Med-Lock: When Medication Turns Into a Cage
The lived reality of being over-medicated — and practical ways to navigate it
This is Bear.
He’s the one who sat with me when I couldn’t move. Through the fog, the paralysis, the sweatpants days where I couldn’t even get up for caffeine. Sometimes resilience looks like powering through. Other times, it looks like holding on to a stuffed bear and waiting for the thaw.
What Med-Lock Feels Like
Med-lock isn’t in the DSM. It’s not a diagnosis you’ll find in a chart. It’s a lived reality.
It isn’t “just tired.”
It’s being pinned.
It’s gravity doubled overnight.
It’s trying to swim through wet cement while the rest of the world keeps moving above your head.
I didn’t even know I was in it at first. I thought it was my chronic illness flaring. I thought it was the October slide hitting early. It took someone else naming it before I could see: this wasn’t me failing. This was the meds.
Bear sat there while I stared at the ceiling, fading in and out of sleep, days blurring together. He didn’t tell me to “try harder.” He just witnessed it.
Why It Happens
Med-lock happens when psychotropic medication — especially antipsychotics, or antipsychotics stacked with other sedating meds — tips from therapeutic into overwhelm.
Too much, and the very thing meant to help you function ends up flattening you.
The symptoms are real:
sedation
slowed movements
emotional blunting
brain fog
even muscle rigidity
It can feel like you’ve lost your personality, like you’re behind glass, watching your own life without being able to step back into it.
What Actually Helps
Here’s the thing: the standard advice — hydrate, stay positive, talk to your provider — doesn’t touch this. When you’re chemically chained, you need something different.
1. Name It.
Call it med-lock. Naming it takes the blame off you and puts it where it belongs.
2. Micro-Movements.
Wiggle your toes. Roll your shoulders. Thirty seconds of motion is still proof your body belongs to you.
3. Anchor to Reality.
Keep a clock in sight. Hold a grounding object. Med-lock blurs time; anchors pull you back.
4. Write Through the Fog.
Even one line: “This is how it feels today.” Later, it becomes proof you weren’t making it up.
5. Sensory Interrupts.
Peppermint oil, coffee grounds, cold water on your wrists, or blasting a song with heavy bass. These jolts can cut through the fog for a few precious minutes.
6. Have a Witness.
One person who knows the phrase: “I’m locked.” They don’t need to fix it. Just seeing you makes the weight less invisible. (In my case, Bear never judged a thing.)
7. Redefine Recovery.
Existing in a chemical coma isn’t recovery. Don’t let “stable” be the only goal.
The Slow Thaw
I’m not all the way out yet. My dose has been reduced, my meds adjusted, and I am better — but not back. The thaw is slow. Nobody tells you that part.
Bear’s still here, on the bed, keeping watch. And maybe that’s the point: sometimes resilience is survival with a stuffed bear, not fireworks of triumph.
Med-lock isn’t weakness. It isn’t laziness. It’s drowning with your eyes open. And once you name the prison, you can begin to build the key.
✨ This is Dancing Zebra Wellness. Real talk about resilience, chronic illness, and finding your way back to motion — even if, for now, it’s with Bear at your side.