“I’ll take you up to the highest heights, let’s spread our wings and fly away.

Surround you with love that’s pure delight, release your spirits, set you free”

Baby D

No jokes from Nurse Jo this week, as she pays respect to her family and disrespect to the barbaric drug policies of this green and pleasant land.  Those that are preventing her and over ninety five thousand other mental health nurses in the UK, from having access to tools that could undoubtedly help some of the most vulnerable people in society.

We cremated my cousin yesterday. Anthony, known as Baby Tony to me, on account of the fact I also had an uncle Tony, was less than a year older than me, at 48. He died in a hostel for the homeless, as a result of the complications of alcoholism.

Of course, funerals are often sad, however it’s very difficult to celebrate the life of someone who died so young and was clearly very troubled.

Tony left behind many, including his parents, older sister and a strapping 21-year-old son. He was not in contact with any of them at the time of his death.

Tony’s sister-in-law did her best to recount some of his finer moments, including when he was an amazing skateboarder (sponsored by Santa Cruz), a keen local graffiti artist and an impressive jungle DJ. I couldn’t help but wonder if all this, in conjunction with his impulsivity, fiery temperament and a tendency to borrow, yet not return records, was indicative of attention deficit disorder, undiagnosed & untreated. I wondered if this had led to his addiction.

Despite “his demons” , as they were referred to during the service, he was a well liked, gentle soul with the gift of the gab. This was demonstrated by the many people, from diverse backgrounds, packing the crematorium and later the local Brockley Jack pub, in South London. 

It was evident at the funeral, just how many people had tried to help Tony, in whatever ways that were available to them. Some paid for rehab, offered housing, counsel,  attended court appearances that he didn’t show up for and countless other things.  

I myself sought advice from some of my teachers and peers, about if psychedelics could help him. Discussing how anyone might pull off such a feat, knowing he would have to be under the influence during any dosing session, for fear of physical withdrawals. He was also in a precarious living situation, which would possibly make any aftercare and integration difficult.

I had several drunk conversations with Tony (him not me…), where he assured me, as I’m sure he did to many others, that I was the only one who understood him and that he really DID want help. Unfortunately, he was seemingly too far gone at this stage and in the end he only really seemed to want money from me. This is a terrible situation for any loved one, as you don’t know if you should just give them money, or if you are actually harming them further by doing so.   Some of the advice people are often given is that families need to practice “tough love” and that people need to reach their “rock bottom” etc. I often use the saying in other arenas that “it’s hard to save someone who seems unwilling to participate in their own rescue”. I don’t have the answers but this must of been hideous for his immediate family, who have been waiting for the police to knock on the door, with the worst news for years.

I’ve seen so many people change their relationships with things that were not serving them, such as problematic recreational drug and alcohol use, through their psychedelic experiences. It’s hard not to wonder if more could have been done for Tony. What if help could have been provided earlier? What if we lived in a culture where the potential of drugs to be used as medicine was properly recognised? What if systems were in place for people like me to have access to ANY tools that could help us to do the job of nursing that I have dedicated thirty years of my life to?

After all, I and many others have witnessed things in psychedelic ceremony that would look like miracles to most. Such as people who were suicidal in the morning, being quite well by teatime, or those with twenty years of treatment resistant depression, who hadn’t really left the house for years, suddenly finding themselves quite mobile and in a world that seemed far less scary, where there was now hope.

Of course, I could go on, and on, and on, and on, such is my tendency to overshare and get stuck down rabbit holes but you get the gist.

Godspeed DJ Lucks