Couldnt believe my face

Couldnt believe my face when I looked in the mirror this morning--unrecognizable, haggard, fluid bloated, with deep suffering and sorrow lines scoring downward from the corners of my mouth.  I never had such lines before the goddamned fuckers started forcing psychotropic drugs in me, but then I never experienced such horrific anguish and mental and emotional suffering until I endured this psychotropic torture.   These drugs don't modify moods.  They create hell, and that is where I am write now.  I am too sick to care.  I try to hold on but it is destroyi me.  I watched candace pert on Larry King last nite.  She is a lot like me, or rather, like I used to be, someone who believes we are primed for joy.  But my joy has been termed manic deprression by a bunch of religious and govt zealots with no soul of their own as they try to turn me into a miserable, soulless conformist unable to choose anything but their warped pervesions and bidding.  Too sick to contine.  My arms wont type anymore.