Thomas Wictor

I’m not evangelical

I’m not evangelical

My purpose in writing is to banish my own crap and entertain you.


Lots of people are in the same boat as me, problems-wise, so it makes sense for me to mention successes that may help fellow sufferers. Currently, there’s a backlash against psychotropic medication. What I hear lots of people say is that all the American mass shooters are found to have psychotropic medication in their blood after they’re autopsied. Therefore, the medication made them commit these atrocities.

At least two fallacious arguments are being made here.

One is the fallacy of false cause.

“Before my cat Syd the Second died, I didn’t have Meniere’s disease. After Syd died I contracted Meniere’s disease. Therefore, Syd’s death gave me Meniere’s disease.”

The second is confusing correlation and causation.

“My nephew Hunter joined the army a few days before my father was diagnosed with cancer. Therefore, Hunter’s enlistment caused Dad’s cancer.”

Mass shooters are on psychotropic drugs because—like me—they’re mentally ill. The vast, overwhelming number of people taking psychotropic drugs don’t commit mass shootings. And although the number of people taking psychotropic drugs is going up, the number of mass shootings is going down.

I’m not evangelical; I’m not going to tell you to start taking psychotropic drugs. You need to work out for yourself what you should do. I started taking them because my resting pulse rate suddenly went up to 160-180 beats per minute. My attacks of irregular heartbeat became daily occurrences. I had every single medical test possible, and we found nothing physically wrong with me. So I asked to be put on two psychotropic medications, and my pulse rate went down to sixty-three beats per minute.

My rage had finally begun to destroy my body. That’s what.

The medication took the edge off my anger and depression, but these drugs weren’t happy-pills that made everything great. I struggled along for another four years before I found my happiness. It took incurable illness for me to let go of the negative emotions that were quite literally killing me. For me, the price I paid was worth it. If I could be cured of Meniere’s disease but had to go back to my mindset and worldview of pre-October 7, 2011, I’d keep the status quo.

That’s how important it is for me to be happy and to exist in a state of clarity. Dizziness, nausea, and life indoors is okay, as long as my mind is clear and I don’t have extended fantasies of murder. I felt no gratitude before October 7, 2011. Now, I’m grateful for almost everything. Today I met a Vietnam veteran. I shook his hand and thanked him for his service.

“You can’t possibly understand how great it is to hear that,” he said as he gripped both my hands. I was deeply grateful for his reaction.

But you shouldn’t have to sacrifice your health in order to be happy. I had to, because I was a self-pitying idiot. For me, this was the only solution. You should try whatever you think might work, and tune out all the naysayers. Here’s a dirty little secret: Almost everyone opposed to psychotropic medication has an agenda that has nothing whatsoever to do with your mental well-being. And that’s a fact. They all know what I’m talking about too.

So ignore them and find what works for you. My friend Colonel Supotnitskiy opposes the use of psychotropics. He told me just to take a slug of vodka instead.

Well, my problem is I can’t take just one slug of vodka. When I start in on the vodka, I keep going until I’m unconscious. And when I drink, I have to smoke ciggies.The last few times I smoked, the nicotine gave me irregular heartbeat and these ghastly rushes when I tried to go to sleep. My feet would kick, completely involuntarily. They were like adrenaline rushes. Trying to sleep made my body react as though monsters were jumping out of the bushes at me. So I can’t drink or smoke ever again.

Alcoholism has also cut a wide swatch of destruction through my life. Three alcoholics broke my heart.

Dad wasn’t one of them. But after he died, we discovered that he’d never stopped drinking. He said he had over ten years ago; it wasn’t true. Dad was violently opposed to psychotropics, and now he’s dead.

Therefore, Dad’s opposition to psychotropic medication killed him.


Since we’re talking brains, I wanted to see how big or small mine is. I layered the MRI that appears in Ghosts and Ballyhoo over the selfie I took after I shaved the top of my head to cheer up Mom when she lost most of her hair from the chemo. I used all the skull’s landmarks to get the size right. Believe it or not, this is accurate.


That brain looks really goddamn small to me. On the bright side, it appears that my skull is thick enough to be bulletproof, like a stegosaurus’s.

So if you need a bodyguard, just hire me to stand in front of you with the top of my head aimed at the people you fear might shoot you. Since that posture will make me nauseated, I’ll projectile vomit on them as well.

Can you think of a more effective bodyguard than a guy with a bulletproof head that spews vomit at 160 feet per second? And by abruptly closing my mouth, I could generate a water-hammer effect. The battering sound of the hydraulic shock would be terrifying.


Now I know what to do when my writing career doesn’t pan out. See how psychotropic medication has helped me achieve clarity?