After a few months at Park Clinic the meds were starting to kick in –
the voices had fallen silent and the visions were gone and I began
wondering about why I was going through this. I started talking to
fellow patients more, and we spent hours discussing symptoms, thoughts,
feelings and experiences. The clinic closed about 3 pm and most days I’d
head to the library in town. Desperately seeking answers, I ploughed
through medical texts and psychiatric nursing manuals hoping for some
insight, I hadn’t studied so hard since my O levels. I didn’t find any
blinding revelations, just more questions. 

During one conversation with another patient, she mentioned that she’d
been seeing a hypnotherapist and that it was helping. This interested me
– I hadn’t thought of that before. I got the hypnotherapist’s number
and called her when I got home. We had a brief chat about my symptoms
and I told her I didn’t have much money but luckily she must have had a
social conscience and she agreed to only charge me a fiver a session, so
I made an appointment to see her the following week. I was apprehensive
about it, but also hopeful. Maybe this was my path to enlightenment.
The office was modern and fairly sparse with just a couch, desk, chair
and a couple of plants. I made myself comfortable on the couch and after
she described how hypnosis worked the session began. I won’t detail the
hypnotic process here, but essentially I became progressively relaxed
and free of tension until we were ready to begin the analysis. Again, I
won’t go too much into the exact nature of the investigation, I don’t
want to give anyone who might be thinking of undertaking similar therapy
any preconceived ideas of what to expect. I felt drained and emotional
at the end of that first session, but I had the feeling I might be on to
something, even though probing into my tormented psyche felt like the
mental equivalent of poking a stick into a hornets’ nest, so I made an
appointment for the next week. 

My thoughts and emotions were turbulent and chaotic during the wait for
the next session and I was relieved when the day came. This time was
slightly less distressing and at the end I felt like we were making some
progress. In the next few sessions we analysed my dreams and I got into
the habit of writing them down. After a few weeks I actually began to
feel better. A lot better, and during a session with my key worker at
the clinic I told him about my therapy. He didn’t say anything, but a
few days later I was called to a meeting with him, my psychiatrist and a
couple of people I didn’t know. They said they felt that the
hypnotherapy could jeopardise my treatment plan at the clinic and
essentially said that if I continued seeing the hypnotherapist I’d have
to leave. It was a tough decision, because the clinic had been a safe
haven for a long time but I was feeling a lot better so I decided to
discharge myself.

Without the structure and routine that I’d become used to at the
clinic, the time between hypnotherapy sessions dragged, and I spent
hours just driving around. Driving was a great escape for me, when the
voices were active the only time they didn’t bother me was when I was at
the wheel, I could concentrate completely on the road, free from their
intrusion. I listened to music as I cruised. I started with my punk
favourites – Clash, Ruts (It Was Cold is a great cruising tune – I hit
replay many times), Sham, Pistols, Penetration, ATV and others. I began
to develop an interest in different artists like Free, Eric Burdon, Led
Zep, Black Sabbath and others I’d never have considered playing before. I
clocked up hundreds of miles without really going anywhere. 

After a few more months of therapy I was feeling fantastic, elated, and I
thought I’d found what I’d been seeking. I was so impressed with
hypnotherapy I decided to take the course my therapist had done and get
into it seriously. So followed months of studying Freud and others,
writing induction scripts and practising my hypnotic techniques. I
eventually got my diploma, and, answering a timely ad in the local
paper, I started working at a local practice. I even wore a suit for the
first time – I felt like the accused at first, it took some getting
used to. I was looking forward to some juicy psychoanalysis cases like
my own, but I was to be disappointed – most of the clients were there to
quit smoking or lose weight. The most interesting case was a past-life
regression, a middle-aged guy who was transported to a previous
existence as a Roman gladiator. He ended up running round the office
brandishing an imaginary sword, complete with warlike bellowing. That
was a highlight, but it was an exception to the rule. A few months
passed and nothing notable happened, but one day I began seeing things
again, a few insects at first then swarms of them and packs of rats. It
was starting the way it was when I first got ill. Before long the
visions became more disturbing – people would morph into characters from
“The Evil Dead” - and the voices kicked off again, spasmodic at first
but getting more intrusive and debilitating. I had to quit the practice
and go back to my doctor for help. I’d stopped taking my meds some time
ago, so I had to start back on them and I found myself back at Park
Clinic. I thought I’d found the answers I’d been looking for, but my
brain chemistry proved me wrong. I lost my faith in Freud.