The pill I held in my palm had the word “Paxil” incised into it, surely from the Latin “Pax”: peace. Pax Romana, Pax Leon, a Pax on all our suffering.

I began taking Paxil after moving into a new town and a new job. Somehow I showed up under the misapprehension that the good will I had earned at my former work would accompany me to my new one, but such was not the case. For reasons I do not totally understand, I became the goat there and never earned the good will I hoped for. Overt and covert attacks came often, not only unsettling my mind, but taking away all dreaming during sleep, diverting my concentration at work, taking away my joy of living, and dulling my spirit. I will describe my emotional state using several relationships and some interpretation. How I found a cure better than Paxil is described as I experienced them.

To bring me on as a producer, the president of the company funded my contract with money which became available after the former lead writer died. He mentioned this fact to the new head writer, his friend M. Alice Lugner, who spread the news to her colleagues.

M. Alice, an attractive 40-year-old, tempered her image by adopting Hoss Cartwright’s stance when she stood still, and imitating his gait when she put her long legs in motion. Her interpersonal style was all her own, as I discovered at our first meeting, when M. Alice leaned over to me to observe, “We thought you really were somebody,” with emphasis on the second word.

Her insinuations were offered without smile, or vocal warmth, but with an authoritative guttural growl. So, even though the rational part of me said, “pay no attention to her,” the emotional part of me said “get away from this.”

One day fighting writer’s block, I said her name 10 times, while holding my tongue between my thumb and my index finger. “Uhm Alice….uhm Alice…uhm Alice….malice. “ I chuckled at my discovery, and played the game often.

I did not see M. Alice until a staff meeting to interview a candidate for on-camera interviewer for a video series. She began the questioning.

“This will be a series on teenage drug addicts,” she said, as she Cartwrighted toward the 22-year-old candidate. “Could you tell us which controlled substances you have used?”

“None, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am.”

“None,” he repeated.

“How can you write and host a program on drug addiction, when you’ve never used drugs?”

“I believe three generations family history qualifies me,” he said.

“Tell me why, specifically,” M. Alice threatened.

“My brother…” he continued, then looked away.

“Go on.” M. Alice said. “Go on,” she insisted.

The young man searched the faux-walnut table until his eyes met mine.

“I’d like to speak in our young writer’s favor,” I said. “In a video on conflict between parents and children… ”

“I don’t care what you did in your former job,” M. said.

“…our talent was single,” I continued, “and had never been a mother, but she had a sixth sense about parents and children. On-camera with a mother and father who sent their son to a school for delinquents, Susan saw that the couple valued their daughter, but hated their son. And Susan was an old maid, who had never…”

“Stop,” M. Alice shouted. “You stop,” she spat, standing over me, shaking a long finger, and grimacing as if she had taken buckshot to the stomach.

“Don’t you ever repeat that phrase in my presence,” she shouted.

I looked around for help, but there was none; my attempt to diffuse the tension had angered every writer in the room. It took 15 minutes and an Aleve to calm M. Alice down.

Not long after that, the roof over my studio began to leak. I asked the vice president if he could get the leak fixed. He referred me to M. Alice. M. Alice laughed and consigned me to the lake of fire. I contacted the president, who referred me to M. Alice. I bought tar and a broom, borrowed a ladder and patched the flat roof myself.

Soon after that my physician prescribed Paxil for me. After a few weeks, M. Alice’s attacks did not seem to hurt as bad or as long, but my few joys became muted as well. I continued in this state for three years, until my pharmacist told me that Paxil had been taken off the market and I should see my physician for a replacement.

I had not read the data sheet for Paxil, so I quit it cold turkey, the same way I quit smoking 30 years before. Withdrawal for me was to hark more than any shepherd, and spit more than M. Alice. But eventually the withdrawal symptoms ceased.

Then I spent 12 hours with a professional counselor, who heard my anger, and at the end of the sessions asked me whether I needed to leave my job. It never even occurred to either one of us that there was a way to send away cruel and malicious words, as well as the hurtful thoughts and the self-loafing they caused — without counseling, without Paxil, without taking any drug at all.

So I suffered for years, until I began preparing an adult Vacation Bible School lesson on Paul and Silas from Acts 16.

In the story, Paul became angry with a prophetess under the power of an evil spirit, who kept praising the two apostles as servants of the most high God. Paul ordered the evil spirit to leave, and after it did so, the girl lost all her power to predict the future.

Her masters had Paul and Silas illegally captured, and punished by a Roman soldier, who beat them with willow rods until their entire bodies were contused, lacerated and bleeding. Then the magistrate ordered Paul and Silas thrown in prison to be constrained by stocks.

Lying there, the two angrily griped about being whipped unmercifully, being thrown in prison, being insulted and falsely charged, only to find that their misery was intensified by the rehearsing of it. Still they continued to gripe, complain and moan, for about four hours.

But for some strange reason, in the middle of the night, the two men began to sing, and as they did so their anger subsided, pure joy took its place.

I am convinced they sang the words of the last song Jesus sang at the Passover, before he was betrayed. Here is the last verse of Psalm 118.

“O give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good; His mercy endureth forever.”

Speaking the words was not enough; I wanted to sing them, and to my surprise when I picked up the banjo, I sang a tune I had never heard before, one which fit the scripture exactly. I sang and sang and sang. The more I sang the happier I got, and when I finally stopped I realized that singing these words brought joy and freedom — things Paxil could never do.

In the class, I reminded my students how Paul gave place to the devil by his anger, and he and Silas were taken captive, beaten, then thrown in prison, where they spent four solid hours in mental and physical torment.

Then we twisted our faces and began singing with anger and sadness, like Paul and Silas. When our faces became more peaceful, we sang like peaceful Paul and Silas. And when our faces began to glow, we sang victorious at midnight.

As we did so, the atmosphere in that classroom changed; the words of our Lord took over, and we knew that God is good, and His mercy endures forever.

Since then I sing Paul and Silas’ “Midnight Song” whenever I need to replace the memories of people like M. Alice, when I need to take my mind off troubles of the present, and to replace heaviness with joy.

The words must be sung. If you need to sing them too…

Go to Google, type in leon3smith -youtube.

You will be asked “did you mean leon smith-youtube?” Pay no attention.

Look down one item, then click on leon3smith-youtube.

Then click on “Paul and Silas’ Midnight Song.”

Sing along with the video.

If you will do this, and sing until you feel something change inside, you will find peace.

When you need peace again, sing the song again.

It’s far, far better than Paxil.