The Night I Lost My Mind (and Almost Everything Else)

If Chapter 8 was the unraveling, this chapter was the collapse.

This was where I stopped pretending things were “manageable.” Where the mask slipped. Where I stopped being the version of me I thought I was and fully became the version I swore I’d never become.

I wasn’t just sick. I was spiraling—fast, loud, and ugly.

Fueled by a drug that made me feel invincible, I danced on the edge of disaster with a smile on my face and denial in my back pocket. I drank to feel less. I chased dopamine to feel more. I lost sight of what mattered. Of who mattered. And somehow, I still thought I was “doing okay.”

Until I wasn’t.

Until the night I crashed my car and wandered into the snow, bleeding and phone-less and finally aware that I had no clue how I got there—or how to get back.

This wasn’t a metaphorical crash. This was real. Cold. Isolating. It should’ve killed me. But it didn’t. And the fact that I lived through it doesn’t make me a hero. It just means I got another chance.

This chapter isn’t about shame. It’s about truth. And if you’re reading this while holding onto secrets or side effects or sadness you can’t name—please know: you are not alone. You’re not a failure. You’re just human.

And humans come back from some wild shit.

I did.
You can too.
Let this be the moment you stop pretending—and start your real beginning.

—Richie

Chapter 9

BEGINNING OF THE END

2025 Reflection:

This chapter was where my story stopped pretending it was under control.

Before this, I still had some illusions—about the medication, about my independence, about my ability to outsmart what Parkinson’s was doing to my body and my brain. But this was the moment it all came crashing down. Fast. Loud. Messy.

I look back now and I can’t help but feel a mix of heartbreak and awe. Heartbreak at how far I had drifted from myself. Awe that I somehow lived to tell the story.

Ropinirole, for all its promises, had turned me into a stranger. It didn’t just help me walk—it rewired what I thought was “normal.” I couldn’t see the side effects clearly, because they felt like freedom. It gave me confidence, energy, invincibility. But in reality, it was flooding my brain with false rewards. Everything became exaggerated: the sleep deprivation, the obsessions, the impulsivity, the hypersexuality.

And here’s the thing that still haunts me—I didn’t feel bad. I felt amazing. And that’s what made it so dangerous. I was doing serious damage to my life, to my relationships, to my health, but I had dopamine telling me I was crushing it.

I’d tell myself I wasn’t an alcoholic because I still showed up for work. I wasn’t a cheater because I didn’t think I was capable of deep connection anymore. I wasn’t out of control—I was just “living a little.” But the truth is, I was chasing distraction from something much deeper: a life I no longer recognized.

I lived at night. I drank to silence the guilt. I chased attention to avoid feeling invisible. I wrapped myself in the illusion of being okay, even as the wheels were coming off.

And then came the crash.

That night—crashing my car, wandering through the snow with blood on my hands and no cell service—it felt like a movie. One of those scenes where the character finally hits rock bottom. But there were no violins playing. Just the cold. The silence. The realization that I had gone too far and still didn’t know how to go back.

I could’ve died that night. I really could have.

And it wasn’t because I was reckless or self-destructive by nature. It was because I was on a medication that hijacked my brain while my body betrayed me. I had Parkinson’s in my limbs and dopamine delirium in my head. And nobody—not even me—saw the full picture clearly.

What this chapter taught me, years later, is this: you can be functioning on the outside and still falling apart inside.

You can be brilliant at work, admired in your circle, loved by family—and still completely disconnected from your truth. You can pass a sobriety test and still not be sober in spirit.

But you can also come back.

You can wake up—literally and metaphorically—and start to rebuild. Slowly. Unevenly. With shame. With scars. But with a deeper understanding of who you really are beneath all the noise.

I’m not proud of everything I did during this time. But I am proud that I survived it. That I found a way to stop spinning. That I found a voice again. A purpose again. Me again.

So if you’re reading this and feeling like you’re spiraling—or watching someone else spiral—please hear me:

You’re not alone. You’re not hopeless. You’re not too far gone.

It may be the beginning of the end. But it could also be the beginning of the beginning.

All it takes is one decision to stop pretending—and start healing.

Letter #9:

"From the Wreckage: Finding Yourself After the Fall"

Dear Reader,

If this chapter felt like too much—it’s because it was. It was too much for me too. And if you saw a version of yourself in it, even just a little, I want to say something right now:

You’re not crazy. You’re not broken. You’re not weak.

You’re human.

And when you’re drowning in a storm of symptoms, side effects, pain, grief, guilt, and confusion, it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s the disease—or the drugs—talking.

I know what it feels like to lose your footing. To feel like the only thing keeping you going is the thing slowly taking you down. I know how easy it is to call it "fun" when you're actually falling. I know how hard it is to admit that you need help—especially when you’ve always been the one helping others.

But I also know this:

You can come back from it.

You can crawl out of the wreckage—literally or figuratively—and start again. It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve messed up, or how long you’ve been lost. If you’re still breathing, you still have time to rebuild.

You’re not defined by your worst moments.

You are defined by what you do next.

With you in this,

—Richie