Autistic Psychedelic Stories: “Autism on Acid” by Aaron Paul Orsini
…When I was in my teens, and even in my early 20s, the only thing I could think to do was figure out how the game of being human worked. I’d try to do better next time, over and over again. But the people in my life kept being disappointed. They kept wondering what was wrong with me. And I wondered, too. And let me tell you, if you spend a lot of time wondering what’s wrong with you, the odds are incredibly high that you will likewise do nothing but reinforce the belief that something IS wrong with you, and you will probably become very, very depressed in the process.
And I was. I acted very, very depressed. And the most bizarre part of my depression was that I didn’t “feel depressed.’’ I felt like sleeping a lot, sure. I felt like staying in my room a lot, sure. I felt like reading books and staying away from the humans, usually. Sure. But I didn’t “feel” depressed. I was more so just, lost. So lost. And no one seemed to know where I should go. They weren’t me. So how should they know? But I didn’t know me. So I tried to rely on them to tell me how I should feel. I let people steer me anywhere, because I had no compass. And it was exhausting.
As the years went by, my social ineptitude left me feeling like there was no point, really. It was a noble effort I’d made, this whole trying to understand human beings thing. Really. I would read psychology books. I would read behavior theories. I would participate in professional psychoanalysis and talk therapy. Tons of it. But that was just more talking with no emotional processing. I would talk to the therapist about philosophy or science, or the news. But the feelings, they just, couldn’t be found nor identified. So we talked and talked and talked and therapist after therapist would say the same thing to my parents, “Your son is incredibly bright,” they would say. “He must read a lot,” they would say. Great. Awesome. Wonderful. Cool. I could get straight A’s. But I didn’t care all that much about that. Memorizing things and repeating them back was easy. Interpreting human behavior. Good luck!
And so time continued to tick. I graduated college, and entered the workforce, but the core of my condition continued to bewilder me. All I could do was try and try and try to use my head to do what my heart, just, couldn’t seem to do. So I visited doctor after doctor, trying medications for depression, and anxiety, and only ever feeling more numb as a result. This one made me sleepy. This one made me spacy. This one made me agitated. This one required that I take this other one, and this other one to deal with the side effects of the first one. It seemed to be a mess, and given my overall sense of satisfaction with being alive to begin with, it surely didn’t seem all that worth it to perfect this highly distressing dance of psychiatric trial and error, after error, after error.
For years, it seemed like the nightmare of day-to-day life would never let up. From the vantage point of others, I seemed to be doing alright. But from my own perspective, there hardly seemed to be a point to any of it. So much confusion for seemingly no reward. What was the point?
Amidst these adult years of fatigue and confusion, I was fortunate enough to have decent healthcare through my job and amazing support and guidance from my family, I was likewise fortunate enough to be able to find a new specialist who provided me with some degree of relief.
He was the psychiatrist I had been seeing for some time. I was 23 years of age, working a 9 to 5 job. And I was anxious, all the time anxious. I had a well-paying career, a studio apartment downtown, and a compassionate and caring girlfriend. And I seemed to have all of the pieces that would complete a life. But there remained a sense of emptiness. I didn’t talk about it much, with anyone other than the professionals paid to listen. But I was depressed, very depressed. And my therapist at the time — -a rare modern-day hybrid of a psychoanalyst, who could engage in talk therapy, and a psychiatrist, who could prescribe medications — -was in a unique position to observe my behaviors through a more well-rounded lens.
During my visits to this therapist’s office, I would talk about how, in spite of my exhausting mental state, I remained relatively functional in my job setting, which mainly required me to be on the computer, all day everyday.
I would talk about how I struggled to maintain contact with supposed close friends, and how I struggled to make new friends, and how even one-on-one moments felt very confusing at times. I was physically close to people such as my girlfriend, but still very much emotionally distant, from her, myself, and really, everyone in my life. I explained how my version of connecting with people was watching TV near them, or playing sports with them. And I explained how this way of socializing seemed passable, but ultimately resulted in a perpetual sense of disconnection.
Time went on and I continued unpacking my social struggles during my visits to the therapist. I explained in more depth about how I felt so overwhelmed in most social settings. I unpacked how my perpetually anxious state made everyday a silent struggle known only by me, and maybe my parents, during the most extreme moments of my life. But all throughout my visits to this therapist’s office the emotional undercurrent of my life remained out of reach.
My therapist and I explored some more, talking week after week, never really making any significant progress. I’d feel relieved that someone knew about my struggle, but I didn’t seem to know anything else aside from the struggle itself. I was jumping between various medications that seemed to only make me more sluggish, and numb, without any perceived benefit. I wanted to be happy (?) but I didn’t seem to know what that meant to begin with. I wanted to be… ? I really didn’t know. I just knew that I felt wrong, so wrong. I was convinced I was doing it all wrong. And I just, didn’t, know. WHY.
And then one day, when I walked into the therapist’s office, he said, “I’d like you to fill this out. It’s only a few questions, and shouldn’t take you long.” And I said, “Okay.”
He didn’t tell me explicitly at the start of the exam, but what he had handed me was the Autism-Spectrum Quotient (AQ) test. The test itself took only a few minutes. And the therapist was able to score it right then and there. And there it was: 44 out of a possible 50, a very high AQ indicating a dominating presence of autistic traits.
“You’re on the spectrum; very high on the spectrum in fact,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, not so sure of what to say at first.
“Don’t worry, it’s not the end of the world. It’s the start of self-understanding. Here’s a few books to read. Check ’em out and we’ll talk some more next week.”
And I did. I went home and read everything I possibly could about ASD. And with every page I read, my whole life seemed to make more and more and more sense. This was exciting!…
…..to a degree ASD. And with every page I read, my whole life seemed to make more and more and more sense. This was exciting!…
…..to a degree :/
There was a comfort in knowing that I wasn’t alone; that others were like me, too. But in time, this intellectual excitement wore off. And there I was again: still numb, still broken, still fumbling around trying to hear the dog whistle that every other dog already hears.
Once again, I would say without a doubt that receiving this diagnosis was of great benefit. Yes, but the diagnosis itself didn’t seem to change much about my sense of being tired, so tired. So tired of attempting to connect but so often missing the mark. So tired of attempting to do the seemingly impossible; as in, sensing and identifying and navigating my feelings, or the feelings of others. It was a fool’s errand. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it. And I began to fully believe I would never ever do it. And that’s when one of the darkest thoughts began to take over my mind; the one I’d tried to push away for so long — -this idea that I was broken, forever. And that thought was reeeeally starting to get to me. It’s a thought that I’m sure any person who’s been labeled as disorderly or handicapped or mentally ill can relate to, a lot.
Even years into therapy, I was still coming up against this very dark thought that I was broken, so broken. And I began ruminating on how there wasn’t much of a point of going on in this life. No one would miss me. They were strangers anyway. All of them. They all felt like strangers. All of the humans. They were strangers. Even myself. What was I doing here? Why? Why? Why?
I kept going to therapy. I kept reading books. I kept working at my desk job. I kept trying new medications. I kept failing, time and time again, with the simple act of identifying the emotional needs of myself and others. And this pervasive shortcoming kept me in the same old loop. I would feel lost, confused, and isolate, and miss calls, and sleep for days. My close connections couldn’t and wouldn’t put up with it anymore. I faded into a quiet pocket of solitude. I seemed to only be able to be alone. And a lot of connections ended. And then I quit my job. And then my very good friend got struck and killed by a drunk driver. And this series of rapid-fire tragedies seemed to do nothing but confirm in me that life was hell, absolute hell. And nothing I could or would do was going to change that belief. Life was hell. This was hell. And there was no escaping it. That was really how I seemed to believe my life would go. And I was so, so exhausted by that belief.
I dwelled in this sunken state of mind for a long while after my friend’s funeral. I would still see people, and do things, but I couldn’t shake the deep, deep, deep depressive state. And it seemed to be a never ending loop of negative thoughts… “I’m never going to understand this. I’m never going to figure this out. I’m never going to understand that. I’m never going to do this or anything right.” And then, I just couldn’t take it anymore.
At that time, living seemed like a waste of energy. It was as if there was nothing and no one worth living for — -except for maybe two people: my parents. They had put in so much effort, at so many points in my life, that it just didn’t seem fair to them. They’d done so much for me, and I just, couldn’t, do it. I wouldn’t do it. So I carried on, barely living but at least, living. And on one of the darkest hours of the darkest days, after waking up again, hungover, in my bed, without a friend to phone or a sense of purpose or hope to hold onto, I decided that rather than ending my life, I would instead put an end to the life I had built. And I did what a lot of anxious and confused people do when they’re pushed to the limit: I ran away. I went into retreat.
I didn’t tell very many people other than the few connections I’d barely managed to maintain in spite of my isolated state. But I retreated. I sold all my stuff, I packed a bag. I bought a train ticket. And I headed west, to see if there was something, anything, that might be worth living for. And a few days into my travels, I was presented the option to try LSD. And being at a point in my life where I felt very much out of options, I took it. And I sat in a forest, waiting to experience one more failed attempt at escaping the waking hell of existence when suddenly…
The above connectome ring shows functional connectivity between 132 regions covering the whole brain on LSD. BLUE indicates decreased connectivity YELLOW-RED indicates increased connectivity.
…said another way…
H O L Y .
S H I T !
…
Connection. Such connection. I felt it, in so many ways. I felt it. And with so many parts of my processing centers woven together for the very first time, so many realizations seemed to come crashing in, all at once.
As it often seems to go with LSD, my first experience felt deeply meaningful to me in the moment and beyond. That day, I took a relatively large dose — -the exact amount is unknown but I was told the single tab I took was blotted with between 150 and 250 micrograms. And while yes, this dose exposed me to many of the commonly described hallmarks of the larger-dose LSD experience, it was what happened after the peak effect that really blew my mind, or should I say, heart, into a state of absolute wonderment.
In the initial hours of the experience, as the LSD began to take effect, I felt more and more connected… with the trees and breeze and sunlight around me, I experienced a deep moment of engagement. Yes. A moment of connection, with nature, with thoughts of my parents, my family, friends, and the whole of the human family and the broader web of life. And yes I know it sounds cliche to say but I was awash in a sense of deep, deep love for so many aspects of life.
This single session with LSD not only washed away the background hum of suicidal ideation but also, amazingly, befuddlingly, wow, what the f*ck! wow! I not only didn’t feel like killing myself. I felt very much like living. Because I felt very much alive, and connected. And feeling connected meant I cared about who and what I was connected to. And I felt this sense of connection, deeply. And it wasn’t a hallucination. It was a realization. An intuitive sense that my well-being was directly connected to the health and well-being of the natural environment within which I resided.
Expounding on this further, I would say that during the first hours of the LSD experience, I felt a sense of care, for myself; for others; for the world. I cared about it, All of it. And I felt like the world of human beings cared about me, too. And it’s wonderful, really. To feel like caring; to feel cared for, as well. It’s beautiful, really, to feel like I’ve been nurtured by nature; to feel like it is in my nature to nurture; to nurture myself, others, and the environment in which we attempt to co-exist. But I’m starting to sound like someone who took a lot of acid ;) … So let me step back down outta the clouds of love for a second and talk about something that some of us might not be as experienced with: the subjective experience of taking LSD as an autistic adult.
After my first few hours of bathing in the wonderment of love for the natural world, I stood up, calmly, and with a deep warmth within me, I walked out of the woods in which I’d been sitting, and I walked down a path, and I turned to the right, and I encountered a stranger. A stranger, yes, that suddenly, somehow, didn’t seem strange at all. And I said “Hi.” And they said “Hi.” And it felt, natural?! I felt, compelled, to connect. And that might not seem like that big of a deal, but for me, it was everything! This type of spontaneous, extroverted encounter was not common in my daily life, most especially amidst my most depressed days. And while yeah, we talked about nothing of tremendous significance, in terms of topics, my heart still lit up as I became aware of how aware I had become. It was like a kid riding a bike for the first time. Every time before the first time, the kid can’t do it. But then, the kid is doing it. And for a short while, during the first ride, the kid almost doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. But then, he notices. And it sets in: the kid is doing it! The kid is riding the bike! And it was amazing!
When the person opposite me spoke, I felt the weight of their words. I sensed their state of mind. I grasped the context of what was unfolding. And for the first time in my entire 27 years of existence, I felt fully connected to the person opposite me. I could feel their feelings. I could feel my own feelings. I could feel what it was like to feel differently about my feelings as our feelings changed in real time. I could feel how it felt to feel aware of my own emotions; how it felt to feel aware of my impact on the emotional experience of the person across from me. And again: HOLY SH%T. After this exchange, I walked back to the forest, sat down, and thought “HOLY SH%T! What just happened! I’ve never done that before. I’ve talked to people. Sure. But I’ve never talked WITH a person like that. The nuance. The detail. The richness of the exchange.”
This particular interaction seemed like the difference between scarfing down a meal versus contemplating and savoring the taste of every bite. Every little detail mattered, and every little detail gave me that much more information to work with. I didn’t have to follow the script of “Hi, how are you, good how are you, good, ok, great”… It was more than that. This exchange. I saw new opportunities to notice what the person was really saying. What they desired. What pained them. What delighted them. I could see it in such detail. And I could interact with them with a careful approach.
Again, pardon my language here. I really don’t have an adequate phrase for how powerful this experience felt. So HOLY SH%T seems like a good place holder for the time being. Because yes, HOLY SH%T! This thing I’d never been able to do… I could do. I wasn’t locked inside the observation bubble. I was out there, interacting with the world; interacting with people. And sure. Yes. I had interacted with people before, but never like this; never with such an awareness of what was unfolding.
In the past I would lean on memorized lines or just try my best to answer the questions proposed to me. But in this exchange, when I heard a question, I not only considered what answer to give. I was able to consider how the phrasing of the answer might alter the tone of the engagement, and how any given answer might change the directionality of the exchange. It wasn’t just an if-this-phrase-then-this-response kind of thing. It was more like because-this-sensation-you-can-say-this-or-do-this-or-that-and — that-will-alter-this-and-that-sensation-in-you-and-in-the-other-person-so-observe-and-sense-and-interact-however-feels-right kind of thing… In other words: I could be delicate, with my words and actions. And I could be conscious of the impact of my words and actions, because I felt them, within myself, within the person across from me. Empathy. Arresting empathy. I felt it. And HOLY SH%T did this newly available emotional empathetic processing seem like a useful and meaningful aspect of conscious experience.
So yes, that was my first experience. And so perhaps now you can see why it is that I persisted in my exploration of the intersection of LSD and ASD. Because LSD was the turnkey for my life. It simultaneously saved my life while at the same time imbuing it with a sense of meaning, connection, and accessibility. And it was thrilling. Yes. But before I continue on with the story of what occurred after that first experience, I would like to take a moment to calm us down.
So yes, let’s all calm down.
Because YES, absolutely, YES, this experience was profoundly impactful on me. YES. But I would like to calmly say to both myself, the writer, and to you, the reader, that even though this experience was especially significant, I still find it critical to voice a word of caution regarding everything I’m talking about.
First of all: this type of experience of unity and connection seems to be common in the LSD experiences of many people, as evidenced by both numerous subjective accounts as well as published accounts from various research studies. So this unity aspect, however amazing it may be for the individual, isn’t all that remarkable in terms of progressing the cultural understanding of the potential applications for LSD.
Second of all: in reference to the dramatic empathetic increase I experienced, I’ve likewise since learned, after digging into the established research of LSD, that this property is likewise not as much of a miracle as it seemed to be at the time. Based on what I’ve read, it seems like this type of empathetic experience is probably more so just a boring old combination of (1) direct serotonergic stimulation of the 5-HT2A receptors (2) key fluctuations in amygdalic response, (3) adequate suppression of the default mode network, and (4) a rapid reorientation of pyramidal cells that I would absolutely need like a decade of schooling or someone with an actual PhD to possibly ever explain. And speaking of doctors, I’m still not one, yet. But I can still advise some caution. So here we go…
Let’s start with the hopefully obvious point: LSD is still an unregulated and illegal drug. So anyone who hears of my story, please, please, please, for the sake of your own safety and the safety of others, please do not consider this story to be an invitation to try this at home. This epiphany happened within me. And that’s great. But I’m not here to recommend that anyone repeat my exact actions. There are risks inherent to any frontier exploration of this kind, most especially when it comes to experimenting with unregulated materials that could be impure, or obtained with only vague certainty of the exact amount of a given dose.
In the early phase of this process, I took on the risks because I felt out of options. In the later phases, I took on the risks because the gains felt worthwhile, to me and my sense of self-understanding. But that doesn’t mean I’m wise for persisting in my self-experimentation. There could be longterm side effects to routine LSD use that we don’t yet know about, because there are few if any longitudinal studies — -which, again, is why I’m advocating for a rescheduling and rethinking of access for the purposes of research.
If the research continues to support the phenomenological reports with measurable evidence and efficacy, then sure, yes, let’s rethink some approaches. And maybe in a decade we can open up LSD-assisted therapy centers for social, behavioral, and emotional disorders. And I hope we can, because drugs such as LSD or psilocybin or MDMA seem like excellent candidates for increasing the impact of already well-established approaches to therapy. But we’re not fully there yet. And so, out of respect for the benefits and necessity of proper research, proper regulation, and proper professional guidance, I repeat: don’t try this at home. But maybe, someday, try this under the supervision of trained and certified professionals.
But I digress. Let’s get back to the story. Where were we? Ah yes, I was just about to tell you what happened AFTER my first LSD experience.
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To view Aaron’s most recent talks & interviews, or to contact Aaron with questions or comments or stories, please visit AutismOnAcid.com
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