The Silent Torture: How the System Watched Me Suffer from Akathisia for Two Years (And Why an AI Had to Assess Me)

Disclaimer: I am not a medical professional. The following is an account of my personal lived experience within the psychiatric healthcare system in Malaysia. This article is intended for awareness and advocacy purposes. If you are experiencing a medical emergency, please seek help immediately, but equip yourself with the knowledge to advocate for your own safety.

Introduction: The Feeling of Jumping Out of Your Own Skin

Imagine an itch that is under your skin, deep inside your muscles, that you cannot scratch. Now, imagine that itch is actually a scream of terror trapped in your chest. You cannot sit still. If you sit, your legs bounce violently. If you stand, you must pace. To stop moving is to invite an unbearable, creeping sensation of dread that feels like an impending catastrophe.

You are not anxious about a test or a job interview. You are experiencing a chemical terror that has hijacked your nervous system.

For two years, this was my life. It’s called Akathisia. It is a known, dangerous, and agonizing side effect of antipsychotic medication.

But for those two years, the highly trained professionals at my government psychiatric clinic told me it was "panic." They told me it was anxiety. At one point, when I described the unbearable, bizarre sensations, they laughed and called it a "mysterious disorder."

They were wrong. They overdosed me, watched me suffer, and when I finally discovered the truth yourself, they spent more energy covering their tracks than apologizing.

This is my story of medical gaslighting in the Malaysian public health system, and a guide on how to survive it.

Chapter 1: The "Mysterious Disorder" and the Dosage Spike

My journey into this particular hell began with a dosage change.

I was stable on 10mg of Olanzapine. It was manageable. But then, the decision was made to increase my dosage significantly—up to 15mg, and sometimes 20mg.

Almost immediately, the world shifted. The inner restlessness began. It wasn't a psychological worry; it was a physical compulsion to move to escape my own body. I would show up at appointments pacing, agitated, describing an internal torture that I didn't have the vocabulary for.

Their response? "It’s just panic attacks."

They looked at my file, saw my existing diagnosis, and decided that any new symptom must just be a worsening of my original condition. This is a dangerous cognitive bias in medicine known as "diagnostic overshadowing." Because they decided it was "panic" (part of my supposed illness), their solution was often to maintain or even increase the very medication that was causing the problem.

I remember telling them, with desperation, "If I am on maximum antidepressants, the panic you diagnosed isn't panic. These are mysterious disorders."

They laughed. To them, a patient describing symptoms outside their standard checklist was amusing, not alarming. That laughter was the sound of doors closing on my capacity to be heard.

Chapter 2: When a Chatbot is More Competent Than a Clinic

After two years of intermittent torture, of losing faith in my own sanity because the doctors told me my physical pain was just "anxiety," I turned to the only place that would listen without judgment: Artificial Intelligence.

I ventured my symptoms—the pacing, the inner dread, the inability to stay still—to ChatGPT.

Within seconds, the AI provided a word I had never heard from my doctors in two years: Akathisia.

It described my reality perfectly. It noted that it was a common side effect of the exact class of medication I was taking, especially at higher doses.

I sat there stunned. A free automated program had just accomplished what years of appointments at a government facility failed to do: it validated my reality with clinical accuracy.

Armed with this new word, I did something simple. I stopped taking the overdose amount. I went back down to my original 10mg dosage.

The result? The "mysterious disorder" vanished. The "panic attacks" stopped. The world felt okay again.

The proof was undeniable. It was a dose-dependent medication reaction. I hadn't been crazy with panic; I had been poisoned by an unchecked prescription.

Chapter 3: The Anatomy of a Malaysian Medical Cover-Up

When I returned to the clinic, I didn't go as a confused patient. I went as an advocate armed with data.

I said to them clearly: "This AI already suggested this is Akathisia. Now, it's your turn—as the official source of information—to tell me what actually happened to me."

This is where the system began to protect itself rather than the patient. Their reaction was a masterclass in institutional deflection, common in overburdened and bureaucratic systems.

The Narrative Shift

Initially, in a moment of weakness, they admitted they thought I had akathisia back then. But once they realized the implication of that admission (that they missed it and left me to suffer), the story changed.

Suddenly, their official stance shifted to: "It was akathisia because you told us you had akathisia."

Do you see the sleight of hand? They refused to admit it was a clinical observation they missed. They reframed it as my subjective complaint. They were terrified of admiting they overdosed me. By saying "the patient told us," they absolved themselves of the responsibility of diagnosing it.

The Blame-Shift and Gaslighting

When I pressed for accountability, they tried to turn the tables. They asked, "So, it's been two years. Why is it NOW you told us this?"

This is classic victim-blaming. They tried to make my delay in understanding medical terminology the problem, rather than their failure to recognize the symptoms I had been presenting for two years.

The "Government Hospital" Excuse

When I told them I was documenting this because I didn't want other patients to go through the same hell, their response was chilling in its apathy:

"Oh, wish we can help with that. But this is a government hospital, yea."

In Malaysia, this phrase is a shield. It means: "Expectations here are low. We are overworked. Don't expect excellence or accountability. Just take your meds and be grateful." It is an unacceptable excuse for leaving a patient in agony for two years.

Obstruction and Control Tactics

To this day, they refuse to sincerely apologize for the specific error. They offer broad, meaningless platitudes like, "we apologise for our lack," which admits nothing.

Furthermore, they actively avoid documentation. They ignore my emails because emails leave a paper trail of their negligence. Instead, they insist on voice calls, where nothing is recorded and they can control the narrative.

They even stooped to using my parents to try and pressure me into compliance—a common tactic in Asian culture used to bypass adult patient autonomy. They ask irrelevant, repetitive questions from their textbooks about "ghosts and voices" because it's easier to treat me as a stereotype than listen to the actual person sitting in front of them who was harmed by their pills.

Chapter 4: Why You Must Care About Akathisia

Why am I writing this lengthy account? Because Akathisia is dangerous.

It is not just "feeling fidgety." Akathisia is a neuropsychiatric emergency. The internal sensation of terror and restlessness is so profound that it has driven many patients to suicide just to escape the feeling.

When doctors misdiagnose Akathisia as "worsening psychosis" or "panic," they often increase the offending medication. This is throwing gasoline on a fire.

The clinic's negligence didn't just make me uncomfortable; it put my life at risk. Their refusal to document it properly means they don't take that risk seriously.

Chapter 5: A Call to Action for Patients

If you are reading this and you feel like your doctor is ignoring your side effects, or if you feel an inner restlessness that you cannot explain, you must become your own advocate. The system will not do it for you.

Here are the hard-won lessons from my two-year battle:

1. Trust Your Body Over Their Textbook
If you feel worse after a dosage increase, it is likely the medication. If they laugh at your symptoms, do not shrink away—get angry. Your experience is real.

2. Use the Right Terminology
Do not just complain of "side effects." Doctors often brush those off as minor inconveniences.
Demand that severe reactions be listed in your file as an ADVERSE DRUG REACTION (Kesan Sampingan Teruk) or under the Allergy (Alahan) column. This puts a "red flag" in the system that is harder for them to ignore later.

3. Demand Documentation
If a clinic refuses to communicate via email, write a physical letter and hand it to the registration counter. Demand it be placed in your file. Create your own paper trail.

4. Set Hard Boundaries on Dosage
I proved that 10mg of Olanzapine was my limit. 15mg was poison. I have now set a non-negotiable boundary that they have no authority to increase that dose again. You have the right to refuse dosage increases that harm you.

Conclusion: The Fight for Truth

It is easier for an institution to tell one lie, and then tell twenty more lies to cover it up, than to offer one sincere apology. My clinic chose the path of lies and evasion.

They want me to be a passive recipient of their care. They want to ask me about ghosts while ignoring the very real demons their medication unleashed in my body.

I refuse. I am sharing this story to expose the reality of what happens when bureaucratic apathy meets medical negligence. If an AI can identify Akathisia in seconds, there is no excuse for a team of doctors missing it for years.

We deserve better. We deserve to be listened to. And until they listen, we must scream the truth.