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Apparently I survived an impossibly high overdose of 1800 mg of codeine in 2022 just so doctors could pretend I claim to be immortal — and continue the systemic harm that led me to try to take my life in the first place.

As I’ve known for decades, migraine is considered to be comorbid with bipolar disorder, yet

the fact my migraines have persisted and worsened while following countless medication regimens to treat the bipolar disorder they insist is my problem doesn’t make any of those numb, desensitized sleepwalking professionals parading as healers question whether the underlying cause might just be the electrocution that nearly killed me as a foetus and very likely impacted my nervous system ever since.

When I tell doctors and nurses the pain is so severe it makes me lose my mind and rant and rave when it spikes — and that I was followed by one of the top migraine specialists in Canada at the Montreal Neurological Institute, who finally agreed to prescribe Fiorinal before he too because nothing else worked — that doesn’t register with them.

When I tell them I’ve tried countless migraine treatments since then too, while being medicated for bipolar disorder, including the migraine-specific injectables Emgality and Aimovig (which also didn’t work), they just shrug and ask “Have you tried Tylenol?” like a mantra. “Have you tried Tylenol” for torture level migraines, ffs. Yes. I have. Obviously. If Tylenol worked I wouldn’t have tried everything else. But sure, I’m the illogical one.

When I say again that we’ve tried countless drug combinations for the so-called bipolar disorder—most of which did more harm than good—that I’ve ranted and raved in public while fully medicated because of migraine pain spikes triggered by cigarette smoke, heavy perfume, or occasionally being threatened by harmful individuals—and that I’ve been demanding for years to be evaluated for complex post-traumatic stress disorder and autism spectrum—I’m told, “That doesn’t take away from the fact you’re bipolar,” despite there being no actual proof of this. No blood test or brain scan can confirm that diagnosis. What “confirms” it is a bunch of mood-disorder specialists who only see everything through that diagnostic lens, now making up outright lies to sustain a narrative that suits them.

They want to claim I’m in a severe psychotic and manic state. Meanwhile I slept 13 hours last night, have been averaging 9 to 11 hours per night for the past several weeks, have a very healthy appetite and am not even a little bit delusional.

They write nonsense like “according to Dr. Zigman had grandiose ideas about her level of intelligence,” while Supreme Court Judge Thomas M. Davis writes in the very next paragraph of the same Order for an Authorization of Care: “This may be the case, but the Court was impressed by Ms. Shamir’s intelligence during her testimony.”

Further down this judge also says “Ms. Shamir is no doubt an individual able to function at a high level and explained her situation to the Court with a good level of clarity.” Yet nowhere is there mention that “she told doctors she believes herself to be immortal and cannot die” which Doctor Zigman perjured himself by repeating to the judge in his testimony preceding my own.

Judge Davis states: “One of her doctors would have decided to keep her in ‘hypo-mania’ so as to not harm her creativity. She believes that one of her early doctors prescribed medication that led to her thyroid condition.”

“One of her doctors” being Dr. Allan Fielding, head of the Day Program at the Allan Memorial Institute, which I attended for six months instead of the usual three weeks, as I clearly told the judge. Furthermore, it’s verifiable that the thyroid condition did not exist prior to me being coerced into staying on lithium by a psychiatrist whose name I’ve erased from memory because she was so harmful. She refused to consider alternatives when I repeatedly told her the lithium was making me suicidal in the year preceding my burnout. She did not care. A receptionist at the Douglas outpatient clinic told me she had received countless complaints about that same psychiatrist.

But sure. Let’s keep pretending I’m the problem for insisting that I’m being abused by a psychiatric system that is outdated, based on over-medicating for compliance, and tampering with brain chemistry without understanding the consequences. Let’s especially keep pretending the long-term effects of the drugs they’re forcing on patients—while refusing to listen to them—are “beneficial,” when their only metric for success is silent acceptance of medical authority.

Judge Davis says: “With respect, while Ms. Shamir certainly has informed herself about bipolar disorder, she has advanced theories about it possibly mimicking the symptoms of Autism and PTSD without any medical evidence to support her theory. She also calls into question the diagnoses of at least four psychiatrists who have seen her at the hospital and have found her to he acutely psychotic due to her bipolar disorder.”

The same psychiatrists who had to invent things I never said or did — such as claiming I believe I’m immortal, that I ever mentioned “the Messiah,” or that I required multiple sedations with security and staff interventions during this hospitalization. No problem there. Business as usual in the advanced pseudoscience of psychiatry in the year 2025 — founded, fittingly enough, on the questionable birth year of a man many still call a messiah and credit with performing actual miracles. No contradiction there whatsoever. Forgive me for being the insane one here.

But sure. The problem is me being “obsessed with abuse.” As the system abuses me. The problem is me calling a spade a spade, in other words.

The emperor has always run around buck naked — and I’m the crazy one for refusing to pretend he’s robed in fine silk and designer finery. To be sure. Let’s silence that bitch. She’s annoying us with too much truth.

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The sketch, shown at the top of this post dates back to May 2000 — the year after my self-diagnosis of bipolar disorder was officially confirmed at the Mood Disorders Clinic of the Allan Memorial Institute, and around the time I was freelancing for Elle Québec, which I was contracted to redesign that year.

My psychiatrist at the time, Dr. Ghadirian, encouraged me to draw as part of “therapy” — until he saw what I actually chose to draw: fashion models and severely emaciated women. I was struggling with bulimia then, obsessed with extreme slenderness for decades — after seeing Swan Lake performed by Les Grands Ballets Canadiens when I was about five (around 1974) — before eventually overcoming the disorder on my own. Dr. Ghadirian disapproved of my chosen subjects, and that’s when I decided never to rely on shrinks as credible art critics.

The handwritten text reads:

“I know I look ridiculous sitting here with these ugly clothes in a really unflattering position but it’s for British Vogue, and this could be my big break and things could really take off for me. Anyway, I’m smart and I’m just doing this for fun and money and travel but I have other projects and plans for the future. 07/05/00”

Looking back, it feels almost prophetic. I was already dissecting the absurdity of how women’s ambition and image are filtered through ridicule, commodification, and control. What he dismissed as “fixating on my obsession” were scathing critiques of systems — not of self.

Another drawing that same sketchbook, equally caustic and self-aware. Likely drawn the same day in May 2000 — during that same period at the Allan Memorial, when I was oscillating between humour, critique, and survival.

The handwritten text reads:

“People think that because I’m a model I’m anorexic and stupid. But they’re so wrong?”

It was sarcasm sharpened into self-defence — a way to mirror back the cultural idiocy surrounding women’s bodies, intellect, and worth. Even then, I was documenting the absurd intersection of pathology, projection, and performance.

My first shrink thought I was just feeding an unhealthy obsession with these drawings. He couldn’t grasp that I was documenting a social pathology — not just mine.