions of an Rx Drug Pusher

  Copyright © 2005, 2009 by Gwen Leslie Olsen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  ISBN: 978-1-935278-59-7 (pbk)

  ISBN: 978-1-935278-60-3 (ebk)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2009925367

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Introduction

  1

  A Nightmare before Christmas:

  Megan’s Story

  2

  My Own Dark Night of the Soul and

  a Case of Déjà Vu

  3

  A Case against the Antidepressants:

  Prescription for Disaster

  4

  A “Chill Pill” to Kill

  5

  Confessions of an Rx Drug Pusher

  6

  Anxiolytics: Prescription for Addiction

  7

  Another One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest: Geraldine’s Story

  8

  The Genetic Theory of Mental Illness

  9

  Crazy Just Like Your Mother:

  Dolores’ Story

  10

  The Era of Sex, Drugs, and

  Rock-and-Roll!

  11

  God’s Call to Loving Arms:

  A Spiritual Awakening

  12

  Birth of a Child Advocate

  13

  A Betrayal of the Public Trust

  14

  Related Current Events

  15

  An Ounce of Prevention or a Pound of Cure: It’s Your Choice!

  CONCLUSION

  SO, WHAT EXACTLY IS THE TRUTH?

  GLOSSARY

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  REFERENCES

  ARTICLES AND BROADCASTS

  This book is dedicated in loving memory to my niece,

  Megan Leslie Blanchard

  Born June 14, 1984

  Entered eternal life December 2, 2004

  Memorial Web site: www.cookwalden.mem.com

  Acknowledgments

  My heartfelt gratitude goes to Dr. Ben Lerner and Dr. Greg Loman and to all of Maximized Living mentors, providers, and students who have supported my work from Day One. All of you wonderful people have stolen my heart and earned my admiration. To everyone who was sent to assist and encourage me with this project, Phuc and David Armstrong, Laurie Carty, Sally Cassell, Jerry Chandler, Kim Coers, Carol Creele, Pamela Gandin, Diane Holley, Linda Hancock, Linda McKenna, Genita, Petralli, Rob Raucci, and Rev. Ron Scott, you all played a special role of inspiration and/or teacher to me and I am humbly grateful. And, to my many friends with the Citizens Commission on Human Rights, who speak with the voice of truth and reason in an otherwise insane argument, together we are making a difference that will change the world!

  To my editor, Shea Spindler, who put the spit and polish on my work, and to the iUniverse editorial staff…thank you, thank you, thank you!

  To Mom and Dad whose immeasurable love and support has given me the strength of character to speak my truth. And, to Rod and Austin, although you may not always understand me, thank you for your unconditional love!

  Introduction

  The intent of this book is not to diagnose or treat any illness. It is an autobiography and a commentary on the insidious elements of family dysfunction that are passed from generation to generation, including addiction, alcoholism, child abuse, domestic violence, criminal behavior, illegal substance abuse, and mental illness. It is also an exposé from the experiential point of view of a fifteen-year veteran in the pharmaceutical industry and addresses how excessive prescription drug use contributes to the deterioration of our family’s health, our children’s minds and, therefore, to the very fabric of American society! The intent is to inform, provoke, and inspire others to take responsibility for their own health and mental well-being as well as support their loved ones in doing the same.

  In recent years, the health of our nation has declined rapidly. Even though the United States spends more money per capita on health care than any other country, we have poorer health care outcomes than many underdeveloped nations do. The most recent World Health Study r anked us fifteenth among twenty-five industrialized nations (Starfield). No place is this truer than in the health care of our mentally ill. Long-term outcomes of mentally ill patients are much better in countries in which the use of psychoactive medications is less frequent (Whitaker 291).

  We are a nation of the under-and uninsured as more employers pass the burden of health insurance to individuals that cannot pay the exorbitant premiums every day. Yet, Americans pay an average of seventy percent more for our prescription drugs than our neighboring countries and western European nations because our government refuses to impose pricing restrictions on the pharmaceutical industry (Abramson 48). On the other hand, the pharmaceutical industry has been enjoying enormous profits, specifically three to six times greater than those of other Fortune 500 companies. Despite all the public relations hoopla about the tremendous expense of research and development, the truth is that the industry annually fills its corporate coffers with billions of dollars from the sale of inferior new products that add little (if any) therapeutic value over much cheaper, older drugs that are already available. The Food and Drug Administration (FDA) approved seventy-eight drugs in 2002. Only seventeen contained new, active ingredients. The FDA only deemed seven of those to be improvements over older competitors. Furthermore, not one of those seven drugs came from a U.S. manufacturer. The other seventy-one were variations of older products that offered no therapeutic advantages over other similar therapies. (Angell 17).

  I never would have thought of myself as a whistle-blower or political activist of any kind. Like many Americans, I turned a blind eye as the government continued empowering the pharmaceutical industry and taking away more and more of my rights and security. We Americans sacrifice our health in order to pursue high-stress jobs and provide for our families. Yet, when we arrive in our retirement years, we are no longer able to enjoy the physical pursuits we experienced in our youth. We must then spend all of our limited resources to maintain or even repair our ailing minds and bodies.

  Prescription drug use has become the third-largest killer of Americans, behind heart disease and cancer. More than 180,000 people die annually from the negative effects of legal drugs (Strand 8-9). Obviously, we are in need of radical change to the American medical paradigm!

  I have felt tremendous frustration in my attempts to educate others about the perils lurking in every American’s medicine cabinet. People are unwilling to listen or are paralyzed by their need to believe
in a corrupt system that promises to find future cures for our greatest medical fears while holding us hostage to its financial demands.

  It has been said, “The pen is mightier than the sword.” It is with this spirit that I have picked up mine in an attempt to help and inform others. I appeal to those gallant knights in white coats who wield their “swords” poised over prescription pads. Please, help stop the madness! To the rest of you, I implore you to wake up to reality, people! The next victim could be someone you know or love.

  “Any vision—or anything—that is true to life, to the imperatives of creation and evolution, will not be unshakable. We must therefore be willing to get shaken up, to submit ourselves to the dark blossomings of chaos, in order to reap the blessings of growth. Much of this is axiomatic: stress often prompts breakthroughs; crises point toward opportunities; chaos is an integral phase of the creative process; and protest abets the cause of democracy.”

  —Gregg Levoy, Callings

  1

  A Nightmare before Christmas:

  Megan's Story

  “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me…”

  —(Psalms 23:4)

  I wasn’t prepared to return to the scene of Meg’s suicide. It was too soon. The enormity of what had happened was only starting to seep in a little at a time. The family assured me the house was presentable. The cleaning crew had been there the previous day to remove any debris or offending evidence caused by the fire. It was necessary to go back and retrieve some of Meg’s photos, music, and personal belongings for the memorial service we would have to celebrate her life.

  I braced myself on my father’s arm as we entered the house. The first thing I noticed was the melted, plastic Venetian blinds next to the front door. Replaying the EMS report in my mind, I envisioned Meg struggling to open the door with her body engulfed in flames. I had to remind myself to breathe. My eyes next caught the exposed wires hanging from the living room ceiling where the fan used to be. She had first attempted to hang herself by fashioning a rope from her shoestrings and attaching them to the ceiling fan. The fan gave way to her body’s weight, and she was unsuccessful. A broken, decorative, ceramic bowl lay on the table below. The carpeting had been removed anywhere there was fire or blood damage, so it was easy to trace Meg’s steps as the horrible scene of her last experience on earth unfolded in my mind’s eye.

  Feeling weak in the knees and nauseous, I could see my mother and sister, Meg’s mom, moving about in the next room, Meg’s room. Methodically almost robotically, they were fingering Meg’s belongings and surveying the damage. A blood-soaked rag and bandanna found at the foot of her bed on a pile of clothes suggested she may have tended to a head wound caused by the ceiling fan. Next to her bedside were copies of A Course in Miracles and the Living Bible. Her mother said she had spent a large portion of the night before on her knees as she prayed at the foot of her bed.

  More melted blinds drew my attention as we proceeded to the center bedroom. This room belonged to Hayley, Meg’s younger sister. In this room, Meg had poured oil from an angel-shaped lantern over herself and ignited it. The intense heat of the fire had obviously risen to the ceiling as it had melted the blinds into clumps of plastic at the very top on each side.

  At some point, Meg had a change of heart and desired to live because she ran into the bathroom and tried extinguishing the fire in the bathtub. Apparently, she was unaware this action would only spread the fire. Still struggling to survive, she had the presence of mind to call 9-1-1 and told them she had set herself on fire. The rescuers stated, when they arrived at the scene, she opened the door and fell backwards onto the coffee table. She never spoke a word. It was approximately a thirty-to thirty-five-minute ride to the burn center at Brackenridge Hospital in Austin. She didn’t die until they got there. The coroner said she had second-and third-degree burns over ninety-five percent of her body. Only her feet had been spared. The family sent for dental records for the identification process. Seeing her that way was too horrific for any of us to imagine, much less bear witness to.

  Megan’s Turbulent Childhood

  Meg had a volatile relationship with her mother as she grew up, just as we had with ours. Her father refused to acknowledge his paternity before she was even born, which contributed to both Meg’s and my sister’s abandonment issues. My sister, Michelle, who was pregnant during her last year of high school, fought endless emotional battles and substance abuse as she raised Meg on her own. She repeatedly chose abusive partners. As a result, most of Meg’s life was chaotic and unstable. Even worse, Meg was the victim of two different child molesters, resulting from my sister’s problems and absentee parenting. Meg was shuffled about from place to place as my sister ran from her past. She always dragged Meg along. Meg never received therapy for her molestation and told me she felt dirty because of it.

  Following the first incident of Meg’s abuse, my sister and I were estranged for years. Meg was only three years old at the time. After Michelle continued to live with Meg’s abuser, I basically wrote my sister off. It broke my heart to lose contact with Meg, but I could not bear to see her in that environment. Moreover, my sister refused to acknowledge the truth about her addictions and her lover until many years later. In fact, in a drunken rage, she had blamed my husband and called him a child molester! My towheaded, incessant, little chatterbox of a niece would grow up before I spent much time with her again.

  Meg was a remarkably resilient child and truly gifted in many respects. Just as I had been, she was an overachiever in school. She was also a cheerleader and an athlete. She excelled in theatre, art, music, and poetry. She had a beautiful soprano voice and played the viola and guitar. She drew intricately detailed pictures with artistic flair and wrote passionate lyrics to songs she would strum on the guitar and sing herself. She cared about Mother Earth and had compassion for the poor and needy. She worked with the mentally disabled and volunteered at the local food bank.

  Meg was beautiful, inside and out. Her broad, dimpled smile could light up a room! She was tall with blonde hair and sparkling, crystal blue eyes. Nevertheless, she felt ugly. According to her, she didn’t fit in. Kids were ruthless in their treatment of her. Moving around so much, she never really had any long-term friendships. She found herself a loner most of the time in school. She wanted desperately to be liked, so she courted the approval of other adults in the absence of her parents’ attention.

  My sister married when Meg was almost nine years old and appeared to finally settle in to a routine domestic life. She quickly had two more little girls, but her marriage was rocky from the start. Following a severe bout of postpartum depression with her third child, my sister’s marriage finally disintegrated. Her obstetrician/gynecologist (ob-gyn) first put her on Paxil and then on Prozac. She and Meg began having explosive, physical fights. My sister kicked Meg out. At the time, Meg was fifteen years old.

  Michelle would remain on Prozac for more than two years. Once, with her permission while she was visiting, I telephoned her doctor to voice my concern about symptoms she was exhibiting. I relayed information about our family history that included adverse drug reactions, alcoholism, and diabetes. Michelle was consuming massive amounts of water, urinating frequently, and was very moody when she was hungry (common symptoms of diabetes). She was also clearly hypomanic, as she talked incessantly, required little sleep, and stayed up into the wee hours of the morning. She exhibited a considerable tolerance for alcohol, and had been drinking so heavily during her visit that she couldn’t even remember her outrageous drunken behavior. Her doctor was not only uncooperative, but he was insulted that I had dared to question his diagnosis and treatment plan. In essence, he told me to mind my own business! Many months later, I witnessed Michelle experience serious manic episodes with withdrawal after discontinuation of Prozac. She also became a full-blown alcoholic. She suffered blackouts when she drank too much, which was frequent. She became severely hypoglycemic a
nd developed narcissistic personality traits in addition to borderline behaviors. All of these are recorded side effects associated with long-term use of Prozac (Tracy

  125, 138, 250-251).

  Meg came to Texas to live with my family and enrolled as a sophomore in our local high school. We spent the next six months together. During this time, Meg shared the ongoing saga of her family’s dysfunction with me. Feeling so lonely and unloved, she lamented the emotional distance my sister placed between herself and her children. She cried endless hours as we hugged and held one another on the couch in consolation. She wanted so desperately to belong.

  That summer, my husband was rushed to the emergency room with an incredible blood pressure reading of 210/160. The doctors were amazed he hadn’t had a stroke! He began the long, difficult process of recovery, attempting to find the right drug to control his blood pressure with tolerable side effects. His inability to work put stress on the family finances. Our clergy and doctors agreed Meg had to return to Indiana. My husband could not handle the stress of a troubled teenager in the house. Under the circumstances, it was too risky.

  It was not that Meg was such a problem herself. She was a typical teenager with typical issues of acne and prom dates. However, having Meg with us meant dealing with my sister’s issues. Even with the physical separation of 1,500 miles, there was no reprieve from the drama. We lived it daily via Meg. Meg felt angry, betrayed, and rejected one more time. Her luck would continue to run out.

  Michelle decided to move to Texas herself and packed up her other two children, her ex-husband, and all of their problems. She literally moved into my backyard, my very own neighborhood. My husband freaked out!