The Dope in Dopamine

Let’s just say this chapter wasn’t easy to write — because living it almost destroyed me. If Chapter 7 was the science, this is the fallout. This is where the miracle of movement came wrapped in chaos. Where a little relief came with a side of obsession, impulsivity, and slow emotional collapse.

This wasn’t about porn or gambling. It was about dopamine—unfiltered and unchecked—rewiring my brain, hijacking my judgment, and quietly torching my relationships. Especially my marriage. I didn’t see it. I couldn’t. And when I finally did, it was too late.

But this chapter isn’t a pity party. It’s a spotlight on a storm many of us don’t talk about—what happens when medication meant to help us starts to hurt the people we love. It’s about losing yourself without even knowing you’re gone.

And it’s about clawing your way back.

This one’s for anyone who’s spiraling, silently, and doesn’t have the words yet. I found mine. Maybe they’ll help you find yours.

—Richie

Chapter 8

THE DOPE IN DOPAMINE

2025 Reflection:

If Chapter 7 was the science of dopamine, then Chapter 8 is the fallout. This wasn’t just about a medication shift. It was about losing my grip on who I was, while everyone around me—especially the people I loved—watched me turn into someone they couldn’t recognize… and someone I didn’t recognize either.

Ropinirole gave me a window of relief. For the first time in years, I felt alive again. Not just functioning—but thriving. I could move, walk, talk, joke, work. I felt like the guy I used to be. Like Parkinson’s had been a nightmare I was finally waking up from.

But that relief came with a price. And it was a price I didn’t even know I was paying.

The scary part wasn’t just the physical side effects—although the swelling, the sleep attacks, the weight gain were alarming. It was the subtle mental shift. The obsessive thoughts. The compulsions. The late nights. The endless dopamine-fueled searches for something—anything—to stimulate my brain. It wasn’t porn. It wasn’t gambling. It wasn’t even about pleasure. It was about chasing intensity. Chasing control. Chasing anything that made me feel powerful again.

The internet became my playground, my confessional, my hiding place. I told myself I was just staying busy. Just feeding my curiosity. But really, I was slowly becoming unglued. The dopamine was hijacking my reward system, pushing me to extremes, and numbing me to the damage it was doing.

I didn’t see it. But my wife did.

And the worst part? I didn’t believe her. I thought she was the one overreacting. I thought she was being unfair, dramatic, paranoid. I thought she just didn’t understand what I was going through. And in fairness… she didn’t. But neither did I.

I see now how painful it must’ve been for her—to live with someone who looked like her husband but wasn’t. Someone who was slipping away in plain sight, not to another woman, but to a chemical trap that none of us saw coming.

And when she started confiding in someone else—Mick—I felt betrayed. But the truth is, we had both already abandoned each other emotionally. Not out of malice. But out of confusion. Out of desperation. Out of pain.

We were both drowning and accusing the other of holding the anchor.

When I finally left, it felt like something was being resolved. But looking back, I know now that was just a breaking point. A fracture from which we would never fully recover. I moved into someone else’s space within hours—someone who was kind, familiar, and in need of support herself. But really, I was still lost. Still spiraling. Still under the illusion that if I just did something different, things would make sense again.

But changing locations isn’t the same as healing. And healing wasn’t coming. Not yet.

What hurts the most is thinking about my kids—those tiny, beautiful humans who were caught in the middle. I wish I could go back and shield them from the arguments, the tension, the confusion. I wish I had known then what I know now: that Parkinson’s doesn’t just affect the patient—it affects the whole family. It rewrites relationships. It messes with your perception, your judgment, your ability to connect. And if no one around you understands what’s happening—including you—it can tear everything apart.

I’ve had a lot of time to sit with this chapter. To forgive myself. To forgive Lynn. To forgive the man I was, who was just trying to survive and ended up breaking more than he meant to.

I don’t share this story for sympathy. I share it so someone else reading this—someone who feels like they’re spiraling, or watching a loved one spiral—knows: you’re not crazy. You’re not evil. You’re not alone.

Dopamine agonists like ropinirole can give you your life back… and if left unchecked, they can slowly take it apart.

If this is your chapter right now—pause. Talk to someone. Get help. Don’t wait until you’re sleeping in your law office and wondering how everything went sideways.

I came back from this. It wasn’t easy. It took years. But I did. And you can too.

Because behind the chaos, behind the diagnosis, behind the chemistry… you’re still in there. And you are so worth rescuing.

Letter #8:

"The Storm Within: Losing Yourself and Finding the Way Back"

Dear Reader,

If you’ve made it this far, thank you. Thank you for walking with me through this chapter—one of the hardest, most chaotic, and most misunderstood periods of my life.

I want you to know something: I didn’t write this to confess. I wrote it to connect.

When I was in the thick of it—staring at the screen at 3 AM, checking email like it was oxygen, thinking the dopamine rush was clarity instead of a chemical storm—I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. I thought I was being productive. Driven. Awake in a world that was asleep.

But I was losing myself. Quietly. And painfully.

If you’ve ever felt out of control, like your mind was sprinting in one direction while your body or your life fell apart in the other—please believe me when I say: it might not be you. It might be your brain chemistry. And that’s not an excuse. It’s an invitation to seek help before things crash.

This chapter cost me a lot—my health, my marriage, my trust in myself. But it also taught me something I never would’ve learned otherwise: you can rebuild after the fall. You can love yourself again, even if you’ve disappointed the people you love. You can come back.

You are not broken beyond repair.

You are still here.

And so am I.

—Richie