A Really Good Day(55)

* * *




*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!