The sterile office of the doctor’s surgery filled my nostrils with a chemical pollution, as the chalk white paint glistened in the hue of a dimly lit lamp. Occasionally, the light would flicker and dance with the twinkle of the bulb.

I scoffed. This may have been the National Health Service but attention to detail in the chaos of the reception would have been uplifting.

The dimly lit lamp seemed cheap. Everything in the derelict surgery seemed cheap. Maybe such a facade was akin to the tenants of modern-day medicine.

As my name was called I walked hurriedly into a small and confined room

The doctor showed me in, before re-entering the room with an electric charge. He began to wash his hands meticulously in the sink’s basin. In between his hand washing he would inject lines of conversation; small talk.

“Lovely day isn’t it”, the doctor would sing. I could never quite tell if he was being sarcastic or not. The day was in fact not lovely. It was dreary, as were most British Springs. After rinsing his hands, he rubbed them dry on a paper towel and took a seat behind his desk. I sat opposite him staring vacantly into his cold eyes. The doctor was an elderly figure and his office seemed to resemble his posterior; archaic and impersonal.

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The table where he sat was decorated with many artefacts; old patient notes, a potted plant and an abundance of psychiatric journals appeared to litter his worktop. He seemed to care little about order in the vicinity of space.

“So, Viola, what can we do for you today?”

I paused momentarily, considering the semantics of his question. Everything about my encounter with my physician seemed clinical and impersonal, constrained by the limitations of ritualistic behaviour. Small talk, impersonal chat and clinical dialogue within an unstimulating environment. I sighed, inhaling a deep breath. I would just have to bide my time and play the game of impersonal formalities if it meant any opportunity to shun Winston.

I began to speak to the doctor regarding my issues with Winston and how it was beginning to affect my depression. The blank spells and continual invalidation from the imaginary personas within my head, who for me, seemed very real. As I spoke, a century seemed to pass.

The doctor appeared unsatisfied with many of my requests for newer medications and suitable therapies, as if I was demanding an unreasonable amount of treatment.

Nevertheless, with great reluctance, the doctor lifted his eyes from his notepad. Now meeting my gaze, he tore off a sheet of paper and with his gruff hands offered me a prescription script. I made a mental note of the pills I had been prescribed.

Citalopram.

Aripiprazole

Lithium

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Returning home from the surgery I began to take in the night sky.

I shifted myself into the corridor of my narrow hallway, throwing my keys. They clunked and jangled as they fell onto the floor.

As I turned on the tap a small tinkle of water spurted out. The plumbing system was once again defect. I had tried lodging a complaint to my absent-minded and absent-spirited landlord, but to no avail. I beseeched my best inclinations and proceeded to dry swallow the pills.

It stuck in my throat and I groaned. It appeared the dry-swallowing of the pills would foreshadow a long and difficult journey I was to have with this medication.