I am hiking in the sunny landscape of the Swiss Alps. All is peaceful. The birds are chirping freely in the conifer firs. The mountain goats are grazing contentedly on the lush green grass. And the bees are buzzing busily over the wildflowers. Any moment Julie Andrews could appear dancing, bursting into rhyme and song, running down the mountain from whence she came.
This peaceful scene is dramatically shattered when from nowhere a storm of massive meteors rain down from the dark skies gathering above – rolling, bowling, and bouncing down the path ahead. Soon, it is pelting fiery molten rocks from all angles. Panicked, I look for cover and there is none, so I curl up in a ball, mouth a little prayer, and await the final curtain…
…And come round in a sweaty bed. Head banging. Bleary-eyed. In an almighty funk from last night’s boozy red wine excess. Reeling from the dark cinematic showreel of the nightmare, wondering whether I had just witnessed how the dinosaurs were rendered extinct millions of years ago.
Lying there, contemplating rehydration in the liquid form of a brew, I blurrily recall forgetting to pop my state sponsored medication the night before the morning after. A fifteen-year psychotropic habit in the making – feeding the brain’s unnatural chemical addiction.
A bear with a sore noggin, I stagger into the bathroom, reaching for the white wicker basket on the top of the corner cabinet. Still seeing flaming giant boulders in my rear-view mirror, I pop the pill from its neat and convenient silver foil packaging, for the ten thousandth time of the psychiatrists bidding. Then its time to swallow, with a dry retching gag, as a burning memory from the past surfaces, of the beginning of my twisted relationship with this so-called anti-psychotic tablet…
…I was being tormented by the Voices, while deep in conversation with one of the many shift nurses encountered during my sectioned spell at Maudsley Psychiatric Hospital. Hunched over, cracking his knuckles, the menacing male nurse was spelling out the letter of the law. Either I pop the pill voluntarily or receive a needle injection by force. Such was the brutal Hobson’s choice on offer, I nodded reluctantly at the soft option on the third time of mandating. And so began my fifteen-year chemical diet of brain-altering drugs on the NHS.
Swigging down a strong brew, as the fading remnants of the stormy gale blows an empty baked bean can round the backyard, I can feel the shakes coming on strong. Gripping the mug tighter, I muse over the considerable warped side effects of these powerful pills. These billion-dollar pills pumped-out, packaged and prescribed by Big Pharma for the millions of long-suffering addicts in the Western world.
Stepping outside, feeling charged and emboldened in the driving winds whipping round my person, I swear a silent oath to Self to continue the healing journey. Onwards, towards a final cold turkey withdrawal from these little white manufactured pills sold, sealed, and scripted from the dispensary hatches of the Soul Asylums.
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