From Breakdown to Breakthrough: A Descent Into Darkness and the Fight to Find the Light Again

Intro to Chapters 10 & 11:

Welcome to the darkest stretch of this journey. These two chapters aren’t easy. They weren’t easy to live, and they sure as hell weren’t easy to write. But they’re necessary—because they show what Parkinson’s can look like when the wheels fall off completely.

This isn’t just a story about tremors or pills. It’s about the terrifying edge where medication-induced chaos meets an already fragile nervous system—and how the fallout isn’t just physical. It’s personal. Emotional. Spiritual.

Chapter 10 is the freefall: the bottomless pit where dopamine dysregulation took over my choices, my marriage, my identity. Where I passed out in my office, broke down in front of my mother, and told her I didn’t want to live.

Chapter 11 is the aftermath: the cold tile floor of a psych ward, stripped of shoelaces and stripped of pride. But it’s also where I began to fight my way back. Not with perfection. Not with willpower. But with honesty, surrender, and one compassionate doctor who chose to listen.

These two chapters belong together because they show both sides of the breakdown—and hint at the possibility of something more. Not redemption. Not yet. But awareness. And sometimes, that’s the first miracle.

Two-Chapter Summary:

In Chapter 10, “The Worst Is Yet to Come”, we hit a harrowing low point: full-blown dopamine dysregulation.

What began as medically-induced compulsions spiraled into delusion, chaos, and the collapse of every foundation—mental, physical, relational. It ends with a crash: a body shutting down, a soul on the edge, and the brutal realization that something has to change.

It’s a chapter about the danger of ignoring the quiet warnings and the raw reality of addiction masked as treatment.

In Chapter 11, “Welcome to the Rubber Room, Straight Jackets Are Required”, the fallout from withdrawal hits like a second storm.

I enter a psych ward—not because I’m mentally ill, but because I’ve been misread, mistreated, and misunderstood. But it’s here, ironically, that someone finally hears me. A doctor who sees past the paperwork and diagnoses.

One dose of the right medication begins the climb back—not to who I was before, but to someone still worth saving. Still here. Still writing.

Together, these chapters form the emotional backbone of the book:
💥 The moment I almost lost everything.
💡 And the moment I realized I hadn’t.

If you’re reading these pages while you’re in your own version of rock bottom, I want you to know something:
You’re not alone.
You’re not broken.
And you’re definitely not done.

This is what it looks like to survive yourself.
Welcome to the hardest part of the story—and the beginning of what comes next.

—Richie

Chapter 10

THE WORST IS YET TO COME

2025 Reflection:

This chapter isn’t easy to revisit. In fact, it’s one of the most painful parts of this book—for a simple reason: it’s where I almost didn’t make it back.

There’s a difference between knowing you’re spiraling and realizing you’re disappearing. Between struggling and surrendering. This chapter? This was where my mind, body, and soul started slipping from my own grasp—and I didn’t have the strength, clarity, or stability to stop it.

By this point, Ropinirole had completely hijacked me. Not just my movements, but my moods, my impulses, my identity. My “bad choices” weren’t really choices anymore. They were chemically amplified compulsions. I was chasing dopamine like it was oxygen—and the terrifying part? I felt good. Even as my life crumbled, my body bloated, my marriage shattered, and the police were now part of my story, I felt like I was managing.

That’s what dopamine dysregulation does. It turns dysfunction into routine. It gives you just enough pleasure to ignore the pain. Until you wake up on someone’s swing. Or someone’s floor. Or someone’s back porch screaming at strangers, unsure of what’s real and what’s a hallucination.

When I passed out in my office that day, it was the final mercy my body offered me. It was like my nervous system slammed on the brakes and said, “That’s it. You’re done. Sit your ass down before we bury you.” And I’m glad it did. Because I don’t think I would’ve stopped otherwise.

In that hospital room, something shifted. I was finally being forced to face what I hadn’t wanted to admit: I wasn’t in control. I wasn’t just a man with Parkinson’s. I was a man addicted to a false version of himself—one fed by pharmaceuticals, delusion, and avoidance.

And then came the crash—the removal of Ropinirole. Dopamine withdrawal is something nobody talks about enough. It’s not just sadness or stiffness. It’s paralysis. It’s crying because your fingers won’t move. It’s laying in bed, catatonic, terrified that this might be your new normal. It’s a darkness that isn’t poetic—it’s primal.

I told my mom I didn’t want to live. And in that moment, I meant it. Was it the withdrawal talking? Probably. But also—it was me. The real me. The part that was exhausted, heartbroken, humiliated, and scared beyond words. I was scared I’d never feel human again. Scared I’d be trapped in a body that worked just enough to feel everything but not enough to do anything.

That morning, lying in bed unable to move, I asked myself if my life had any more chapters left. I honestly didn’t know. But I do now. And here’s what I’ve learned since: When you hit that kind of bottom—the raw, aching, soul-splitting kind—there’s a kind of truth that shows up with it. A kind of clarity. I didn’t want to die because I didn’t love life. I wanted to die because I couldn’t find myself in it anymore. And slowly, painfully, one hard step at a time—I started to find him again. So if you’re there now—reading this from your own low point, wondering if there’s anything left on the other side of the pain—I want to tell you something I wish I could’ve told myself that day in bed: This is not the end. It’s the reckoning. You can rebuild from this. Even if you’ve lost everything. Even if you don’t recognize yourself. Even if your body is locked and your mind is screaming. You can come back. Maybe not all at once. But you can. And when you do—when you finally breathe, move, laugh, love again—you’ll carry something stronger than dopamine. You’ll carry perspective. You’ll carry the knowledge that you survived yourself. And there’s nothing more powerful than that.

Letter #10: "Rock Bottom: Where the Healing Begins"

Dear Reader, If this chapter left you breathless… I get it. It left me breathless too—then, and even now.

I wasn’t sure whether to share this part of the story. It’s not flattering. It’s not triumphant. It’s not wrapped up in redemption. It’s just honest. Brutally so. But I shared it for one reason: because someone out there needs to know they’re not the only one who’s been this low.

If that someone is you—please hear me. You are not a failure for falling apart. You are not weak for wanting out. You are not beyond help because you’ve done things you don’t recognize yourself in. When I was laying in that bed—rigid, crying, hopeless—I thought my story was over. But what I know now is that rock bottom isn’t where your story ends. It’s where your story gets real. Where the masks fall off, and the healing begins. You’re still here. And that means something. You don’t have to figure it all out today. You don’t have to be strong all the time. You just have to stay. And let that be enough—for now. From one survivor to another, I see you. I believe you. I’m with you. —Richie

Chapter 11

WELCOME TO THE RUBBER ROOM, STRAIGHT JACKETS ARE REQUIRED

2025 Reflection:

I wasn’t crazy. I was just untreated. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? When your brain and body stop working the way people expect, they don’t ask why. They just label. Sedate. Restrain. Contain.

I entered that psych ward not because I was mentally ill, but because I was desperate. Desperate not to feel like a burden. Desperate to move. Desperate to matter. But the medical system didn’t ask what was missing from my chart—it asked what was wrong with me. And in the absence of answers, they assumed I was broken.

The truth is: I was withdrawn. Not from society. From dopamine. From hope. From the only chemical that had allowed me to function in a body riddled with neurological chaos. When the meds stopped, so did I. One week without Parkinson’s medication, and I collapsed into something I never thought I’d face: suicidal ideation. Not because I didn’t want to live, but because I didn’t want to live like that. Curled in a fetal position. Catatonic. Paralyzed inside my own skin.

And yet—I agreed to go. I let them take my shoelaces, my belt, my autonomy. Not because I was defeated, but because somewhere in me, the rational part still whispered: You’re not done yet. That first night, I didn't sleep because the meds helped. I slept because I had finally stopped fighting. And the thing no one tells you is this: sometimes surrender is what saves you. The most powerful part of this chapter isn’t that I hit bottom—it’s that someone finally listened. That psychiatrist took the time to hear me. Not my chart. Not my “episode.” Me. He looked past the label and saw the full story. And all it took to start turning the tide… was one pill.

One dose of Mirapex. It didn’t fix everything. But it proved something: I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t lazy. I wasn’t dangerous. I was untreated. And my body—this Parkinson’s-ravaged, medicated, bloated, broken thing—was still trying. Still fighting. Still waiting for someone to believe in it.

When I left that ward, I was still slow. Still sore. Still humiliated. But I was also alive. And aware. And that was enough for a new beginning. Over the next few months, I lost 50 pounds—not just of water, but of shame, of silence, of doubt. I lost a house. A car. A job. A relationship. But in the wreckage, I started to find myself. And yet, nothing prepared me for what I lost inside:

• The belief that I could trust the system.

• The confidence that I could keep up.

• The part of me that still thought I had control.

Those things don’t come back easily. Some still haven’t. But here’s what has: perspective. I now know that being put in a psych ward doesn’t mean you’re broken—it means you were strong enough to ask for help. That being misdiagnosed doesn’t mean you were wrong—it means you were brave enough to tell your story until someone finally heard it. So if you’re in that place now—feeling like you’ve lost everything, including your voice—I want you to know this: You’re not alone. You’re not a diagnosis. And you’re not done. The very fact that you’re still reading, still reaching, still hoping—that means there’s more story left to tell. And this time? You’re the one holding the pen.

Letter #11:

"Stripped Bare: The Power of Being Truly Heard"

Dear Reader,

If this chapter made you feel uneasy… good. It should. Because what happened to me in Chapter 11 shouldn’t happen to anyone. I wasn’t psychotic. I wasn’t a danger to others. I was a person in medical crisis—dealing with a body that stopped responding, a brain that was screaming for help, and a system that didn’t know what to do with someone like me. And yet, there I was. Stripped of my shoelaces, sleeping behind glass, being watched like a threat. Because I was sick. And because I admitted it. I wasn’t ashamed to be there—but I was afraid. Afraid I wouldn’t make it out. Afraid this was it. That this was what the rest of my life would be. That I would never get up off that bed. That I would never feel normal again. But I did get up. Slowly. Stiffly. And only after someone truly listened. Not to my chart. Not to my symptoms. To me.

That psychiatrist—he didn’t save my life with a miracle. He saved it with something far more rare: compassion. And curiosity. He asked better questions. He believed me. That moment reminded me of something I want to pass on to you: You are more than the worst day of your life. You are more than your diagnosis. You are more than the people who didn’t understand you. If you’ve ever felt like you were falling apart in a world that just wants you to "be strong"... I see you. And if you’re still here, still breathing, still reading—then guess what? You’re not done.

Keep going. I’m with you.

—Richie