(8/2) Trip Report, Pt. 2: OCD, Addiction, Authenticity

T + 70 minutes: Done puking and I head downstairs for a smoke. Usually I don’t throw up until I absolutely can’t stand the nausea, then everything is perfect afterwards. This time I try a new strategy of only holding out an hour and not prolonging the torture, but the plan backfires. I’m still sick. Moreover, I’ve convinced myself this trip is going to be worthless. My mind isn’t racing yet. There’s nothing left for the mushrooms to show me. Just gonna have to grind out the unpleasant effects and wait until I come down.

Staggering around in vague figure-eights in the backyard, I notice the dog eying me suspiciously. I’ve never put much stock in the “animals KNOW” theory, but there’s plenty of anecdotal evidence that suggests it. My behavior tonight has been far outside the norm. Animals react to behavior, and I’m in a suggestible state where everything seems different to begin with.

It’s been four weeks since my last cigarette. I know it takes 3 days for nicotine to get out of the body, and a single smoke could send me downhill again. Having a pack on hand was standard preparedness: I associate shrooms with cigs. I went outside to have one because puking didn’t help. I’m searching for relief – but relief from what? The shrooms? Maybe this means I’m done with them. The benefits don’t outweigh the downside anymore.

What am I doing with a fucking cigarette in my mouth. I had a beer on the way up too. Maybe this is going to be the booze trip I was waiting for as I worked through the vial a year and a half ago. I believe in the power of psychedelics in the treatment of addiction, but all my experiences with LSD came during the height of my alcohol dependence. I was aware I had a problem but unwilling to combat it; psychedelics would work better on someone in complete denial.

Seeking relief became a metaphor. I start seeing the patterns of how often I’ve sought relief, sought escape from my own life – and I see how useless this is. It bothers me that most people would claim what I’m doing right now is an escape from reality, when really it’s the only time I truly face it. The truth is best told through fiction. I trip on these thoughts for a bit before heading inside. This doesn’t end up being an addiction trip, nor did I need one, but I promise myself I won’t become a smoker again or let this turn into a drinking binge. It held.

T + 80 minutes.

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One thing I hate about mushrooms is how rigid people are about the “right” way to do them. You gotta do it in nature, man. You gotta listen to Pink Floyd, watch Alice in Wonderland, and not look at yourself in the mirror. Or was it only listen to natural sounds, stay away from all electronics, and make sure to look at yourself in the mirror until you transmogrify into your greatest fear? I have a lot of respect for mushrooms, but this rigidity saddens me – it’s hard to claim consciousness expansion when users remain close-minded about the experience itself.

Experienced users and assorted experts tend to adhere to Tim Leary’s explanation that the reason people get bored of tripping is because they continue to do it in the same place under the same circumstances, and never broaden their horizons. That is to say that in nature, alone in a closet, at a music festival, or (god forbid) at a house party all bring something different to the table. Distractions at a party might not produce intense spiritual realizations, but it’s also unlikely to have a killer time with friends while alone in a closet. It depends how close you are with the voices . . .

I have my own set pattern, but I realize they only apply to me. Expect nausea. It’s a common, but not pervasive side-effect. I prefer to not bring other people down while getting frustrated at claims that nausea “isn’t possible” or is the result of “being poisoned”. It isn’t until the post-peak phase that I feel comfortable enough with the nausea that I can separate from home base. For this reason, I will never experience mushrooms at Disneyland. LSD is a different story.

I fast, I clear my mind, and I take care of upcoming deadlines. I clean and I make sure things I might need are in the places I would expect them to be. I make sure that I have at least a full day to recover. It might sound boring, but I like to have my life in order. I accept the potential of a bad trip but refuse to trigger one because I’m bummed about a long day at work tomorrow.

—

Lying flat on the floor in my room, I watch Winamp visualizers dance around the TV as I listen to a trip-friendly play-list. A voice appeals to me – “let me take you on a little journey” – before blasting into a ten minute instrumental jam working around The Devil Went Down to Georgia. I just adhered to, or broke, several rules… depending on the breaks. Nothing can build or break a mood while tripping so quickly as music and this song is exactly what I need. Upbeat layered instrumentation; a long, winding road that allows my thoughts to float freely while I forget my physical body.

T + 120 minutes and I find myself outside walking the same figure-eights with another smoke. How strange it is that I live my life specifically to not get in the way of others. I’ve long been aware that the code of personal etiquette I abide to is OCD-insane and would fill tomes upon tomes. There was a time when much of my frustration in life came from people not acting in accordance with my personal code. It finally clicked, (not that many) years ago, that I could never expect others to adhere to my own imaginary constructs.

This way of life pops into my writing all the time. Being open-minded is misinterpreted as indecisive. Endless revisions take out “probably”, “it seems” and “I tend to believe”. It makes for bad writing, but what about good living? Keep an open mind; don’t fall into absolutes. This limits my attractiveness to the opposite sex. I can summon the take-charge persona at will, and do when I need to. I’d rather take account of all points of view than make a foolhardy charge.

Here’s a trick to using psychology when trying to speak in generalizations: just claim that the reasoning behind your argument occurs regardless of consciousness. I use it all the time and it’s great for getting out of a logical bind. Mushrooms tend to make me think in generalizations that can be problematic when applied to the real world, but feel right at the time. The experience of something that cannot hold up to scrutiny is not useless; it provides understanding of other points of view and the potentiality of multiple truths.

We all want to convince ourselves that we’re doing things the right way, or maybe I generalize that we do. There’s a marked distinction between myself and a person who purposely stands in the way of others – often literally, in a crowded bar. When you don’t view others as obstacles, it’s possible to slip through the cracks. I feel free in my life with a lack of dependency on others that borders on isolation.

I want to live a real, honest life, but don’t know what that means – as if there exists an unknowable set of criteria that click and make life authentic. My current job is perfect; I type advertising copy for a newspaper. Of all forms of media, major non-tabloid newspapers have the most integrity. Sure, I wish the Tribune Company would make the ballsy move and sell the Cubs to Mark Cuban, but I’ll understand when they sell to a conservative old white guy. News is important and advertising subsidizes the cost of the paper, making it available to everyone. I’m at the bottom of the totem pole, earning enough to survive simply with minimal costs. A perfect suburban life without excessive Waldening.

My original plan was to pick up a full-time job during the day to complement this graveyard data entry gig, knowing I’d have no free time but could build capital quickly. The potential tradeoff wasn’t just a question of free time – if it were, I’d be working 80 hours a week right now. Creativity peaks and wanes as a function of enthusiasm and experience. The danger of becoming comfortable in a 9 (8) to 5 (6:30) and waking up with a wife and kids was only offset by the potential of saving enough money to fund an extended vacation.

Working full-time feels like a betrayal, not the next logical step. My last trip saw me aware of my youth, its benefits, and disadvantages. I was happy where I stood, despite not having much say in the matter. A traditional job, even to support a mid-range goal, is a cold numbers game; save x by y to do z. One five year plan and I’m 30, another 4 and that’s 50. My only hope is that 25 years from now, 50 becomes the new 25. The exponential growth in medical technology may offer me the opportunity to idiomally stay the same age my entire life.

Having a part-time job keeps me focused on other endeavors, but full-time freedom leads to laziness. There’s a mysterious appeal to the life of the starving artist or, in my case, well-fed guy with DirecTV. The search for truth isn’t aided by office politics and stock options. You’ll never see me jockeying for a promotion because on rare occasions the best candidate wins. I expect luck to fall on my side.