Dopamine’s a Hell of a Drug (And an Even Worse Dance Partner)

There was a time I didn’t know what dopamine even was. Now? I practically have a master’s degree in it—earned through trial by fire and pill bottle.

This chapter isn’t just about neurotransmitters and side effects. It’s about the emotional whiplash of learning that the one thing your brain desperately needs has to come from a pharmacy—and even then, it plays hard to get.

L-DOPA gave me back pieces of myself. And then it took them away again. Like some cruel game of “Now You See Me, Now You Twitch.” It worked… until it didn’t. And that “didn’t” came with a vengeance—nausea, freezing, mental spirals, and the constant feeling of chasing something you never quite catch.

Switching to ropinirole was like starting a new relationship after a bad breakup—hopeful, cautious, and fully aware this one might ghost me too.

Understanding the science gave me a weird kind of peace. Like, at least now I know what’s betraying me. But understanding doesn’t stop the meds from wearing off in the middle of dinner or the dyskinesia from turning me into a human marionette. It doesn’t erase the heartbreak of building your life around a drug that never asked if it wanted the job.

But here’s the thing—I’m still standing. Still adapting. Still laughing when I can. Because Parkinson’s can mess with my dopamine, but it can’t touch my fight. Or my sarcasm. Or the ridiculous hope that tomorrow might suck a little less.

So yeah, maybe I’m dancing with dopamine. But I’m the one choosing the damn song.

Chapter 7

AN UNDERSTANDING OF THE BRAIN AND DOPAMINE

2025 Reflection:

I used to think dopamine was just some weird scientific word in a textbook. Now? It’s the center of my existence.

Most people will never have to think about dopamine. They'll never know how many movements, moods, and moments depend on this one tiny neurotransmitter quietly doing its job. They'll never wake up wondering whether they’ll be able to walk, talk, or even stand without falling apart—because some chemical in their brain just ran out.

But I do. Every day.

Writing this chapter was my attempt to understand what was happening to me on a deeper level—not just emotionally, but biologically. I needed answers. I needed something to anchor me in the middle of a storm. And learning the science, as dry and clinical as it seemed, gave me a strange kind of comfort. If I could understand the mechanics, maybe I could reclaim some control.

But understanding didn’t mean escaping.

L-DOPA helped at first. It gave me back time, movement, dignity. But that relationship soured fast. The side effects weren’t just uncomfortable—they were soul-crushing. I remember the nausea so severe I couldn’t eat, the wild emotional swings, the freezing mid-step in public places. I remember the frustration of almost being okay and then watching it all unravel because the meds wore off too soon. Or hit too hard. Or didn’t hit at all.

There’s a specific kind of heartbreak that comes from relying on a drug to feel like yourself… and then realizing it’s slowly betraying you.

When I switched to ropinirole, it felt like a second chance. A new strategy. Another lifeline. But even that came with its own set of risks and unknowns. You don’t just take a Parkinson’s med—you dance with it. You chase it. You bargain with it. You build your life around its half-life.

And while this chapter is packed with facts and terms and neurochemical breakdowns, what it’s really about is the brutal balancing act of living with a disease that never lets up. It’s about fighting to stay functional in a body that often doesn’t want to cooperate. It’s about the mental gymnastics of adjusting to new meds, new symptoms, new limitations—over and over again.

And yet, I’m still here. Still showing up. Still laughing when I can. Still learning.

Dopamine might run my motor circuits, but hope runs the rest of me. And even on the days when the meds fall short and the mirror doesn’t feel familiar, I remind myself of one truth:

I’m more than what’s missing from my brain. I’m everything I’ve managed to hold onto in spite of it.

Letter #7:

"Chasing Dopamine: The Battle Between Relief and Consequences"

Dear Reader,

This is the chapter where it all starts to make sense—and also starts to hurt in a different way.

When Parkinson’s first barges into your life, it doesn’t send a pamphlet. No neat bullet points or how-to guides. Just symptoms. Just changes. Just confusion. So I did what I could—I studied. I dug into the science, hoping that if I could understand why everything was falling apart, I could at least stop feeling so helpless.

And what I found was dopamine.

That little molecule, that chemical messenger, was the villain and the lifeline. The reason I couldn’t move—and the reason I could again. The thing I was chasing, day after day, pill after pill, hoping it would give me just enough to get through the day.

But there’s a cost.

Medication isn’t magic. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it teases you with normalcy, then rips the rug out just when you start to feel safe. And the side effects? They don’t just show up in your body—they show up in your relationships, your confidence, your sense of identity.

Still, I’ve come to respect dopamine—not because it makes me feel better, but because it taught me just how hard I’m willing to fight to keep going.

If you’re in that fight too—if you’re measuring your life in milligrams and side effects—please know you’re not alone. And please, give yourself grace. You are not your dosage. You are not your symptom chart. You are the person still learning, still adapting, still showing up.

You are a warrior with a PhD in resilience.

And whether today feels like an “on” day or an “off” one, the truth remains:

You’re still here. Still worth showing up for. Still more than enough.

With you in this,

Richie