A Really Good Day(66)

Recently, a friend who knew that Laszlo had struggled with depression suggested that he take the hallucinogenic drug ayahuasca, commonly used by native peoples of the Amazon. Laszlo initially rejected the idea. It seemed crazy. But he was in pain, and he was desperate, much as I was when I began this experiment. He agreed to accompany his friend, a physician and an expert in early-childhood trauma and its effects on mental and physical health, and fly to a place where ayahuasca could be legally consumed with the guidance of a “shaman.” If Laszlo had any expectations, they were only that he might spend a night in intense intestinal discomfort while seeing wild shapes and colors. Instead, he saw his father.

Laszlo was four years old when his father vanished, and he had never understood why his father had not said goodbye. With a child’s na?veté, he imagined that it was his fault that his father left, that he had been a “bad boy.” That pain lingered into his adulthood. Under the influence of this brew of the Banisteriopsis caapi vine, Laszlo heard his father’s voice.

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.