A Really Good Day

by Ayelet Waldman

  Leave it to the CIA to take a drug that is a tool of enlightenment for so many, and try to turn it into an agent of chemical warfare. We should be grateful for the one positive thing we can say about their endeavor: it failed.

  * * *

  *1  Strughold was a longtime NASA employee who later became known as the Father of Space Medicine. One can presume that the small children victimized by his experiments with oxygen deprivation would have found this honorific ironic, had they survived.

  *2  For a discussion of these and other experiments, see John Marks, The Search for the “Manchurian Candidate”: The CIA and Mind Control—The Secret History of the Behavioral Sciences.

  Day 24

  Normal Day

  Physical Sensations: None.

  Mood: Fine, though hardly joyful.

  Conflict: None.

  Sleep: Restless.

  Work: Not great.

  Pain: Minor.

  Today I had a crappy day. My mood wasn’t prickly; I didn’t argue with my husband or yell at my kids; but my work went poorly, and I spent much of the day surfing the Web.*1 My sense of dissatisfaction continued until I went to therapy. Sometimes I think I pay this professional for the privilege of having a ready ear for my complaints, in order to spare my friends and family from having to listen to them. Today my topic was how my lousy workday awoke feelings of insecurity and dissatisfaction, which inevitably led to concerns about the possibility of my depression’s return.

  It was harder than usual to whine about these typical complaints, because I haven’t yet told my therapist about my microdose experiment. I know I’m not being fair to her. How can she treat me when she’s missing such basic information? But I’m afraid she’ll be shocked. Worse, that she’ll judge me. Or, worst of all, simply say, “That’s interesting,” then nothing else, while she silently judges me. She might even fire me! I know it’s silly to care this much about what your therapist thinks of you, but I do. Like a fourth-grade teacher’s pet, I want to be her best patient, her A student, funny and successful. I don’t want her to be disappointed in me. It’s not lost on me how ironic it is to want to give my therapist the impression that I totally have my shit together. It’s like tidying up because the housekeeper is on the way. But not telling her has felt dishonest, especially since I’ve been able this month to make such good use of the tools of cognitive behavioral therapy she has recommended to me. I worry that right now she’s feeling I’m doing such a good job, which means she’s doing such a good job. How is she going to feel when she finds out that her lessons have finally sunk in not because of her wisdom or tenacity but because I’m taking acid behind her back?

  My therapist is very young, and very beautiful. (Her beauty is irrelevant to either her competence or this story, but I cannot help mentioning it, because this is the kind of beauty that makes it difficult to concentrate on one’s own minor desperations.) She is also very sensible. She practices cognitive behavioral therapy—none of that wishy-washy, self-indulgent analytic crap for her. Or for me, frankly. I prefer to take my self-indulgence with a bracing dose of pragmatism.

  Today I complained to her about my shitty workday. I am not blocked, I assured her, just lazy. I kept getting great ideas, starting to write, and then fizzling out, losing interest, and binge-watching episodes of Jessica Jones. This has happened to me before, I told her. I’m a terrible procrastinator. Or is it that I’m a great procrastinator? Possibly the actual best procrastinator.

  My poor, long-suffering therapist listened to this for as long as she could, then stopped me and posed the following hypothetical:

  Imagine you have a closet full of Ayelet robots. These robots are the idealized version of you. They are every bit as competent as you at your best. No, they are more competent! They are better than you. They can write better than you can. They can produce prizewinning novels, insightful and incisive essays, dazzlingly thrilling screenplays. They can wow audiences with mind-blowing lectures. They are better mothers than you. They can cook glorious meals for your children, create exciting and thrilling experiences for your family to enjoy. They are better wives than you. They are ever ready with a supportive ear. Sex with the Ayelet robot is consistently earth-shaking.

  My therapist is no nerd, and so she wasn’t even aware that she was presenting me with a Superman hypothetical. In a classic DC Comic, Superman had a closet full of robot surrogates about which he said, “Each is designed to use one of my super-powers when needed! I send out the robots when Clark’s absence would be suspicious! Or when I suspect that criminals are waiting to use kryptonite against me!” Superman’s robots were labeled “X-Ray Vision,” “Flying,” “Super-Strength,” “Super-Breath.”*2 Mine might be labeled “Plotter,” “Empathetic Listener,” “Metaphor Generator,” “Trenchant Social Analyst,” “Tough but Fair Disciplinarian,” “Fictional World Creator,” “Imaginative Game Player,” “Character Creator,” “Chef,” “Public Speaker,” “Math Whiz” (my kids always need help with their homework, and my math skills stalled out somewhere around fifth grade), “Travel Agent,” etc. And those are just the G-rated robots. I’ll spare you the others.

  Imagine you have a closet full of robots at the ready, my therapist said. Which of your various obligations would you assign to a robot? Which tasks and activities would you reserve for yourself, because you enjoy them too much to delegate them even to a robot who’s better than you?

  Her question brought me up short. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

  Would I let my robot make dinner? Hell, yeah, though I kind of do that anyway (if by “robot” you mean “husband”). I love family dinner, and my husband’s an amazing cook, so no robots at the actual table. Homework? Definitely. Carpool? It depends. I hate driving, especially in the early morning, but the kids are their most voluble in the car. I don’t want the robot to have those important and revelatory conversations with them. Would I ask my robot to write my novels for me? If she really could do it better, then I might. I wouldn’t let her do my writing every single day, but I’d definitely let her take over on days like today. I wonder how many mornings a week I would consider the prospect of a day spent hunched over a keyboard, sweating myself into a self-hating misery only to produce a constipated paragraph of crappy prose, and then decide to whistle up a robot and take myself out for a walk? Too many, I fear. Would I assign a robot the task of writing screenplays? Not the first draft—those are fun to write—but definitely the rewrites. Robot Ayelet will be in charge of all Hollywood notes calls and revisions. But I wouldn’t cede to her these pages. I’m having too much fun writing them.

  What about leisure activities? I’d read my own books and watch my own movies and TV, but Robot Ayelet is headed for the gym. I’d be happy never to waste another minute of my life lifting a hand weight or squatting. (I’m not sure how her fitness would transfer to me, but robotics is a young science, and I’m sure we will figure it out!) I guess I’ll do my own hiking, but not every day. Robot Ayelet and I can split the forest walks down the middle. I wouldn’t let Robot Ayelet near my husband, especially since she’s such a sex goddess.*3

  It’s remarkable how clarifying it is to contemplate which parts of my life I’d turn over to Robot Ayelet. We all lead lives of obligation, some of which we can’t avoid. Back to School Night and Pilates are necessary evils. But I work, after all, for myself. If I’d just as soon assign a task to a work robot, maybe I shouldn’t be doing it at all.

  Robot Ayelet would never need to microdose. Every one of her days would be really good. She’d be perpetually cheerful, focused, centered. Oh God—the thought suddenly occurs to me—am I microdosing in order to turn myself into Robot Ayelet? No! That can’t be. I don’t want to be a soulless, perpetually cheerful robot!

  There is, however, a way to consider the robot question that’s relevant to my experiment. If the point of microdosing is to look at things in a different way, to learn how to respond to life’s mundane adversities with equanimity rather than
irritability, then part of that must be to figure out what things in my life I need to approach differently. The robot dilemma poses the question of what in your life do you value, what gives you satisfaction or joy. Microdosing has given me the space in my mind to consider that question in a way I don’t believe I would have otherwise. I should talk this over with my therapist. I’m going to have to tell her about the experiment. I just hope she doesn’t grade me down.

  * * *

  *1  How did writers procrastinate before the Internet? They probably read novels and went on long runs. If it weren’t for the fucking Internet, by now I’d be skinny and have read Proust.

  *2  Remember how Superman was always blowing up a hurricane gale?

  *3  Maybe I’d call in a sub for the occasional blow job. I’ll tap in later.

  Day 25

  Microdose Day

  Physical Sensations: Minor stomach upset.

  Mood: Fine for most of the day, then anxious.

  Conflict: None.

  Sleep: About six and a half hours. Wish it was more, but not feeling tired.

  Work: Productive.

  Pain: Minor.

  Tonight we went out to dinner with a pair of writer friends. They asked what I was working on, and for a moment I hesitated. I have always been forthright to, some might argue, a fault. I believe that secrecy is toxic, that it empowers those who wish you harm, and keeps you from eliciting the comfort of those who care. Yet, despite the fact that I believe so strongly in the power and virtue of honesty, until recently I’ve refrained from responding to the question “What’s new?” with “I’m taking a small dose of LSD every three days; what’s new with you?”

  Though I’ve kept this experiment a secret from almost everyone save the physical therapist I hypomanically blabbed to in my earliest days, I haven’t felt good about it. The easiest way to influence the way people and politicians think about an issue is to be open about it. Gay rights flourished and gay marriage became the law because gay people came out of the closet. Once people realized that some of their neighbors, relatives, friends, and co-workers were gay, they found it harder to discriminate against gay people as a group. I’ve known since I began this experiment that if I really wanted attitudes toward these drugs and the people who use them to change, I would have to come out of the psychedelic closet. But the idea of telling people made me nervous. I was worried about what people would think of me. I was afraid my credibility would be damaged, that I would be dismissed as a crazy druggie. The issue is complicated by gender. Women are far more often accused of being “crazy,” even (or especially) when all we are being is assertive.

  When I asked Tim Ferriss—who has been open about his use of psilocybin, even going so far as to discuss it on a Reddit AMA*1—what he thought might be the reaction if I were to talk publicly or write about this experiment, he laughed. “You’ll get all sorts of criticism from people who take Prozac and Xanax twice a day.” I found his easygoing courage of conviction inspiring. If he can be open, I decided, so can I.

  A few days ago, I began tentatively to tell people about this experiment. To my surprise, I encountered few negative reactions. Every once in a while a listener might arch an eyebrow or smile uncomfortably, as if trying to figure out whether her discomfort meant that she wasn’t hip enough, or whether I really was nuts. But those have been in the decided minority. Most people have been curious, even excited. Those with histories of mood disorders were intrigued to hear that my spirits have lifted, that though I sometimes feel the familiar clutch of anxiety in my chest, I am generally able to use mindfulness techniques to make it dissolve. When I told them that I have not gained weight and that my libido has not withered away, they got really excited. The side effects of SSRIs are so ubiquitous and unpleasant that the idea of a medication protocol with fewer of them is thrilling.

  Friends who incline to the spiritual were disappointed when they heard that I’ve experienced no connection to the divine, but reassured when I mention the pleasure I’ve taken in the natural world, the tree outside my window, the smell of the jasmine beside the city sidewalks. Risk takers and hedonists were disappointed that I was unable to provide details of hallucinations. No kaleidoscopic colors, they asked wistfully, no feeling that the floor was shifting beneath your feet? I live in California. The last thing I want to feel is the floor shifting beneath my feet. They urged me to try a “real” dose. It’d change my life, they said, as though my problem is that my life has been too devoid of weirdness. Besides, my life is changing.

  Tonight, however, was a different story. These two writer friends are about twenty years older than my husband and I, which puts them firmly in the boomer generation. They were in their twenties in the 1960s. They’ve traveled the world, rejected a life of secure conformity in favor of the risks and rewards of art. What better people to confide in? I thought.

  “Well,” I said, “I’ve been writing, but not working on a novel. I’ve been writing about microdosing with LSD.”

  What does that mean? the woman of the pair asked. Are you writing some kind of nonfiction article on people who use LSD?

  I took a breath and then explained.

  Her face froze. If she had been wearing pearls, she would have clutched them. She looked horrified, even disgusted, as if I’d told her that I’d taken up murdering baby seals. Her husband’s reaction was only slightly less disturbing. He smiled uncomfortably and changed the subject. I immediately agreed, yes, the antipasto was delicious, and, no, I didn’t want any more.

  Their reaction launched a series of cascading anxieties. Will I be condemned for doing this? Will people reject me as a nutcase, a crank, a deluded acid freak? Will I lose whatever credibility I have in the world? Will parents not let their children come over to our house anymore, under the misapprehension that I keep drugs in my home? I have tried to remind myself about all the people who’ve been open about their psychedelic use and have suffered little in the way of opprobrium. There’s Tim Ferriss, Steve Jobs, Jack Nicholson, Richard Feynman, South Park’s Trey Parker and Matt Stone, Kary Mullis. Ilana and Abbi!

  As soon as dinner was over, I tried the technique for dissipating anxiety that my cognitive behavioral therapist recommends. I took a few deep breaths, exhaling for half again as long as I inhaled. I identified the physical sensation of anxiety, placing it in my upper chest and in my throat. I drew a mental line along the borders of the area of anxiety. Then I placed a soothing hand on the area and murmured, “You’re freaking the fuck out, you poor thing.”*2 I took a few more slow breaths. “You feel bad right now, but you’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.” My chest and throat unclenched. The anxiety ebbed. I was calm again. I was okay.

  Also? I had some perspective. This couple were young in the 1960s, when Timothy Leary was spreading the gospel of psychedelic recklessness. For all I know, they had complicated histories with the drug that influenced how they responded to me. In all likelihood, their discomfort had far more to do with them than with me.

  * * *

  *1  In case you’re old or a Luddite (or my mom): Reddit is an online bulletin board where people have conversations about all sorts of things. There are approximately thirty-six million Reddit user accounts, though some individuals own multiple accounts. Every month Reddit receives 234 million unique views (Mom, call me and I’ll explain what that means). AMA stands for “Ask Me Anything.” Famous and not-so-famous people will respond on Reddit to questions from users. Obama’s done a Reddit AMA. So has that dude with two penises.

  *2  Her instructions were silent on the issue of profanity, but I figure it can’t hurt.

  Day 26

  Transition Day

  Physical Sensations: None.

  Mood: Excellent.

  Conflict: None.

  Sleep: Only five hours. Nowhere near enough, but felt fine. Uh-oh.

  Work: Productive.

  Pain: Minor.

  I have only one more dose of Lewis Carroll’s LSD. The thirty days will be up, th
e bottle will be empty. So is this it? Am I finished? Is the experiment over? The answer, at least initially, was obvious. I didn’t want to go back to feeling the way I did a month ago. This perspective? This equanimity? I wanted it to continue. But that meant I needed more drugs.

  Resupplying should have been easy. I live in the Bay Area, a community replete with people who spend every Labor Day cavorting naked on the playa at Black Rock City. I must have been bolder in my search than when I first embarked on this experiment, because this time it was not that hard, as it turns out, to track down a Burner with access to LSD. I was given a telephone number. I sent the Burner’s friend’s friend (whose name I was careful not to learn) an oddly formal text, describing my microdosing experiment, using the word “Lucy” instead of LSD. After I hit “send,” I started to fret. How old was this person I was trying to do a drug deal with? Do young people even listen to the Beatles anymore? My kids certainly don’t. Would the person on the other end of that number have the faintest idea what I was talking about?

  Within an hour, I received a reply. Either kids do listen to the Beatles or, even better, the source was someone who’s been doing this a good long time. Since a single regular dose of LSD lasts for one month, I decided that I would request a few doses. It was more than I was comfortable having in my possession, but if I continued the protocol it would allow me to avoid having to engage in the stressful business of buying drugs every month. It’s hard enough to buy tampons or lube. Who needs the agita?