I took drugs to heal the pain of the drugs they prescribed me to heal the pain, and to catch the bits of crazy the prescribed drugs couldn’t quite reach. That’s when I learned that, really, anything can be a drug. It’s less about the thing itself and more about how you use—or abuse—it.

My skin fizzled as I tried to sleep. It fizzled as I tried to work. It fizzled as I tried to distract myself from its fizzling. It’s difficult to describe this feeling—something I had never experienced before, have not experienced since and hope to never experience again. It’s what I imagine an electric shock feels like, except rather than a burst that’s (I would guess) highly painful and over in a nanosecond, this was long and drawn out, not so much painful but rather uncomfortable and disconcerting. So I suppose it was closer to how it feels to be a copper wire in an electric cable. A constant flow of energy running through you but not for you. It just passes through, without pause, always going somewhere and never ending with you. It felt so intense, so real that I was surprised others couldn’t see or feel it. I expected I would even give myself a shock if my hand brushed against any part of my body. But apparently this sensation existed in a reality separate to the one you and I and everyone else share. This was the most persistent side-effect of my antidepressants. It started on the day I first took them and persisted until the day the last remnants had finally seeped out of my system. So, give or take, two years. Two years of crawling, fizzling, electric current skin. Even now, years later, when I think about that time, this is one of the things I wonder how I had the strength to deal with. There were much worse incidents of course, both in the lead up to and for the duration of the medication—insomnia, suicidal thoughts, panic attacks—but this was the most constant. There was no escape. How can you escape your own skin?

Alcohol is supposed to be avoided when taking these ‘happy pills’. But how could I pretend everything was fine without drinking alcohol? After-work drinks, happy hour with the girls, client lunches—the occasions that filled my calendar and the people I occasioned with were not entirely conducive to going teetotal. Sipping virgin mojitos would attract confusion at best and disdain at worst, closely followed by questions and cajoling. “I can’t drink, I’m depressed” was a sentence less likely to leave my mouth than pigs are to fly. And, yes, to be honest, I didn’t want to stop drinking. I could barely sleep and, when I did, my dreams were filled with death and horror. I couldn’t find enjoyment in things I used to love and it was getting harder and harder to fake it. At some points I couldn’t make it through a day without wondering what that day would have been like had I not been in it. I wasn’t myself, I wasn’t normal. So I kept on drinking because I wanted to do something that felt normal. And what better way to feel normal in modern British society than to drink?

We all know alcohol is one of the most deadly drugs, but did you know that food can be a drug too? Not just in its consumption but also through restriction. I don’t know why I starved myself. I think sometimes I simply forgot about food and sustenance. When free-falling through a bottomless pit of darkness fills most of your day, time bends and the normal activities of life become all at once needless and insurmountable tasks. To think about, prepare and eat a meal required two main things: brain capacity–and that was being held hostage by demons–and energy, something that at that time simply didn’t exist for me. I would sometimes notice pangs of hunger, and invite the pain as it gave my mind something to focus on other than my thoughts, bouncing like the little silver ball in a pinball machine. One moment hitting the ‘I’m supposed to be stronger than this’ pin, then ricocheting off the ‘will this ever get better?’ pin, getting flipped by the ‘I’m being selfish, so many people are suffering more than me’ pin and landing on the ‘I just want this all to go away’ pin. Hunger was a welcome distraction at times, especially when the pangs grew into angry, insistent cramps.

In those most difficult times, when I finally did eat, the question wasn’t about what was tasty, what had the most or least calories or even what would fill me up. It was about what was easiest. What could I get without having to think too much? What could I get without having to interact with too many people? Inevitably, the answer was always take-out. Pizza, Chinese, Pizza again. In the age of Deliveroo, I could get a whole meal and only have to interact with someone twice; once when the delivery person rang the buzzer to be let into the apartment building and again when I had to open the front door and say ‘thank you’ with a forced smile as they handed over the food, before slamming the door in their face and retreating back to safety.

Even on the easier days, food seemed to be an enemy rather than a friend. I can’t understand why my relationship with food was so difficult, other than the reason that everything was difficult at that time. There is some evidence to show that when we are stressed or overwhelmed, we make unhealthy choices. Every so often, I would gain enough motivation and self-belief to decide to ‘clean up’ my diet, obviously hoping that cleaning up my diet would magically clean up my life. To this day, however, there is one battle I haven’t quite worked out how to win: sugar. At my healthiest, both physically and mentally, I still always succumb to sugar. I don’t think it’s the sugar, but rather the burst of energy it gives me when I won’t admit to myself that what I really need is to slow down. I don’t think it’s the chocolate, but rather the comfort and nurturing—that I’ve given to so many men and yet received from none—that the brownie gives me. I don’t think it’s the cookie but rather the loudness of the crunch that interrupts my anxious thoughts. I don’t think it’s the apple crumble, but rather the warmth of the custard that tells me everything is going to be alright.

What I have discovered is that the things that truly heal, instead of putting a fast-dissolving band-aid over your problems, are much harder to swallow. A brightly-coloured pill, an ice-cold cocktail with a humorous name, a gooey chocolate brownie—all of these things are easily consumed and should be enjoyed…in moderation of course. True medicine, however, is much harder to stomach. It is bitter and sometimes repeats on you. It requires commitment to taking the full course if you want to see results, and it calls for you to be an active participant in your healing, not a bystander waiting for the pain to be taken away.

While I was at university, I had my first-ever therapy session. I had no idea so much damage could be done in one hour, simply through talking. And with a trained professional, no less! I felt I had shown her my open wound and her response was to instead point out scabs I’d either forgotten about or never seen, scratch them open and then smile “see you next week!” as I limped home bloody, bewildered and in full belief that, one way or another, there would be no ‘next week’. This experience convinced me that talking might be medicine for others but certainly not for me. It made me reject therapy again and again until, skin fizzling and thoughts racing, I realised that antidepressants were not going to save me.

My first real therapist showed me that talking is medicine—but only when talking to the right people. Talking to the wrong people can turn what could have been medicine into poison—not just for your system but for the relationship too. Some friends and family might be the right people to talk to about certain topics, but that doesn’t mean you can talk to them about everything. Learning who to talk to about what can be incredible medicine. Going to your rose-tinted glasses friend about a serious challenge might leave you frustrated, but going to her with the intention of laughing, dreaming and taking your mind off the challenge will leave you feeling nurtured. I talked to my therapist about things I had never spoken to anyone about—some of them, not even myself. This was a painful, sometimes excruciating process. Unearthing memories you’ve worked hard to banish is not a one-time thing. It is the opening ceremony of a tournament of pain, suffering and, if you stay the course, eventual healing. Even talking about ‘easy’ topics can be rough when you’re forced to consider an alternative narrative to the one you’ve held as the absolute truth for days, weeks, months or years.

Despite the panic attacks and tears, talking helped me to embrace and accept my past experiences, understand my current situation, and believe that a magical future was possible. I learned how to express emotions and thoughts that previously seemed impossible to convey. As I talked to her, I gradually became more comfortable talking to others about difficult topics. By talking to others, I found people that understood, not just through reading articles or watching poor (and often offensive) media portrayals, but through experience. People who had their own story to share in response to mine.

In the depths of my depression, when I was signed off work, had stopped writing and barely left my bed, one thing I still managed to do was read. I read people’s personal stories of dealing with mental illness. I read words that described my own experience so well I wondered if I had in fact been the one to write them. I read stories of despair, substance abuse and attempted suicide from people whose new lives were unrecognisable in comparison. I read about career success, love and a life without medication, and through reading learned that such a future might, after all, be waiting for me. These stories showed me that what I was experiencing at that time could be a difficult chapter in an otherwise happy—even healthy—story.

Later, when things were getting better and I felt able to talk to people individually about my experiences, I knew that I had to pay it forward by being open about that chapter of my story on a larger scale. My therapist had encouraged me to start writing again and to write specifically about my mental health. Eventually I did, and published it as a blog post. I presented a few talks on mental health, sharing my own experiences. Doing this taught me that it’s not just reading or hearing the personal stories of others that is medicine—sharing your story can be medicine too.

Movement is one of the best medicines, especially in these modern times where so much work and play takes place with us seated in front of a screen. My personal movement medicine is yoga. I first started yoga because of a knee injury from doing what I would have termed then as ‘real’ exercise. I was a reluctant participant, having previously decided with exactly zero evidence that yoga was not my thing. Of course, my first class was the kind of yoga that people who don’t ‘do’ yoga start with—Bikram. As I lay on my mat at the end of the class, drenched in sweat and feeling a dull pain in the exact place this class was supposed to heal, I vowed never to subject myself to such torture again. I went back a few days later. Then I went again, and again. My injury did start to heal but so did a lot of things. In fact, yoga started to follow me off the mat. Somehow, moving my body in that way seemed to unlock doors in my mind, some that I’d rather have kept locked. Despite making me question…well, everything, it also made me feel good. Less anxious, calmer, lighter. I even started eating better! But as I mentioned earlier, real medicine makes you gag, so I stopped. I told myself it was because I was too busy or too poor. Never that I was too depressed or too scared.

Months later, in therapy, I talked about how yoga made me feel, how it was medicine but also how I couldn’t face it. This therapist, who I have said before and will continue to say was, I believe, an angel, reminded me that yoga doesn’t only take place in a studio and it doesn’t have to be done by the hour. As I promised her I would, I bought a yoga mat and laid it at the end of my bed. On days when I felt strong, I would do 30 minutes, and on days where I felt as limp as a wilted leaf I would only do child’s pose and nothing else. But even this was food for my soul. Yoga has remained a constant in my healing journey, and I trained as a teacher so that I could share this medicine with any who are willing to swallow it.

So, what is the difference between medicine and drugs? Drugs are short-term tools to help numb the pain. Often, when we turn something into a drug, we forget—or actively ignore—the fact that it’s meant to be a temporary fix. Once a temporary fix becomes a daily requirement for proper functioning, drugs are no longer a tool for healing, only self-destruction. They do have their place, when used and not abused. They can help us deal with our symptoms enough to find the motivation, energy and desire for true healing i.e. the medicine. Medicine is a long-term tool that should be used at all times, not just when we’re sick. It is slow-acting, so you might think it’s not working at first, but when it’s gone the sting of its absence is sharp. Medicine is laughing with loved ones and playing make-believe with kids. Medicine is screeching as the cold seawater laps at your legs. Medicine is bringing to life something that previously existed only in your mind. Medicine is moving your body like water as you connect with the earth beneath your feet. Medicine is lying in the grass, staring at the blue sky through green treetops. Medicine is breathing in air dense with the aroma of healing herbs. Medicine is an embrace so tight, so secure, that you know they will never let you go. Medicine is being alive, knowing you’re alive, feeling alive and living in absolute certainty that this life is precious, and you deserve to live it.

Araba Ofori-Acquah is a healer, writer and cultural curator, sharing an African-centred approach to wellness through content, coaching and community building. She writes non-fiction and fiction on the themes of healing, the female experience and the many shades of Black-ness. Her debut book ‘Return to Source: Unlock the Power of African-centred Wellness’ will be published by Hay House in Spring 2023.