It’s autumn 2013. I’m at the doctor’s for my annual physical and predictably he hones in on my weight. A sixth of my body has melted away. “Stress,” I tell him. Not a problem easily solved by a general practitioner. “Sleep?” he asks. I admit I struggle. This is an issue he can solve. He writes a prescription and reminds me this particular drug is also a “mild mood stabilizer.” I suppose I should be happy.
Trazadone is a known quantity and works like a charm. It takes the edge off the pain … and the joy. I put the bottle away and return to it over and over to stave of the sleepless nights. I don’t renew the prescription. The price of daily sanity feels too high.
A year later. My brother has taken to calling me ‘El Esceleto.’ It’s no secret my life is in shambles: unemployed, heartbroken, depressed. I don’t want to talk about it. One day, unprompted, he pulls a plastic bag from his freezer. “Got this from a guy at a natural food store.” Naturally. I’m touched by his empathy. I put the bag and a small soapstone pipe in my back pocket and later stash it in my shaving kit with my tooth brush, razors and whatnot.
Some days – a lot actually – I find myself close to breaking out that pipe and letting my troubles float away, for a little while at least. Never actually do though. Perhaps it’s pride. Perhaps it’s my faith I can get through “this thing” without “assistance” from alcohol or drugs or anything that would mask my feelings. And yet, I hang on to that bag and that pipe like a safety blanket … just in case.
A year later, I’m in Orleans visiting a friend. The place she calls home is ground zero for the New Age – yoga mats, crystals, herbal remedies, Tibetan singing bowls, an old ionized water purifier and well-worn aphorisms on plaques and colorful banners hanging on the walls.
On this occasion, the laid-back vibe of the place is marked with a distinct buzz. A shaman is coming and there is so much to do. A shaman on Cape Cod? Fabian (the shaman) will be conducting a weekend-long plant-based ritual for a select group seeking enlightenment.
There is a special place in my crazy heart for the off-beat and unexpected. I’m also insatiably curious. What … How … Where … Why??!! The questions that spill out of me are answered patiently in the same tone one would use when talking to an inquisitive child. Ayahuasca. San Pedro. DMT. Sacred medicine, NOT a drug. That last part is emphasized repeatedly. I get it … this isn’t about getting high, it’s serious psychic exploration.
An offer is extended. “Join us.” Psychedelics are a fickle thing – sometimes your best friend, other times your worst enemy – and that scares me. If one’s state of mind and mood dictate where things go I could be asking for serious trouble. The pitch entices though – a spiritual experience, gentle and deeply revealing, healing, profound insights, like years of therapy compressed in a single day. Like any good salesman the pitch ends on a personal note “This could be really good for you …”
I wonder if this is what it feels like being drawn into a cult. Join us and life will make sense. We have what you need, something to fill the hole in my center … and heal the emotional numbness that’s become a default.
Tempting, so tempting.