How the CPSO and the HPARB Stole My Last Chance At Recovery

Published 2 days ago• 15 minute read

I’m not supposed to talk about how I ended up in palliative psychiatric care.

The Health rofessions Appeal and Review Board informed me that I was never to acknowledge it. The College of Physicians and Surgeons of Ontario, and their Inquiries, Complaints, and Reports Committee- unleashed its legal department to ensure it.

Less than a year later, a documentary filmmaker I’d never met, (unsolicitedly and independently) brought the public record to my attention. I’m so grateful for her.

You complain to the college. The college forces an investigation you don’t want. Their committee makes a decision. They don’t pretend to care. If their decision is incompetent, you appeal. If you win, you go to the health board for medical professionals, who regulate the safety and ethical practice of medicine. They are self-governing, and it’s the Wild West.

My “sealed” records aren’t sealed at all. Indeed, all four of my cases are published in the Canadian Legal Information Institute.

Those who regulate the safety and ethical practice of medicinein the province of Ontario who answer to no one, since they are self—governed have the authority to amend, and redact content in my records without notice, consent, or audit trail. While they didn’t publicly disclose the individual panel members from the ICRC in my records, the date of the panel meeting, file numbers, and the members who sat that day, are. It’s not complicated to cross-reference those involved.

May the doctor who died of cancer- just hours after signing the decision documents for four separate cases, rest in peace.

R.I.P.

The ink was still drying,

As he lay there

dying.

-Claire Elyse Brosseau

Four years ago, over the course of three days, I was kept in the emergency department at The Center for Addiction and Mental Health. I was held down in four-point restraints for hours, on and off, on and off, on and off. I was chemically restrained. I was repeatedly given psychotropic drugs I’d stopped taking years before- for the way they affected my behaviour. On day three, I was inexplicably and quickly set free by a new doctor, who told me he was horrified. I told him he should be. I remember thinking that was the most disrespectful thing I’d ever said to a doctor.

Just like that, I walked out of the white room in the emergency department, got my shoes and phone back, and exited the hospital. I was free. Before my Uber arrived, the doctor came back to tell me he’d contacted my psychiatrist, and I’d see her first thing in the morning. No one- no doctor tried to contact her once, over the three days. This was a bone of contention with the committees and boards.

TL;DR + blah blah: As it says on public record, the ICRC and the HPARB justify their reasoning on this one by explaining that my psychiatrist- a doctor with the most prestigious order of merit in the country- a woman who’s achievements and distinguished service in medicine are recognized by the crown- is a liar. Her assistant is also a liar. Further, another doctor on my (now) care team- a nationally respected psychiatrist and educator, winner of awards of excellence for his contributions to mental health education ,and care- is also somehow not to be believed. Should they alert the public that there are at least two doctors and one assistant whose pants are all on fire?

Meanwhile, one of the committee members was writing a piece about “professionalism”. Now, I’m not a doctor- but comparing her boring article that no one read, to the other thing she wrote that no one cared about- my file, it feels like she can’t make up her mind about professionalism. What do I know. I’m crazy.

I was severely punished for filing a complaint. What was apparently to take six months “nine at most”, took three years. I didn’t lose hope all at once, they took it. Piece. By. Piece. And so went the last of my sanity. It’s been four years, and I can’t close my eyes without thinking about what happened- as if it's still happening now.

Do you know what you were doing three days ago? Have you ever been pinned-down for 30 seconds? By two men at once? Were you held in a white room with nothing, and anytime you spoke, for someone to hear you, you had to yell, and they tied you down again? Have you ever stopped taking a drug that your body and mind couldn’t tolerate- but then you were forced to take it? Repeatedly? In over three decades of being in and out of wards and institutions, I’ve never been accused of being aggressive, let alone been restrained- chemically, or physically. Over. And over. I never knew when they were coming back to unleash me, or hold me down.

Maybe if I hadn't cried. Maybe if I hadn’t asked them why. Maybe if I’d stopped begging them to not do this to me. Maybe they wouldn’t have kept me tied-down, like a condemned snow-angel, nailed to a star chart- tethered not to heal, but watch it burn-out.

Although my case is on public record, there was no court reporter and no transcript of the proceeding. Just a conference call, undocumented. Until then, I recorded every relevant meeting and conversation, which they knew. They explicitly warned me that the final conference call was not to be recorded. I don’t blame them, based on everything that had been said so far. My sister and my mother were with me to listen and support me, which the board also knew. Had there been a transcript, you’d know

My mother and sister were horrified- shaken to the core- listening to me requesting basic compassion, decorum, or a flicker of rational, human emotion. The board sounded like it was made up of complete psychopaths, all of whom I'd somehow angered. I had no lawyer of course, and there was no pretend gag-order in the mix yet. The no transcript situation was unnerving, and for once my instincts were right. The one time.

Sometime in the year and a half prior to the HPARB, I stupidly asked about perjury (with citations). At every turn, I took the wrong one. My earnest confusion and inquiry was met with the CPSO’s law firm stepping-in to take over the defence for all four doctors. Needless to say, the tone changed. They came at me with a firehose of contempt, blasting me with case law, precedent, and loopholes that showed just how little they had to care in order to be right. They burned me alive on paper.

I read each page they buried me in over and over, studied the health act, the mental health act, each statement, receipt, email, my health records, patient notes, documented evidence, lie, dismissal, and I made note that there was no note for something that demanded a note. Yet, the records note there was a note. Don’t worry if the note they cited was written by a different doctor, in a different decade, or not. Maybeit was, maybe it wasn’t. I can’t say.

Here’s what I learned:

My sole obligation at the HPARB was to prove that the college’s decision was unreasonable, it failed to meet the standard of review, and ignored key evidence. As in, was the only document they actually had to read, reliable. Easy-beezy-lemon-squeezy. Page one. Wrong year.

My job was telling jokes. Names and dates are extremely important in stand-up comedy. You have no idea how complicated it is to show up at a gig in Toronto, only to realize you’ve got to get your Dolorean to the clocktower before midnight, so you won’t be twelve years early to headline in Vancouver, and thank the wrong opener. It feels a bit like these agencies (who have no bosses) really love Stonehenge time, and hate manners and their own deadlines. To be fair, they’re only regulating health care at the highest level, for patients who’ve been harmed.

Do you know what it’s like for a crazy person to have to say, “umm… we’re in the wrong decade”. It’s not a great look for my kind. I had to ask myself if doctors and lawyers use a different number system, or the Gregorian calendar. We all know that time is a man-made construct, but I thought we were all on board for some kind of synchronicity and clocks and surnames.

One night, I called a Calgary crowd “Edmonton” by accident. I felt terrible. I profusely apologized. Calgary would cowboy-boot me to death if I had acted like the committees and boards- treating me like I had this coming. I should know better than to stand in the way of a bullet’s flight path. They scolded me through stacks of papers. Not for me to sign, but just to keep, for funsies. I’ve guesstimated I’d have spent approximately $1 million in legal fees. I know I’ve signed NDAs before (for films or series). Those circumstances were clear, and agreed upon because I signed it. In this case, I’m just not supposed to talk about what happened to me. I may not be a real, actual lawyer, but I’ve played one on TV, so I think I kinda know what I’m talking about.

It feels like the CPSO’s legal department and the HPARB misrepresented their legal reach a little bit, and my rights. Maybe people are always threatened with legal action for talking about something everyone in the world can read about. What do I know. I just don’t get it- they wrote it themselves. They can always change it. They make the rules. It’s not like they made anyone involved look bad. Everyone (except my witnesses) comes off as fair, professional, going above and beyond, being right about contradicting themselves, they all made a good call, they made a call period, and so on. I, on the other hand, come off as a monster. Let’s just say I’m not written as a sympathetic character. I just don’t love my scenes, or the dialogue. It’s not realistic. I’m not even a good anti-hero. The character breakdown also seems way off, but otherwise, it’s good stuff. Riveting. And unexpectedly subjective.

Adding insult to debilitating injury, I didn’t even want the investigation.

I asked for an Alternative Dispute Resolution (ADR). I only wanted to talk to the four doctors involved. I never thought punishing or criminalizing them would help. I knew it would only breed anger and resentment- that undoubtedly now bleeds into their work. I was so naive to think it might've been a teachable moment. I was dreading getting the final verdict- because I felt terrible for the doctors, and what might become of their careers. It was very clearly a slam-dunk case.

The college failed their duty at the most basic level; getting the date wrong, ignoring the form errors, ignoring my rights. All they really have to do is read the patient notes. The HPARB rubber-stamped their failure.

I was given hundreds of pages (per case) of examples under the law— explaining all the things the committee is not obligated to do, or say, or read, explain, or investigate- and boy, did they mean it! They're missing the vital point. The committee has a responsibility of adjudicating and maintaining standards of practice in a fair and respectful way. They did none of those things. I don’t think it ever occurred to them. If it didn’t involve ruining people’s lives, it’d be the best job ever. The only thing required of a hangman, is to trigger the drop.

The ICRC and the health professionals board are the Wild West.

They never read my submissions properly. They pre-wrote their conclusion, and used a dying man’s signature to finalize it, Weekend At Bernie’s style. They “sealed the file” to bury the evidence. They relied on the fact that I wouldn’t have the money, determination, or health to fight back at all. They killed me. Not in the obvious way, but they killed the living part inside me that had just fought so long, so hard, to finally find a way to be alive in the world. They killed my trust. My hope. My health. My safety. My future.

And they will never put it in their records. And I will never get better.

It’s over. It’s been over since it began. If there was even a faint spark of life left in me, they snuffed it out. There had been a light for a moment. For a moment, I could see it through the cracks. I’ve lived in the dark most of my life. Once in a while, someone came along with a torch- steady, quiet, burning just enough to see a few feet ahead. My doctor carried that light. Another doctor helped her hold it for a while. I followed them. We all- including my family and friends, thought maybe- just maybe- I might find my way through. The ICRC and the HPARB killed me for daring to believe I might.

It wasn’t bad luck or a bureaucratic failure. It was violence. It was betrayal. It was annihilation. It was wrong.

Be very careful if you are a psychiatric patient and you want to make a complaint. Again, go back and check if anyone with a mental disorder has ever won a case. Do not expect confidentiality in any of your conversations from the beginning, no matter what they say. Or respect. Understand that you can’t win. The system isn’t designed for it. Accept their clown rodeo for what it is, and best of luck dealing with your trauma.

They knowingly cast darkness into the lives of the people who love me. They took me away from them. I see nothing. It’s black. There is nothing ahead of me. They stole any future I might've had. The committee and the board violated the ethical code they claim to enforce and represent. Every rung on this fake ladder of pretend due process was built to legally excuse a sham- an incoherent, cursory “investigation” by lying, and bullying me.

Beyond being a waste of literally everybody’s time- it’s so dangerous. These are the people who draw the line between what’s acceptable practice, and what isn’t. To be clear, it is acceptable to tie a woman down for three days, debilitate her, and leave her in a white room. Did you hear that, med students? That is acceptable, no questions asked.

This is not an anti-psychiatry rant. I’m overcome by guilt for even suggesting a physician might fall short. And of all medical specialties, psychiatry has saved my life more times than I can count. It‘s the one that’s helped me define my identity, “autonomy”, and moral self. Their domain isn’t just mental illness or being nerds, it’s the architecture of human decision-making and perception.

I believe psychiatrists have the most difficult job in the world, full stop.

Doctors have saved my life since the day I was born. They weren’t finished, and neither was I. In the end, it’s doctors who have destroyed my life. They took away everything that mattered to me. They didn’t fail me, they finished me. They are counting on people like me to stay quiet. To disappear. They torched my entire foundation.

As long as I’m alive, I will remind everyone: people with mental illness are not less than human. We are simply the easiest to medicate, silence, speak-for, blame, ignore, and discard. When the law itself encourages that, how can I expect anyone else to do better? This is what it’s actually like to be a psychiatric patient. To not matter, even to those whose lives are in their bloody hands. To have no rights. To be caged-in, and strapped-down. Like an animal. To watch people embarrass their profession, and mock the oath they made. To know that you’ll question if you’re in the right mind for the rest of your life. And none of it matters. No one heard a word I said, and they spent a lot of money doing it.

Like the gender-reveal party that burned down half the state of California, some things just didn’t need to happen. None of this had to happen. This is all because of laziness, miscommunication, and incompetence. They took me out.

This is the story of how over thirty years of work with psychiatrists, psychiatric nurses, psychologists, and counselors in New York, LA, Montreal, and Toronto, unraveled in three days- and what ensued during the three years of litigation that followed.

This is the story of being a massive inconvenience to a skeleton crew at CAMH, during a COVID lockdown. This is the story of what’s in the records, and why they don’t want me to talk about it. Details, context, and nuance are missing, but whatever information I’m legally allowed to provide, I will. This is not a story about mental illness. This is a story about institutional betrayal.

This is the story of how the CPSO, the ICRC, and the HPARB finished what my illness could not.

Every treatment I’ve done, and every effort I made, was for nothing. I’m nothing. If I doubted it before, the CPSO, ICRC, and the HPARB made sure I understood. I’m nothing.