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.