Extremely haunting and poignant correspondence in The Lancet today:

I knew the way to go to see no one at all. From the pharmacy adjacent to the surgery where my parents worked as general practitioners for 30 years—in which my surname called at the counter could not but turn heads—I took the paper bag of mood stabilisers and antipsychotics, which were not helping, and trailed my slow feet beyond the pale of the village and into the trees.