It was an early morning when you walked into Kingsley Hall in East London, heading to a psychiatric center to meet a highly controversial Scottish psychiatrist—but perhaps your last hope of getting your life in order. You had tried countless therapists, all prescribing drugs and electroconvulsive therapy, but you could no longer physically endure it. The therapy had only messed with your body and mind more than it had ever calmed them.

R.D. Laing saw psychopathology as being seated not in biological or psychic organs — whereby environment is relegated to playing at most only an accidental role as immediate trigger of disease that is the theory he holds, and so considered the expressed feelings of the individual as more important.

You glanced at the building, clutching the crumpled piece of paper with the address in your hand as you approached. It didn’t look like a psychiatric center at all. Instead, it resembled a mansion, quite unlike anything you were used to. Leaning against the wall next to the front steps stood a man with medium-length brown hair, styled in a tousled, slightly layered fashion. He wore a dark brown blazer over a shirt with a floral pattern in muted colors. He exhaled smoke from a cigarette, the ember glowing softly in the morning light.

You rang the doorbell, the paper now a wrinkled ball in your hand, nerves settling in. The man turned his head slowly, his brown eyes meeting yours through the railing as he regarded you from beside the front steps.

"Who are you looking for in a place like this?" he asked, his Scottish accent pronounced, a hint of smugness playing on his face. He took a long, deliberate drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke drift in the wind. Unbeknownst to you he was Dr. R.D. Laing, the Scottish psychiatrist you were looking for.