If I stand on my tip toes I can see autumn from here.
-Unknown
There are nights when pain feels like a forest fire. It consumes everything, licking at nerves, muscles, and bones, until even the smallest ember becomes unbearable. For me, forest therapy has always been a refuge—trees that don’t ask me to explain, the wind that listens without judgment. But no walk in the woods can erase the reality of the deep harm that comes when the medications I rely on are suddenly out of reach.
Biophilia
the ancient memory that li ves in our bones- a quiet longing to belong to the earth, a deep and sacred bond that awakens our senses and nurtures our souls.
Tales from My Trek
Recently, I went to fill my prescription. It’s a narcotic, tightly controlled with a note that says it can only be filled every 30 days. The problem? It was day 29, and I was out. 😳
For some prescriptions, waiting until the next day is an inconvenience. But when you’re on a heavy narcotic at the highest dose, one missed pill isn’t just painful—it’s catastrophic.
That night without medication meant I wasn’t just “in pain.” It meant shaking, twitching, and detoxing against my will. For a medication I’d have to take in the morning!
I’ve missed this pill before. My body, already fragile, spiraled: my nervous system hijacked by fight-or-flight, my hormones in chaos, my temperature regulation broken. I’d overheat, then sweat, then shiver, round and round. All while my pain screamed louder and louder. It is my definition of Hell.
And the damage doesn’t end when the sun rises. One night like this unravels days—sometimes weeks—of careful work to bring my nervous system into alignment. Forest therapy sessions that usually soothe my body’s alarms are erased by the fresh trauma of unmanaged withdrawal.
One pill—just one—becomes the difference between fragile balance and collapse.
The Pharmacy Door 🚪
This wasn’t the first time.
Years ago, when I was short on medication, it was actually the pharmacy’s mistake. A tech who knew me—a kind soul who remembered my name—looked closer. While others repeated, “Sorry, you can’t have more. Come back tomorrow,” he dug into the records and discovered their count was off by the exact number I was missing. He trusted me. He believed my story. He saw me.
This time was different. My tech friend wasn’t there.
When this new tech told me I couldn’t have more until tomorrow, he must have seen the terror in my eyes. Or noticed me standing in shock for 5 minutes. Just standing by the pharmacy. Holding back tears, while physically and mentally spinning in circles. But instead of offering solutions, he shrugged and said, “Come back in the morning.”
Being someone who hates to cause a stir, I went home. But home is where the panic broke through. I sobbed uncontrollably. My body already gearing up for withdrawal.
Then I realized: silence won’t help me survive this.
I called back. I asked about options. The tech said I could talk to the pharmacist. Why wasn’t that offered before? 🤨
When I spoke with the pharmacist, his tone was dismissive, almost mocking: “So what do you want me to do about it?”
I explained again, told him what would happen if I went without. He finally asked if I’d even come pick it up that night IF he were to fill it.
Sir, I thought, I just told you what a night without it would do. Do you think I’d let that happen if I had any choice?
Eventually, he relented and filled it twelve hours early. I picked it up feeling like I should bow at his feet in gratitude. As if he’d granted me a favor rather than spared me a night of needless suffering. I felt the need to thank him repeatedly.
The petty side of me still wants to send him a Get Better Soon card. Not because he’s sick. But because I think he could do better. As a human being. I’d have to send it anonymously because this is not a person I want to be on their bad side.
The Bigger Picture
I know narcotics require tight monitoring. I know the system has to guard against abuse. But what about patients like me—the ones who never asked for this, who were put on these medications by doctors, and who don’t have the option of just going off of them. When there is something physiologically happening that is not right.
Why does losing one pill make me look like a drug seeker? Why is my lived record of years not enough to earn trust? Why is the assumption always suspicion?
Do they want me to be all natural? Do they realize it is people like me who keep them in business? I literally pay their bills!
I wouldn’t have to if I could live every day in the forest—if I could soak in the mossy quiet, breathe in the pine air, let the gentle rhythm of birdsong reset my nervous system—perhaps I wouldn’t need the pills.
But my reality is different.
My reality is managing chronic pain in a system that too often treats me like the problem instead of the patient.
🍂 Whispers of the Woods
As I write this, I think of a line from poet Wendell Berry:
“The care of the Earth is our most ancient and most worthy, and after all our most pleasing responsibility. To cherish what remains of it and to foster its renewal is our only hope.”
What if the same was said of patients? To cherish them. To foster their renewal. To see them not as potential criminals but as human beings navigating unbearable pain.
Another lesser-known verse comes to mind from Antonio Machado:
“Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.”
For me, that “third thing” is surviving. It’s clawing through nights without medication. It’s cobbling together therapies—like time in the forest—that offer some relief, though never enough.
Compassion: The Heartbeat of Humanity
I don’t have the solution. But I do know this: when we treat patients like addicts instead of people, we add more pain to lives already saturated with it. I believe we can find a way to monitor responsibly while also practicing compassion, dignity, and trust.
So I’m asking you: have you experienced something like this? Have you been caught in the impossible bind between regulations and your own survival? Do you have ideas for how this system could better serve those who truly need it?
Share your thoughts in the comments. Let’s start a conversation. Because one pill shouldn’t have the power to undo everything.
It was a lovely afternoon-such an afternoon as only September can produce when summer has stolen back for one day of dream and glamour.
-L.M. Montgomery
SUNBEAM ACRES 