I never imagined I would become the cautionary example.

For many years, I was employed at a financial institution. I serve as a youth sports coach, a husband, and a father of two children. I dedicated decades to coaching, mentoring athletes, and proudly creating high school sports broadcasts. I fashioned a life based on leadership, accuracy, and community engagement.

However, none of that equipped me for what unfolded when I was given pramipexole (Mirapex) to address Parkinson’s.

The alerts were present: compulsive actions, gambling, and hypersexuality. I perused them. I acknowledged them. I thought, That won’t apply to me.

But pramipexole doesn’t strike like a thunderstorm. It reconfigures you gradually. Stealthily. It doesn’t resemble addiction. It resembles urgency. Like reason. Like a voice that seems to be your own, convincing you that the next action is logical. Until it isn’t.

I lost my grip. I made decisions that shattered my family. Financial devastation. Emotional breakdown. The type of treachery that no apology can remedy. And when I finally emerged from the haze (when I reduced the medication and the compulsive urge disappeared), I was confronted with the aftermath. The lucidity arrived too late.

Since discontinuing pramipexole, the compulsive desire has vanished. It’s not diminished. It’s not regulated. It’s simply gone. I don’t experience the same draw, the same irrational craving, the same takeover of my mind. That trigger, the one that once flipped unexpectedly, is now silent.

But that doesn’t erase what transpired.

I find myself here knowing that I have damaged my family’s life. I accept that there’s nothing I can do to reverse what my mind did under the effect of that medication. I gambled away everything that could have provided a life for my children and my spouse. What I have done is costing me more than I ever anticipated: not only the money I lost, but the tax repercussions that may hinder my children’s college completion, and burden my wife throughout her life.

And I still have Parkinson’s. That won’t improve. I will require assistance, help I won’t be able to provide for myself. And my wife won’t be able to fulfill everything needed for either me or herself. I dread what that implies for her. For us.

I feel worthless. Guilty. Ashamed. As if I’ve regressed. Yet I also recognize this: I’m not concealing myself anymore. I’m being honest. I’m seeking support. I’m writing every day. And even if I can’t mend what’s broken, I can ensure no one else enters this unprepared.

Here’s what I want you to grasp: The warnings and alerts won’t safeguard you.

You can read them. You can believe you’re exempt. But pramipexole doesn’t seek consent. It alters how your brain interprets risk, reward, and urges. And by the time you become aware that something is amiss, you might already be well entrenched in it.

This isn’t merely a medical side effect. It’s a neurological takeover. And it almost cost me everything.

If you or someone dear to you is taking pramipexole (or any dopamine agonist), please don’t overlook the risks. Monitor behaviors. Ask tough questions. Don’t wait for the harm to manifest before acting.

I’m not seeking forgiveness. I’m pursuing awareness, accountability, and a system that doesn’t obscure these risks in fine print. And for families to realize that if something seems off, it might be more than mere stress. It could be the medication.

This is my narrative. And I’m still experiencing it.

*The author is an anonymous patient.*