My Trip on Magic Mushrooms: Are We There Yet?
(Part 8 of the story of my psychedelic-enhanced journey to mental health)
On the morning of my psilocybin trip, my therapist, David, and my trip-sitter, Jimmy, arrived right on time. We retreated to the basement, where Jimmy set up a small “altar” next to the couch that I was sitting on. Though still eager, I was nervous now that the time to ingest the mushrooms was so imminent. I don’t really remember what was on the altar, but Jimmy placed several objects there, including a Bluetooth speaker, and talked about them briefly. I was too “inside of myself” to remember much of what he said.
I do remember that we all stood and said words of gratitude to the “seven directions,” a term I hadn’t heard before. The directions were the four compass points, up, down, and inside ourselves. I don’t know exactly what purpose that served, but it did seem to increase the gravitas of the next step, which was ingesting the mushrooms.
I unwrapped the package of dried mushrooms. I didn’t know one species from another, but Jimmy explained that the type that I had procured, called “penis envy,” was particularly powerful.
Jimmy had previously given me a recommended range for the amount of mushroom that I would ingest. I chose the high side of the range because I wanted to try to ensure that the trip would be successful. I measured out five and a half grams, and with Jimmy’s approval, ate them, washing them down with a few ounces of water.
Then I sat back on the couch to wait. Behind me over the back of the couch lay a warm blanket since Jimmy had warned me that at times I might feel chilled. I looked out at Jimmy and David, seated comfortably in upright chairs near each other about ten feet in front of me, both smiling reassuring back at me.
I didn’t have to wait long. Just as I was thinking about how I didn’t feel any effect from the mushrooms yet, I looked down at my feet and wondered why I had never noticed the grid over the carpeting before. There appeared to be a metal mesh of approximately one-inch squares covering all of the basement carpeting. Of course, I knew that there was wasn’t really any metal mesh on the carpeting. That was my first indication that the hallucinations were starting. I remembered to say something out loud about the grid so that Jimmy and David would know what I thought I saw.
I felt unafraid and unaffected physically, but I was intrigued by the grid. As I looked at the one-inch metal squares more closely, there appeared to be Meso-American symbols on them. I don’t know exactly what shapes they were, but they reminded me of symbols that I associated with Aztec or Mayan civilizations.
Enough of my brain was not yet under the influence of the drug that I instantly knew why I was hallucinating about Meso-American symbolism. I had recently read a chapter of a non-fiction book about Mexican and Central American history. That was the only possible connection I could think of to this symbolism. I briefly “explained” this aloud in the hope that Jimmy or David could follow my train of thought.
What followed was very unpleasant. I had what I can only describe as a complete panic attack. I have a little bit of experience with panic attacks because I am claustrophobic and have had attacks on rare occasions when I have been in a small, crowded elevator or when I was undergoing an MRI exam with my face nearly against the upper wall of the MRI interior cylinder. It is a feeling of urgently needing to “get out of” whatever small space I am in.
That is what overcame me as I sat on the couch. I quickly stood up, but there was no place to “get out of.” In front of me was the large open expanse of the basement. But I was panicking, not thinking rationally. At least a part of me understood what was happening because I had the presence of mind to announce out loud that I was having a panic attack.
There was no place “to go” to stem the panic, but I “went” anyway. I walked nervously around the room, and I used the bathroom at least twice during this phase. At the time, I had no idea why a panic attack would create a need for me to pee, but that’s what I felt I needed to do — and immediately. (Spoiler alert: right after my trip, I figured out where this impulse to pee probably came from).
I had lost my time-sense by then, and I didn’t think to look at the wall clock, but I am guessing that the panic attack lasted for 15–30 minutes. I believe that either David or Jimmy suggested that I try deep-breathing. I went back to the couch and started to take slow and deep breaths, holding them for a few moments before slowly exhaling. I don’t think that I made any conscious decision to do this — I think that I was just in a highly suggestible state and never questioned whether or not to follow David’s or Jimmy’s suggestion.
It felt good to have my breathing to concentrate on, and I think that is what broke the panic cycle. At some point while deep-breathing, I simply noticed that I didn’t feel panicked any more. I announced that aloud to David and Jimmy and then paused to take in my surroundings.
The first thing I notice was that there was music playing over the Bluetooth speaker on the altar. It was some kind of fast-paced instrumental piece with an easily discernable beat, but I didn’t recognize it. And I felt desperately cold. I grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around myself.
As I looked around, all that was visible was a large number of small curved lines like spaghetti strands against a dark indefinite background. There was still a part of me that knew I was in my basement, but that part was no longer in control, no longer projecting my reality.
The spaghetti strands weren’t in any particular pattern, and they weren’t staying still. They waved and undulated, bending and twisting freely, as if they were dancing to the beat of the music emanating from the Bluetooth speaker. There were hundreds of them — or at least too many to count or estimate — and they were coming closer and closer to my face. They invaded the personal space in front of my face and seemed to be looking for a way into me, still swirling madly and aggressively in time to the music.
I began to feel a second panic attack, this time true claustrophobia, as the spaghetti strands continued moving too quickly and insistently mere inches from my face. Somehow, my conscious mind broke through momentarily for me to say out loud, “Too much energy!”
Bless Jimmy! He heard me and understood what I was trying to say. I immediately noticed the music slowing down in tempo with reduced volume until it became a slow, lilting melody being played on what sounded like a pan flute.
The spaghetti strands responded in kind. They slowed down too and seemed to recede from my face a bit. Instead of a nearby threatening morass, they turned into a pretty array of dainty lines sashaying to the music at a comfortable distance, almost like a scene from Disney’s “Fantasia.”
My panic dissipated too. A small part of me knew that Jimmy had just turned down the music, but most of my active brain simply accepted that the spaghetti strands were my new reality and settled back to watch them dance. The couch felt exquisitely comfortable, I removed the blanket because I was no longer cold, and I felt ready to begin the “business part” of my journey.
I knew that I had just been through some major discomfort, but I thought that the unpleasantness was behind me now. In my only other psychedelic trip, the ketamine infusion, the insights and revelations were overall pleasant experiences. That is what I expected as I began to turn my attention to understanding, and then eradicating, my sense of shame.
But as Jimmy had predicted, the mushrooms didn’t give me what I wanted. However, as described in the next two chapters, they did give me what I needed.
