Writing for Salon, Ann Bauer offers a very personal and all too common cautionary tale that highlights the monomania of modern psychiatry and the dangers of psychotropic medications:

Psych meds drove my son crazy

This is a story with a hopeful ending. Lucky, even. But be forewarned, you have to get through a lot of hopeless, unlucky crap before you find it.

Here’s how it all starts: My first-born son has autism.

Now that isn’t hopeless or, in my opinion, unlucky. Autism isn’t sick or crazy. It’s rigid and routine, a little eccentric. Autism is multiplying columns of numbers easily while being unable to look anyone in the eyes; listening to only one band’s music, and always in the same order, for a period of six weeks; refusing to eat anything orange. It’s also being able to remember the exact date and time you ate a bison burger in Chamberlain, S.D., when you were 6. But there’s a really charming side to all this, a wonderful tilted perspective on life that, if you’re a parent of autism, you come quickly to enjoy.

I was a parent like this.

Until he was 17, my son was unique and funny and odd. He was difficult in some ways but incredibly easy in others. He washed the family’s dishes precisely, went to bed at exactly the same time each night, and sorted our mail into careful piles. He did fairly well in school — above average in math, a little below in social studies — and spent his weekends playing tournament-level chess. He was a loner, but sweet and articulate and very close to his only brother.

Then junior year came. He met a girl, he went to a dance, he thought life was better. And for a night it was. Then the dance ended, the girl decided she was interested in someone else, and the boy became depressed.

Was this cause for alarm? I thought not. Teenage boys routinely get depressed over girls and fickle friends and school dances. It was painful, but I assumed it would blow over. When it didn’t, after six months, I took him to a psychologist who recommended a psychiatrist who put him on a newfangled antidepressant she said would have the added benefit of controlling some of his obsessive tendencies, like stacking the dishes and sorting the mail.

I didn’t want to control those things — to me, these weren’t symptoms, they were characteristics of my son. And I’d fought for 17 years to keep him drug-free. But the psychiatrist and the psychologist and several family members insisted: He’d become unhappy, his routines were getting in the way of his developing a social life. This pill, they said, would help him.

Instead, he gained 30 pounds and began to lose his mind. [full text]