DIY Sensory Deprivation Tank
This is part 5 of a continuing story.
Here is part 1: The Fool’s Journey
Here is part 2: The Magnetic Messiah
Here is part 3: Lost In Lucid Shadows
Here is part 4: Narcotics Anonymous Meeting
Here is part 6: The Joy Of Homelessness
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Chapter 1: Reassessment
I am sitting at my work table, staring at a blank piece of paper titled “What Went Wrong”. The chaotic events of the Narcotics Anonymous meeting still lingered in my mind. Embarrasing memories that reminded me I hadn’t just failed to transcend my limitations; I am failing at life. Only my promise to Sister Louise, “Next time, I’ll be sober when I share” gives me a modicum of self-respect. At least I had the dignity to respond in an appropriate way for my breaking the rule of only sharing when sober.
This time, I can’t brush off my failure with my usual bravado. Perhaps, for the first time, I won’t keep running from my past by escaping with my misguided experiments. The truth was uncomfortably clear. Every attempt at transcending my mortal limitations has been sabotaged not by external forces, but by my own mental and emotional baggage. How can I, a guy with a Doctorates in psychology, chemistry and ancient religous rituals, go so far astray? I guess it’s true. Only really smart people can pull really stupid shit.
I reach for my personal journal, flipping past half-formed ideas of lucid dreaming techniques and preliminary sketches of the magnetic helmet. Today was going to be different. Today, I will take an honest look at the cycle of failures that had plagued me. I realize now my journey to enlightenment didn’t fail because of methods and drugs. It’s because I’m dragging along too many psychological issues. Trauma, unresolved drama, and a constant need to escape are the real barriers.
I grab a pen, determined to outline exactly how and why I had failed, what I did to improve. I need to document every mistake, every failed plan, and what I have done to transcend my failures. No more blind enthusiasm. It’s time for cold, hard introspection. I analytically compose on the blank paper the following:
What I Did Wrong
The Golden Elixer (The First Failure)
Tried to fast-track enlightenment with a potion. Experiment ended in horrible hallucinations and I was arrested during a flash-back.
Remedy: Swore off heavy psychedelics.
Magnetic Helmet (The Second Failure)
Attempted brain stimulation with magnetic fields. ADHD caused distraction, missed cosmic enlightenment.
Remedy: Try to reach enlightenment while asleep.
Monroe Method with Lucid Dreaming (The Third Failure)
Tried lucid dreaming for healing, but deep emotional trauma led to nightmares.
Remedy: No fix found yet.
Narcotics Anonymous (NA) Meeting (The Fourth Failure)
Hoped to find acceptance at NA and emotional reassurance, but attended high on nitrous oxide and alienated the group.
Remedy: Promised to always give my testimony while sober.
I stare at the list, feeling a pang of frustration. Each new attempt had been more elaborate than the last. But I am still nowhere close to enlightenment. The truth was simple: all the machines, elixirs, and techniques were just distractions. I’ve been avoiding the real work, confronting my emotional baggage head-on.
The next step was clear. If I’m going to succeed at transcendence, I need to strip everything back. No more complicated inventions. No more drug shortcuts. I need to restart with a pure, simple approach. Nothing to distract me. That’s it! I will use a sensory deprivation tank. It doesn’t need biohacking or psychedelics, just stillness and being by myself.
With the plan complete in my head I take a deep breath. I will build my own sensory deprivation tank. It will be simple, pure, and exactly what I need to confront my inner demons.
Chapter 2: DIY Sensory Deprivation Experiment
I can feel it. The solution to all my failures, right here in front of me. My own DIY Sensory deprivation tank. No drugs, no machines, no distractions. Just me and my mind. Pure, simple, perfect. After hours of research and reading about the life-changing experiences people have had in professional tanks, I realize: Why book a session at some overpriced facility when I can make my own Do It Yourself sensory deprivation tank?
I quickly convince myself that this is not only the most cost-effective option, but also the best long-term solution. I’ll have unlimited access to enlightenment in the comfort of my own home. A genius move, really.
The construction phase begins. In my living room, I inflate a huge children’s play pool. It’s not quite the sleek, industrial-grade tank I’ve seen in online forums, but it’ll do. I start filling it with gallons of water, careful to add the perfect amount of Epsom salts for neutral buoyancy. A few hours and a surprisingly large mess later, I finally achieve the perfect water-to-salt ratio. My body should float effortlessly now.
I’m not stopping there. To really maximize the experience, I rig waterproof speakers to the sides of the pool to play Monroe Method Guided Meditation tapes. I even go the extra mile and purchase blackout eye mask sleepwear, ensuring that no stray light will reach my eyes during the session. It’s important to block out all unwanted stimuli to prevent my ADHD from kicking in.
I step back, hands on hips, admiring my creation. The kiddie pool takes up almost the entire living room, and the floor creaks ominously under the weight of the water. But I brush that off. This is the key to unlocking the deepest parts of my subconscious. What’s a little structural risk when you’re about to achieve transcendence?
It’s time for the first session. Gingerly, I step into the pool. The water’s cooler than I expected, but I quickly adjust. My body is floating with perfect buoyancy, just as I planned. I pull the blackout mask over my eyes, turn on the Monroe Method tape, and let the soft binaural beats fill the room to entrain my brain waves to Delta waves of a deep meditative state.
[Delta waves are the slowest and highest amplitude brainwaves and occur during deep sleep and deep meditation. And are characterized by .5 to 2 hz fequency on a electroencephalograph machine (EEG)]
For the first few minutes, everything is going according to plan. I’m calm, floating, my mind gently sinking into a meditative state. I can almost feel myself on the verge of a breakthrough, that elusive moment of enlightenment just within reach.
Then, the speakers emit a high-pitched screech. The sound shocks me out of my calm, and I instinctively jerk in the water. A splash hits my ears, water sloshing around the sides of the pool. I try to ignore it and adjust the speakers, fiddling with the wires. That’s when I realize, maybe the waterproof speakers were not quite as waterproof as advertised.
The pool wobbles under my weight as I shift around, trying to fix the mess I’ve made. The water keeps splashing into my ears, completely ruining any sense of peace I’d been building. I refuse to give up. I will float. I will transcend. I will… Oh no!
One side of the kiddie pool collapses. I rip the blackout mask from my eyes.
I watch in horror as a wave of water sloshes out, soaking the floor. I flail about, trying to push the side of the pool back upright, but in my panic, I knock and bump against a shelf right next to the pool. A potted plant crashes into the pool, now floating beside me like a mass of seaweed. I reach out to grab it, and my clumsy movement only causes more water to spill over the edges.
The tipping point comes fast. The entire side of the pool collapses, sending a tidal wave of water cascading across my living room floor. I watch helplessly as the water rushes out, seeping through the cracks in the floorboards and out my front door. My heart sinks as I hear the unmistakable sound of water trickling down the hallway stairs.
I scramble out of the pool, water sloshing around my ankles, and run to the door. The water has formed a cute little waterfall, trickling down the stairs and unto the first-floor hallway.
I grab every towel I can find and start frantically mopping up the mess, but it’s too late. The damage is done. Just as I feared, a knock pounds on my door. I open it slowly, drenched and defeated, to find my downstairs neighbor, glaring up at me, her hair dripping with water from the leakage in the floor boards.
“What the hell is going on up here?” she demands.
I blink at her, dripping water onto the floor as I mumble something about “My sensory deprivation tank leaked.” She’s not impressed.
I start to offer a sheepish apology, but before I can compete explaining, she storms off screeching, “The landlord is going to hear about this!” I close the door, leaning against it with a sigh. This is not how I envisioned enlightenment.
Drenched, and with a potted plant still floating in the now muddy pool, I survey the disaster. Towels aren’t enough. The floor is soaked, and water continues to drip through the floorboards or out the door and down the stairs. I grab a broom and make an attempt to sweep the remaining water toward the door and down the stairs.
In typical fashion, I literally and metaphorically brush this failure off. This is just another failed experiment. I’ll get it right next time. Maybe I’ll actually rent a professional sensory deprivation tank next time… or maybe I’ll just think of another genius idea. There’s always another scheme waiting to be tried.
I glance at the soggy wreckage of my living room, already thinking about what I’ll try next. But for now, I’ve got some mopping to do and probably will need to find a new place to escape to.
All personal statements were written by me and edited for spelling and grammar by ChatGPT. Sections of this article have been refined by AI to enhance comprehensibility and to provide facts that only online search engines would know.
© David Speakman 2024
