Laszlo asked his father why he had disappeared without even a final embrace. His father told him that the answer was simple: He had never imagined that his conscription would be permanent. He believed he would be home by the end of the day, and had simply not wanted to wake his little son.
Then Laszlo asked, “Did you love me?”
Laszlo found himself staring at a pile of corpses—men in prisoners’ garb who had died, frozen in formation. His father pointed to a skeleton, the only body not covered in snow. “That is my body,” Laszlo’s father said. “With my last breath, I blessed you and I promised to guard you all of your life.”
And then, suddenly, the sadness and longing that had tormented Laszlo dissipated. He understood why he had not only survived the Nazis and the Russians, but had been so incredibly successful throughout his life. Far from being abandoned by his father, he had thrived under his protection.
The profound spiritual experience Laszlo describes is all the more remarkable given that he, like me, is not a religious person. And yet he believes that what happened to him under the influence of ayahuasca was an authentic spiritual experience. He believes that the drug wrenched open the Doors of Perception and allowed him to glimpse truth. He believes not that he fantasized those moments with his father in the snow, but that they stood side by side somewhere, someplace back in time or in another dimension. Is that true? Or did the drug help Laszlo experience what he needed to feel in order to heal?
As so many of the researchers and philosophers with whom I’ve spoken have asked me, what difference does it make? The experience profoundly changed Laszlo. He is happier, lighter, more content and loving. His relationship with his children is better than ever. The pain that defined his life is gone.
I don’t know where my father’s pain comes from, but I wish it could dissipate like Laszlo’s did. However, my father isn’t about to trek off to Peru and puke in a bucket in a shaman’s hut. He’s not even going to experiment with microdoses of LSD. That’s just not who he is.
It’s a truism to say we can’t change anyone, not even the ones we love. You can find that sentiment on a thousand coffee mugs and inspirational Facebook photos. Just as I can’t force my father to drop a tab of acid, neither can I force him to confide in me. I cannot plumb the depths of his soul by listening to his psychotherapy tapes or plying him with questions. I cannot demand that he express love in a way that’s meaningful to me. Though the desire to do so might be understandable, it isn’t fair. In my relationship with my father I am always grasping, always needing. But aching for the ideal gets in the way of the actual. I have resented my father because he wasn’t affectionate like Shimon, empathetic like Fadiman, willing to take risks for the sake of self-knowledge like Laszlo. What’s the point of all this resentment? What good has it done me? It certainly hasn’t made either me or my dad any more content. There is a mutually satisfying relationship to be had with my father; just not the one I have been craving for so long. Got any pressing questions about the Gulag? Curious about the casualty rate at the Battle of Shiloh? Let me know; I’ll ask my dad.
Day 30
Normal Day
Physical Sensations: None.
Mood: A little wistful.
Conflict: None.
Sleep: Woke in the middle of the night. Had trouble falling back to sleep.
Work: Productive.
Pain: Seems really to be resolving.
Today I completed ten cycles of observation, and the experiment is over. The protocol asks that I prepare a report of my experience, and include “insights, advice, concerns, suggestions or warnings.” Um, that one’s easy. Don’t try to cop from a stranger who might be a cop.
I began the experiment with great nervousness and excitement. I felt almost euphoric on the first day. Within two hours of dosing, I felt like my senses were ever so slightly heightened. On a walk to get some lunch, I noticed the beauty of my neighborhood, the trees and flowers, the smell of the jasmine. After lunch, I felt slightly nauseated.
The only days on which I experienced any unusual physical or mental sensations were the Microdose Days. I never again felt the same level of heightened sensation, but I did occasionally feel I was more aware of my surroundings. One time, I felt that my hearing was sharper; I noticed the sound of my fingers tapping on my keyboard. These sensations passed quickly, gone within ninety minutes or two hours of taking the microdose. As the month progressed, I began occasionally to feel dizzy or nauseated on Microdose Day. Additionally, I felt more activated. On Day 7, I felt nearly hypomanic; my words were racing.*1 I never experienced those symptoms on Transition Days or Normal Days.
Since I engaged in the experiment specifically because I want more control over my mood, that is what I monitored most closely. On some Microdose Days, I experienced a sense of well-being and joy that felt nearly, though not quite, euphoric. As the month progressed, however, while I continued to experience moments of heightened joy, I also began to feel more prone to irritability on Microdose Days. Sometimes I felt edgy and anxious. On Transition Days, by contrast, I felt generally wonderful, optimistic, and easygoing. I was, by and large, my best self.
My sleep was definitely affected by the protocol. On Microdose Days, I had a much harder time falling asleep. I stayed up later, and woke up earlier the next day. My sleep sometimes remained out of whack until the Normal Day.
I had one very serious fight with my husband on a Microdose Day. This conflict was unpleasant and difficult, but I noticed a slight difference between it and the kind of argument I might have had before the experiment. Generally, when I have a conflict with my husband (or when I embarrass myself online), the end result for me is a feeling of intense shame. My guilt becomes nearly unbearable and triggers depression. I have been working on these feelings of shame and guilt with my therapist, whom I started seeing a few months before I began the experiment. Over this past month, I was successful in using the tools she taught me both to engage in more productive conflict and to be more forgiving of myself after the resolution of conflict. I think I also fought in a way that was less shame-inducing.
The therapy is responsible for this change of approach, but I’ve been in therapy before. Many different therapists have pointed out to me how detrimental my self-blame is. It could certainly be a coincidence that the message seems to have penetrated this month in a way it never has before. But I find myself wanting to ascribe my receptivity to a change brought about by the protocol.
My diet and exercise remained more or less the same throughout the month. I was not quite as hungry on Microdose Day, but I didn’t eat any less than usual. Microdosing is not, for me at least, a weight loss regimen.
The pain of my frozen shoulder substantially decreased. I have not been woken up in the middle of the night by pain for a few weeks. I don’t know whether this can fairly be attributed to the microdose, however. Most people do experience an eventual easing of such symptoms, and it’s been nearly eighteen months since my shoulder froze. Maybe it’s just a coincidence that this is the month when it began to unfreeze.
It is in the area of work that I noticed the most dramatic change. I don’t know if this is a result of the protocol itself or a result of my decision to use the structure of the protocol as a means to force myself to put words on paper each and every day. I took just a single day off during this thirty-day period, something out of the ordinary for me. Usually, I work only during the week, and even then I often find excuses not to sit down and bang out the words. I am a marvelously effective procrastinator. I get right to it. And yet, over these thirty days, I never wrote fewer than two pages a day and sometimes wrote as many as ten. I have once or twice before in my life written this much in a single month, but never with such ease and pleasure. Maybe I’ve turned into one of those clone robots of myself my therapist asked me to imagine!
I began the experiment because my moods have not only made me unhappy, they have damaged the people around me. Families are hostages to the moods of their m
embers. This was true of my family while I was growing up. When my parents were happier, when they felt optimistic, I was relaxed—at ease with the world and able to find joy. When they were angry or absent, I was fretful and sad. And, even knowing that was true, I had been unable to do things much differently. My children’s experience reflects my own, as does my husband’s. When my mood is low, it is hard even for someone with my husband’s inherent optimism and cheerfulness not to have his good spirits chipped away.
When I asked my husband if he noticed any changes in my mood, he said, “I have noticed several changes, yes. In situations of conflict, you seem to be able to reset yourself more quickly and easily. It used to sometimes take hours, and now it can sometimes take only minutes.” He wasn’t sure whether this improvement could be attributed to my finally using the tools taught in cognitive behavioral therapy, or to the LSD microdosing, or to a combination of the two.
On the other hand, he did notice an increase in my anxiety on Microdose Days. “On Microdose Day, you are able to supply a narrative of catastrophe more vividly even than normal—which is already pretty vivid.” I seemed altogether too able to imagine the worst. I guess that’s the problem with expanding your mind: you’re not entirely in control of in which direction it expands. He also noticed something about my energy and sleep. “When you slept well, you had more energy. You didn’t get tired as easily. But sometimes the dosing interfered with your sleep.”
My children were less equivocal. When I told them that over the last month I had been experimenting with a medication for my mood, they were not surprised. They had sensed that something was different. To them, the experiment was a resounding success. My younger daughter said, “You’ve been much happier. You’ve been controlling your emotions. Like, when you’re angry, you’re super-chill.” My younger son agreed: “You’ve been nicer and happier. You’ve gotten angry less.” My older son’s response was especially sweet. “I’ve noticed a change, for sure. You’ve been kind of playing around in a way you haven’t before. You’re more funny and lively. There’s been a lot of things we had to deal with that were stressful, but you didn’t scream or yell.” In all my career as a writer or a mother, those are some of the kindest reviews I’ve ever received.
A friend said, “Your mood is lighter, even buoyant. Even in moments of stress, you’re still present. You’re more flexible. Your texts and e-mails are chill and friendly, polite. You don’t seem to stew. Even when you’re faced with irritation, you’re still quick to smile.” Stewing less, smiling more. Not bad.
I have felt different and I have been different. Whether it’s the microdose, or the placebo effect, over the past month I have had many days at the end of which I looked back and thought, That was a really good day.
When I began this experiment, I wanted to find a solution to an intractable mood problem, and in many ways I have. Microdosing with LSD worked—in the short term, at least. I have no idea if the positive effects would continue with consistent use, if in fact microdosing would be a permanent solution to the problem of my mental health. I realize now, however, that when I embarked on this month one thing I failed to consider, out of the million things I frantically considered and reconsidered again, was the ramifications of success.
Now what?
There is no doubt in my mind that if LSD were legal I would continue to take it. But it’s not. There is a paradox inherent in my situation. Here I am, living in the most drug-obsessed culture in the world, where researchers estimate that somewhere between 8 and 10 percent of the population are on antidepressants,*2 not to mention the myriad other substances people ingest every day, prescription and otherwise, but the one drug I have found that actually helps me I am forbidden to take. I could swallow habit-forming and Alzheimer’s-causing benzos by the handful, and that would be fine, but a tiny dose of a drug that seems at this point to have no discernible side effects? That’s a crime. I am a basically law-abiding citizen who prides herself on her honesty; do I spend the rest of my life breaking the law?
Even if I were to decide that the positive results are worth such an ethically problematic choice, how would I ever find the drug? Whoever Lewis Carroll is, he’s not been in touch with me again. For all I know, he’s dead and making ghostly appearances in the hallucinations of his old friends. I’ve proved definitively that I am too anxious and inept to buy drugs on the illegal market. Even if I want to continue, I have no source.
And yet, if I decide that I am not willing to embark on a program that would require the continual commission of a crime, what then? Once the Doors of Perception are slammed shut, will I necessarily slip back into despondency, irritability, and familial strife? Or might the positive effects linger? After all, the individuals in the end-of-life studies who took large doses of psilocybin experienced change that lasted for months, to the ends of their lives. Though my individual doses are tiny, I’ve actually taken a comparable dose to theirs over the course of the month. It’s not impossible to imagine that the benefits might linger, especially since one of the most important positive outcomes was my ability to take better advantage of the lessons of therapy. Perhaps the Doors of Perception, once opened to therapy, might not be so quick to slam shut.
What I long for is the kind of answer that only real research by legitimate scientists under controlled circumstances can provide. If this ad-hoc thirty-day experiment has any message, it’s that more and better research is needed.
* * *
*1 That was the day when I suddenly decided to describe this experiment to a physical therapist I barely knew.
*2 Julia Calderone, “The Rise of All-Purpose Antidepressants.”
Afterword
I began this experiment as a search for happiness, and though microdosing with LSD elevated my mood far more effectively than SSRIs, it actually did something even more important. Over the course of the month, I came to realize that happiness, though delightful, is not really the point. I had so many really good days, but they didn’t necessarily come from being happy. The microdose lessened the force of the riptide of negative emotions that so often sweeps me away, and made room in my mind not necessarily for joy, but for insight. It allowed me a little space to consider how to act in accordance with my values, not just react to external stimuli. This, not the razzle-dazzle of pleasure, was its gift.
A while after my microdose experiment ended, my husband and I took our children on a trip. After a long day driving on precarious twisting and turning roads, we pulled into the outskirts of an unlovely town. A grim drizzle started at precisely the moment when the indicator lights on the dashboard began to flicker. We stopped at a traffic light, and the engine cut out. The electrical system had failed.
We managed to pull over to the side of the road, but we were in the middle of a busy intersection and it was rush hour. All manner of vehicles trundled by us: trucks and cars, three-wheeled auto rickshaws, and scooters. We sat in the car for a while as I tried to call someone at the office of our tour operator and rental-car company. When I finally reached the emergency agent, she promised me that a replacement vehicle would be brought to us, but warned that it might take an hour. Or two. Maybe a little more.
I glanced out the window. The drizzle was flirting with turning into rain. It was dark and wet, and we’d been driving for nearly ten hours. After a few minutes, my four kids and my husband decided to get out. Better a cool rain by the side of the road than the muggy heat of the car, they announced. I stayed inside, scrolling through my phone, trying to figure out how to hustle along the tour operator. Normally, nothing makes me so irritable as this kind of snafu. I love travel, but I’m far too easily bothered by its routine challenges. Delayed flights, missed trains, lost reservations have always made me blow my stack. As much as I love the “being there” part, I dread the “getting there,” because I know that if something goes wrong I’m likely to lose it.
But as I sat in that car, I realized that my searching was more pro forma than panicked. I hadn’
t lost it. I wasn’t even really upset. What was the point, I thought, of getting all worked up? The operator had told me it would be an hour or two. What more could I do, other than drive myself crazy trying to solve a problem out of my control? At the time, I didn’t even notice how out of character this sensible thought was. Desperately trying to solve problems out of my control has always been my stock in trade.
From outside, I heard a loud (and familiar) noise. I got out of the car, tromped through the dirt by the side of the road, and walked around to the rear. My kids and their father were standing in a circle in the rain. Passing headlights lit them up, and I saw that they had arranged themselves into an impromptu “cypha,” and were taking turns beatboxing and rhyming freestyle. They spat rhymes about our car trouble, about the animal preserve we’d visited earlier in the week, about the beds they’d shared in different hotels, about the new food they’d tried (What rhymes with “egg hopper”? “Show stopper”! “Eye dropper”!), about each other.
The passing cars beeped at them, their drivers and passengers waving and shouting encouragement. My children waved back and kept rhyming.
My younger daughter noticed that I was standing a little outside their circle.
“Come on, Mom!” she said. “Your turn!”
I smiled and shook my head, but the others took up the chant. “Mom! Mom! Mom!”
Laughing, with the rain soaking my clothes and my hair, I stepped into the middle of the circle and began rhyming. Ineptly, foolishly. Joyfully.
I have no idea how long it took the car-rental agent to show up with the replacement vehicle. I was having too much fun to notice. Those minutes or hours remain my fondest memories of the trip. That day when I got out of my own head, stepped into the circle, and embraced the moment, in the rain—that was a really good day.
A Really Good Day Page 22