Overseas Pharmacy: Fill & Download for Free

😆😆😆😆😆😅😅😅😅

In many developing countries they wouldn’t care much, but in First World countries you need a prescription from a doc from that country since a doc from your country isn’t licensed in that other country so the prescription isn’t valid, in emergency situations you might be able to buy one inhaler.

I am writing this answer anonymously because I have a fairly high profile public career and in western countries there is still an enormous stigma attached to mental illness. I want to change that.This is what made me seek mental health support:This is what my leg looks like now.I awoke last July in the ICU, gasping for breath, unable to think clearly, unable to move my right leg, with a feeding tube snaked down my nose. My hands were tied down. A dialysis catheter jutted out of my neck.What the hell?!! When I could concentrate long enough to manage a few words, I tried to ask my mother what happened. She didn’t answer. Her face hardened as she turned away. Beyond desperate, I scribbled lyrics from simon and garfunkel songs and anything else that came to my mind in the hopes of finding an answer. A shimmering, black and white image began to coalesce from the madness.“Wait! I was pregnant! Where is my baby?”No one answered. I tore at my restraints and started to cry.“Her name! I can’t remember her name!”Sometime later my father brought me my cell phone. It was a week before I could remember how to use it. I opened my email, texts, photos, everything that might shed some light on the nightmare. My last communication had been a photo of a letter I sent an old friend. It was rambling, nonsensical. It didn't sound like me but it was written in my handwriting. It had my unborn daughter’s name. And my intention to commit suicide.I didn’t believe it at first. I had had many struggles. My husband abandoned me, I lost my home. As a child I had gone through staggering trials, and remained haunted by the memories. I had a diagnosis of depression, but I took a pill for that religiously. Yet here I was, in the ICU, recovering from mutilple organ failure, staring at a photo of a note I’d written, which said I no longer wanted to live.I didn’t truly accept it, though, until a few months later. I had been discharged from the hospital. I was homeless, staying with my elderly parents, and, due to a blood clot from ECMO (a kind of heart-lung bypass) had lost the function of my lower right leg. I was contemplating amputation and what that would look like when I got a strange call on my cell. It was an overseas pharmacy asking if I wanted more of a certain prescription. I recognized the drug as one commonly cited by “suicide manuals.” It was rapid, painless and hardly ever reversible. Yet here I was.I decided it was time to take some action. Just living with this paralyzing grief and depression was no longer an option. Going ahead with the amputation was a symbolic moment, where I said I would figure out another way, I would learn to live again, but I would not keep dragging about the dead and diseased, as if there were nothing wrong. I had been in counseling before, but I had never really consented to the hard changes. Now my body and soul had no choice.