The Texas summer is an abusive partner
Wherever I go, it's
Screaming at me, belittling me
Making sure I stay small and powerless
And I can't leave
A hundred miles makes no difference
Even two or three hundred miles away
It's still there, beating me down
Everyone wants to know,
Why can't I see it's a beautiful sunny day today?
It's because I can't see anything
It's too god damn bright to see anything
In the winter, we have coats
To protect us from the cold
But in the summer I have only sunglasses
So I cry, I sleep, and I drink
I avoid being conscious
It's just too much to handle
The woman I love, she doesn't understand
It's not enough for her to just enjoy summer
And I'm glad she does, but
She makes me feel bad if I don't
Soon though, relief will come
Abject misery will transform into ecstatic joy
Let's go outside! I couldn't be happier
And all you assholes who gave me shit all summer
You suddenly disappear, saying
"It's too cold - it's freezing!" But
This is Texas, and you have no perspective
There's no such thing as cold in Texas
Despite my best efforts not to be,
I'm sure I was a negative Nancy
All summer long, and you made sure
To make me feel bad about it
But now, where are you?
Huddled indoors against
The biting fifty degree cool breeze
Who's the negative Nancy now?
Oh, that's right - it's still me
Because I'm in the minority
And in a system of majority rule
The minority is always wrong
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Through the Darkness and Into the Light
My name is Aaron. I have bipolar depression. I have taken more psych
meds that I can count, and I'm here today to share my story, and most
importantly, to say that there's always hope. The reason I feel
confident in saying something I always thought was so trite is that I
know now that we never run out of things to try. Like many stories
worth telling, mine is one of going through the darkness and into the
light.
There is about a five year period of time that I don't really remember. While my friends went to college and did all the fun things that you can only really get away with when you're that age, I went to psychiatrists. I firmly believed that I had a terminal disease and that I was fighting a losing battle. It certainly seemed that way, too. I just got worse and worse, and I was a topic of discussion for my whole family. To be the problem everyone is talking about is a most unsettling feeling.
Over time, most of my family became convinced that I was lazy and that I wasn't trying. I didn't really disagree. But my mom tackled my depression head on, and over time I think she became nearly as depressed as I was. I remember her lying on the couch, staring at the wall, with a look of utter hopelessness and defeat on her face. I knew it was because of me and I remember feeling so sad and powerless that I couldn't seem to keep from destroying her life. That was the worst part, feeling like I was to blame for her despair.
I tried to kill myself twice. After the second time I was hospitalized. I felt hopeless, largely because I felt I had already tried everything and that nothing was working. I had learned a fair amount about psych meds over the course of taking so many of them, because I wanted to be knowledgeable about what I was taking. I learned about SSRIs, tricyclics, antipsychotics, mood stabilizers, and so forth. I knew I had tried many of the drugs in each of these categories, and others, and that I was running out of drugs to try. But what I didn't know was that there is a whole world of options out there, and that psych meds make up only a small number of the options available.
When I was in the hospital I agreed to try Electro Convulsive Therapy (ECT), because I felt like I'd already tried everything else. The point of ECT, as you may already know, is to induce a short seizure, which supposedly realigns something in your brain. Well I didn't get my brain realigned, and instead of one short seizure, I had a series of long seizures the doctors had trouble stopping. I spent that weekend in the ICU and don't remember any of it. My psychiatrist was never able to figure out why that happened, but he did suggest that I try again. Fortunately, I declined.
I'd been taken off my meds for the ECT and after that failed, I was put back on them. I was still in the hospital and was having uncontrollable crying spells. I wasn't allowed to go outside and all there was to do was to sit for hours in front of the TV (which I despise) or to read, in between the various sessions they held. Much of the material they presented in these sessions was good, but was a repeat of another outpatient program I'd been to previously. I wasn't allowed to leave until my psychiatrist decided I was ready.
I was still depressed, and the hospital was only making things worse. I hid my crying spells and feelings, and manufactured what I hoped would be a believable story of feeling a little better each day. Talking to my doctor, I felt like a prisoner talking to his parole board. I guess I'm a good liar because they eventually let me out. I remember the day I got out, driving to buy new strings for my guitar, with the windows down and the wind in my hair. It was one of the best days of my life.
The hospital was my rock bottom - I was determined to never go back to a psych hospital, and resolved to either get better or find a better way to kill myself. I spent a lot of time working on both. I got out of the hospital in February of 2005, and over the course of that year I quit taking my psych meds and starting getting acupuncture. I started paying more attention to what I ate and I started exercising. I had some mind expanding experiences, and I really grew up a lot.
I gave up on psychiatry as a solution for my problems. And I'll admit, I had gone into it with an immature attitude, expecting the doctor to fix me instead of working to fix myself. I know psych meds help some people and I am not suggesting that anyone quit taking their meds if they work. There is no uniform treatment that works for everyone, and that is one point I wish to make: Everyone is different and gets better in their own way.
Treatment has such a narrow scope in many people's minds - it means doctors and pills. But treatment and recovery encompass everything from what drugs you take to whether you like your job, to what you do with your free time, to where you live and the people you surround yourself with, and much, much more. It's about being happy, and everyone has factors that affect their happiness, whether or not they have ever felt depressed or been to a psychiatrist.
By far, the biggest and most important thing I've learned is that you're never out of options. You never run out of things to try, and any time you feel like you've tried it all it just means you're not looking hard enough. It means it's time to branch out and investigate a totally new aspect or approach. I let doctors give me a seizure before I had tried things as simple as exercise, nutrition, or acupuncture. It's really crazy, looking back.
The few years following my release from the hospital were far from perfect and I experienced plenty of dark times and what I guess you could call relapses. But the overall trend was a positive one, and I have made a long uphill battle to where I am today.
Nowadays I work in IT, working on computers, and I live in an apartment I like on the east side. I have a wonderful girlfriend, and I spend a lot of time on creative endeavors. These creative outlets have been very important to my recovery. I play guitar and sing, and I draw. I write on a blog. I still get acupuncture, and I trade guitar lessons for my treatments. I take Lithium, which I've been back on for a few years, and it helps keep me on an even keel. I'm working on saving money to move out of Texas, which has been a dream of mine for years. I love Austin, but I really want to live someplace with cooler weather.
I still have times when I feel depressed and I'm by no means magically cured and happy all the time, but who is? That's unrealistic. I am happy overall and I would consider myself to have recovered. I have a good support system in place of people I can talk to when I need to. I look forward to the future and am glad I have persevered and made it this far.
I value openness and welcome any questions anyone has. I am here because I want to share, and would rather someone ask me something they feel awkward about than hesitate out of fear of either asking something too personal or me judging them. I also have business cards for the acupuncturist I see at South Austin Community Acupuncture. His name is Mike Sobin and he works on a sliding scale, with prices as low as $15 per treatment. It's been an effective, affordable treatment that has made a big difference in my life.
Finally, it doesn't matter who you are, where you've been, or what you've done. The past is the past, and all you can change about it is how you view it. It can either be a situation that's depressingly similar to the present, or it can be that period in your life when you were just crazy screwed up. It's up to you. All that matters is that you continue to try, because giving up is the only way anyone really loses.
There is about a five year period of time that I don't really remember. While my friends went to college and did all the fun things that you can only really get away with when you're that age, I went to psychiatrists. I firmly believed that I had a terminal disease and that I was fighting a losing battle. It certainly seemed that way, too. I just got worse and worse, and I was a topic of discussion for my whole family. To be the problem everyone is talking about is a most unsettling feeling.
Over time, most of my family became convinced that I was lazy and that I wasn't trying. I didn't really disagree. But my mom tackled my depression head on, and over time I think she became nearly as depressed as I was. I remember her lying on the couch, staring at the wall, with a look of utter hopelessness and defeat on her face. I knew it was because of me and I remember feeling so sad and powerless that I couldn't seem to keep from destroying her life. That was the worst part, feeling like I was to blame for her despair.
I tried to kill myself twice. After the second time I was hospitalized. I felt hopeless, largely because I felt I had already tried everything and that nothing was working. I had learned a fair amount about psych meds over the course of taking so many of them, because I wanted to be knowledgeable about what I was taking. I learned about SSRIs, tricyclics, antipsychotics, mood stabilizers, and so forth. I knew I had tried many of the drugs in each of these categories, and others, and that I was running out of drugs to try. But what I didn't know was that there is a whole world of options out there, and that psych meds make up only a small number of the options available.
When I was in the hospital I agreed to try Electro Convulsive Therapy (ECT), because I felt like I'd already tried everything else. The point of ECT, as you may already know, is to induce a short seizure, which supposedly realigns something in your brain. Well I didn't get my brain realigned, and instead of one short seizure, I had a series of long seizures the doctors had trouble stopping. I spent that weekend in the ICU and don't remember any of it. My psychiatrist was never able to figure out why that happened, but he did suggest that I try again. Fortunately, I declined.
I'd been taken off my meds for the ECT and after that failed, I was put back on them. I was still in the hospital and was having uncontrollable crying spells. I wasn't allowed to go outside and all there was to do was to sit for hours in front of the TV (which I despise) or to read, in between the various sessions they held. Much of the material they presented in these sessions was good, but was a repeat of another outpatient program I'd been to previously. I wasn't allowed to leave until my psychiatrist decided I was ready.
I was still depressed, and the hospital was only making things worse. I hid my crying spells and feelings, and manufactured what I hoped would be a believable story of feeling a little better each day. Talking to my doctor, I felt like a prisoner talking to his parole board. I guess I'm a good liar because they eventually let me out. I remember the day I got out, driving to buy new strings for my guitar, with the windows down and the wind in my hair. It was one of the best days of my life.
The hospital was my rock bottom - I was determined to never go back to a psych hospital, and resolved to either get better or find a better way to kill myself. I spent a lot of time working on both. I got out of the hospital in February of 2005, and over the course of that year I quit taking my psych meds and starting getting acupuncture. I started paying more attention to what I ate and I started exercising. I had some mind expanding experiences, and I really grew up a lot.
I gave up on psychiatry as a solution for my problems. And I'll admit, I had gone into it with an immature attitude, expecting the doctor to fix me instead of working to fix myself. I know psych meds help some people and I am not suggesting that anyone quit taking their meds if they work. There is no uniform treatment that works for everyone, and that is one point I wish to make: Everyone is different and gets better in their own way.
Treatment has such a narrow scope in many people's minds - it means doctors and pills. But treatment and recovery encompass everything from what drugs you take to whether you like your job, to what you do with your free time, to where you live and the people you surround yourself with, and much, much more. It's about being happy, and everyone has factors that affect their happiness, whether or not they have ever felt depressed or been to a psychiatrist.
By far, the biggest and most important thing I've learned is that you're never out of options. You never run out of things to try, and any time you feel like you've tried it all it just means you're not looking hard enough. It means it's time to branch out and investigate a totally new aspect or approach. I let doctors give me a seizure before I had tried things as simple as exercise, nutrition, or acupuncture. It's really crazy, looking back.
The few years following my release from the hospital were far from perfect and I experienced plenty of dark times and what I guess you could call relapses. But the overall trend was a positive one, and I have made a long uphill battle to where I am today.
Nowadays I work in IT, working on computers, and I live in an apartment I like on the east side. I have a wonderful girlfriend, and I spend a lot of time on creative endeavors. These creative outlets have been very important to my recovery. I play guitar and sing, and I draw. I write on a blog. I still get acupuncture, and I trade guitar lessons for my treatments. I take Lithium, which I've been back on for a few years, and it helps keep me on an even keel. I'm working on saving money to move out of Texas, which has been a dream of mine for years. I love Austin, but I really want to live someplace with cooler weather.
I still have times when I feel depressed and I'm by no means magically cured and happy all the time, but who is? That's unrealistic. I am happy overall and I would consider myself to have recovered. I have a good support system in place of people I can talk to when I need to. I look forward to the future and am glad I have persevered and made it this far.
I value openness and welcome any questions anyone has. I am here because I want to share, and would rather someone ask me something they feel awkward about than hesitate out of fear of either asking something too personal or me judging them. I also have business cards for the acupuncturist I see at South Austin Community Acupuncture. His name is Mike Sobin and he works on a sliding scale, with prices as low as $15 per treatment. It's been an effective, affordable treatment that has made a big difference in my life.
Finally, it doesn't matter who you are, where you've been, or what you've done. The past is the past, and all you can change about it is how you view it. It can either be a situation that's depressingly similar to the present, or it can be that period in your life when you were just crazy screwed up. It's up to you. All that matters is that you continue to try, because giving up is the only way anyone really loses.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
I Was an Asshole, But She Was a Bitch First
Sure, I was crude, but the thing I don't think she understands is that I don't act that way towards people who DON'T say things like “you have a God-shaped hole in your heart”. I'm not lewd to people who DON'T introduce their sermon by saying “I swear I'm not preaching, but...”. I don't do that to people who say “this is what I believe, what do you believe?”. But to the arrogant stranger who said my heart has a God shaped hole in it, I replied “I have a God-shaped hole in my heart like a lesbian has a dick shaped hole between her legs”.
And yes, that was crude. I'll admit that freely. And this was on Facebook, so it's not like the woman was talking directly to me. I didn't say what I did to offend her, but I didn't refrain in order not to offend her. I figured she'd be offended by what I said, but I don't generally feel obligated to be that considerate to a person who I feel is being disrespectful to others. And I'm sure she didn't intend to offend me either, but I stand by what I said, which I think was an accurate, even clever analogy.
I feel that when an evangelical type engages me in a conversation like that, telling me in such a friendly, personable way that I'm inherently flawed, I have two options. I can either hold my tongue and be polite in the face of their unintentional attacks, or I can be an asshole. Mind you, I don't feel like I'm being an asshole, but they do. And I don't even like being an asshole, but then I'm not the one going around imposing my beliefs on other people. I'm just reacting, defending myself against personal attacks from a person who often times knows nothing about me.
They're just telling me what they believe, and I understand that. And I understand that doing so is important to them. But if I tell them what I believe, my goodness how offensive! I don't even say I think that they as a specific individual are performing the ultimate sin by trying to shirk responsibility for their own sins onto the shoulders of Jesus. I'm not as tacky as they are when they tell me that I, Rhomboid specifically, am a sinner. I say to them that I think Christianity is a fable that manipulates people into feeling guilty for things they can't change, and then bends people to the will of the church by exploiting that guilt. And if that makes me an asshole, I'll wear the crown. But it's one size fits all, and is equally at home atop the head of the Evangelical.
- I find Evangelism to be very offensive.
- But, I don't expect Evangelicals to stop proselytizing.
- I don't demand that they take their programs off the TV or radio.
- I'm polite when they knock on my door and try to convert me.
- I'm nicer than they would be if I knocked on their door and told them in the nicest possible way that their beliefs are flawed, and the truth is that going to church is a waste of time at best and simple brainwashing at worst.
- We heathens need to quit feeling bad about standing up for ourselves.
- We need to feel as comfortable and justified telling them what we believe as they do.
- Being honest is not the same thing as being hateful.
I didn't have to be crude, but I was. She's right about that. But by the same token, she could have just said that her belief in God has made a big difference in her life, but she didn't. She said that everyone needs God in their heart or they'll be forever incomplete. And that's okay too, it's just the hypocrisy that bothers me. Honestly, mostly I just wonder if she understood what I meant about heart and dick holes.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Antithesis
Have you ever yelled or screamed to express an emotion other than anger? Have you ever cheered on a sports team or screamed in sheer excitement, or maybe sheer terror? Me too.
When you hear a father screaming "Go, go go!" at his kid's Little League game, do either you or the child conclude that his dad is mad at him? Well maybe if the kid is autistic, but - yeah, me either.
Of course, screaming is usually a reflection of intense emotion, but the specific emotion itself can result from any number of different feelings - some good and some bad. We all understand this, at least most of the time.
But when you hear music with someone screaming the lyrics at you, what is your initial reaction? Many people find it disconcerting and unpleasant, and interpret it as anger. And though it certainly can come out of anger, the yelling is more a reflection of intense emotion than any specific feeling. It's conveying something too packed with emotion to sing in a gentle three part harmony, the same way you wouldn't whisper "This is the best day of my life! I'm the king of the world!" or "I can't stand this job another day - I quit!".
Take the screaming however you want. Art is in the eye (or ear) of the beholder. And if you don't like heavy metal, that's cool. This really isn't about taste. I'm just very confused as to why so many people take this certain sound to mean anger every time, when in other areas of life we all understand it is a way of expressing a multitude of different emotions.
The ironic part is that metal is the most inclusive genre of music I know, and yet it's arguably the most shunned by the rest of the music world. Personally, I like music with variety - bands who mix many different influences and genres together. Some of my favorites are "metal" bands who play a little bit of everything - jazz, southern rock, pop, dance, R & B, blues, and folk to name a few. I wish the the jazz bands, pop groups, and all the rest would mix in some metal every once in awhile. Now that's a show I'd go to!
But many people contend that metal is very static - always loud, heavy, and fast. And maybe they've never heard metal with a wide dynamic range, music that transitions from gentle instrumentals to funky abstract jazz, to grinding electric guitar, to doowop. Like any other genre of music, there's plenty of bad metal out there, and most of it makes its way onto the radio. But I would argue that pop, jazz, and the rest are far more static styles of music, genres that bind musicians to a certain style and dynamic range.
The metal I'm talking about runs the gamut from soft and gentle to loud and heavy and everything in between, but chances are you're not going to hear pop artists break into a hardcore breakdown. Singer-songwriters may make it down to the soft and gentle end of the dynamic range, but aren't going reach the top of the energy spectrum. They're bound by convention and are basically prohibited from venturing that far.
But metal bands are free to go anywhere they want because they've already broken convention. They're already running around like crazy people, banging out what is often quite complex, technical music and screaming "BRING ME THE HEAD OF ANDY WARHOL!" in one song and then following it up with an R & B tune. And that is precisely where their true freedom and power lies - in their lack of inhibition.
Like I said, it doesn't really concern me whether you like metal or not. That's not what this is about. I'm just so very perplexed as to why most people have this uniform reaction to screaming in the context of heavy metal, a sound they understand can have any number of different meanings in different situations. I find it very strange how something which seems so simple could be a mystery to so many.
When you hear a father screaming "Go, go go!" at his kid's Little League game, do either you or the child conclude that his dad is mad at him? Well maybe if the kid is autistic, but - yeah, me either.
Of course, screaming is usually a reflection of intense emotion, but the specific emotion itself can result from any number of different feelings - some good and some bad. We all understand this, at least most of the time.
But when you hear music with someone screaming the lyrics at you, what is your initial reaction? Many people find it disconcerting and unpleasant, and interpret it as anger. And though it certainly can come out of anger, the yelling is more a reflection of intense emotion than any specific feeling. It's conveying something too packed with emotion to sing in a gentle three part harmony, the same way you wouldn't whisper "This is the best day of my life! I'm the king of the world!" or "I can't stand this job another day - I quit!".
Take the screaming however you want. Art is in the eye (or ear) of the beholder. And if you don't like heavy metal, that's cool. This really isn't about taste. I'm just very confused as to why so many people take this certain sound to mean anger every time, when in other areas of life we all understand it is a way of expressing a multitude of different emotions.
The ironic part is that metal is the most inclusive genre of music I know, and yet it's arguably the most shunned by the rest of the music world. Personally, I like music with variety - bands who mix many different influences and genres together. Some of my favorites are "metal" bands who play a little bit of everything - jazz, southern rock, pop, dance, R & B, blues, and folk to name a few. I wish the the jazz bands, pop groups, and all the rest would mix in some metal every once in awhile. Now that's a show I'd go to!
But many people contend that metal is very static - always loud, heavy, and fast. And maybe they've never heard metal with a wide dynamic range, music that transitions from gentle instrumentals to funky abstract jazz, to grinding electric guitar, to doowop. Like any other genre of music, there's plenty of bad metal out there, and most of it makes its way onto the radio. But I would argue that pop, jazz, and the rest are far more static styles of music, genres that bind musicians to a certain style and dynamic range.
The metal I'm talking about runs the gamut from soft and gentle to loud and heavy and everything in between, but chances are you're not going to hear pop artists break into a hardcore breakdown. Singer-songwriters may make it down to the soft and gentle end of the dynamic range, but aren't going reach the top of the energy spectrum. They're bound by convention and are basically prohibited from venturing that far.
But metal bands are free to go anywhere they want because they've already broken convention. They're already running around like crazy people, banging out what is often quite complex, technical music and screaming "BRING ME THE HEAD OF ANDY WARHOL!" in one song and then following it up with an R & B tune. And that is precisely where their true freedom and power lies - in their lack of inhibition.
Like I said, it doesn't really concern me whether you like metal or not. That's not what this is about. I'm just so very perplexed as to why most people have this uniform reaction to screaming in the context of heavy metal, a sound they understand can have any number of different meanings in different situations. I find it very strange how something which seems so simple could be a mystery to so many.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Parabolic Hearts
The bull moose in rutting season knows not what he does;
A thousand pounds of raw power, pointless without direction.
The unfocused beam of the brightest light is outdone
By a mere candle and a parabola, just ask the sun.
Despite my best efforts not to, I've learned that
Rage is draining, and there'll be no more giving myself away.
So come revel with me in the power of intertwined hearts,
For lives lived in stereo are more than the sum of their parts.
A thousand pounds of raw power, pointless without direction.
The unfocused beam of the brightest light is outdone
By a mere candle and a parabola, just ask the sun.
Despite my best efforts not to, I've learned that
Rage is draining, and there'll be no more giving myself away.
So come revel with me in the power of intertwined hearts,
For lives lived in stereo are more than the sum of their parts.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Penance
Repent, you slime! But not for your sins,
Just for what you've done with them.
Repent, you saint! They belong to you
And no one else can shoulder them.
Repent! You worship a false god,
Whichever one it happens to be.
Repent, if you want, but in the end
Only you can set yourself free.
The one true god is the one within,
Beneath one's clothes and pretense.
The one true god is everyone, and
Every thing that makes up existence.
The one true god, what a fallacy!
An ideology for minds still in infancy.
The one true blade of grass, can't you see?
You must all bow down to it and me.
You must all bow down to my humility.
Just for what you've done with them.
Repent, you saint! They belong to you
And no one else can shoulder them.
Repent! You worship a false god,
Whichever one it happens to be.
Repent, if you want, but in the end
Only you can set yourself free.
The one true god is the one within,
Beneath one's clothes and pretense.
The one true god is everyone, and
Every thing that makes up existence.
The one true god, what a fallacy!
An ideology for minds still in infancy.
The one true blade of grass, can't you see?
You must all bow down to it and me.
You must all bow down to my humility.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
The Psychogenetic Birthular Attachment
After a woman gives birth, it's not entirely uncommon for her to go through a period of serious depression. We all know this. In fact, it's so common it has a name – post-pardum depression. By and large, we view it simply as what it is – a possible consequence or aftermath of childbirth. It is something we watch out for and treat when it comes up, but it's not something we view as terrifying and mysterious. There is no movement (at least I hope there's not) that is encouraging women to stop having babies because of the risks of post-pardum depression. This would be silly; lots of women describe the day they gave birth as the best day of their life and having babies obviously isn't a problem.
And from what I understand, mothers frequently describe giving birth as a life-changing event and the greatest accomplishment of their lives. Indeed, the moment a mother delivers her baby she successfully overcomes what is likely the biggest obstacle she has ever faced – an obstacle that, for the hours leading up to that moment, seemed completely overwhelming. Many women experience an altered state of consciousness while in labor, which science tells us is due to naturally occurring chemicals that are released in the brain. After giving birth, she returns to waking life with a sense of overwhelming joy, accomplishment, and a strong instinct to protect and care for her newborn child.
And interestingly enough, this description of childbirth is very similar to what many people experience when they take psychedelic drugs. Oh man, I got you! This essay is really about drugs! I lulled you in with two paragraphs about childbirth, and now I have the gall to compare eating filthy, illegal drugs I bought on the street to the natural beauty of childbirth. But let me explain – this essay isn't that long and I swear there's truth to this...
The psychedelic experience is indeed very similar to what I have described in the second paragraph. Upon taking the drug, the space cadet is likely presented with some sort of obstacle. This obstacle often involves first being confronted with a skeleton in the closet, and then being made to decide whether to deal with said skeleton or to be plagued by it for what seems like an eternity. This situation is akin to that of the mother-to-be in the throes of labor, who is presented with the option of either giving birth or staying pregnant forever. In the case of the either the space cadet or the woman in labor, both of their options seem pretty terrible.
Yes, the space cadet is also transported to an altered state of consciousness, one in which time seems to stand still and his demons seem more patient than he ever could be. This can be a very uncomfortable place to be, and having all this thrust upon him in an unpleasant setting will only make matters worse. Examples of unpleasant environments include a loud party full of strangers, a jail cell, an expanse of wilderness in which he finds himself lost, or any place with his parents or some other authority figure yelling at him. Some environments are equally unpleasant and potentially dangerous to a woman in labor, most notably hospitals. Both his and her environments have a dramatic impact on their experiences because he and she are both so vulnerable at the time they take place. It's not any more unreasonable or unlikely that he may end up in some way scarred from his experience than she may from hers, if they take place in a bad environment.
Taking psychedelics at a party is often about like having intensive psychotherapy on a crowded subway. Both psychedelics and psychotherapy tend to bring about personal, emotional moments that deserve some tender respect and privacy. No one would choose to finally deal with a childhood trauma or their guilt over something they've done in a loud room full of strangers. Of course – it doesn't make any sense, and if attempted it's entirely likely that the experience will make things worse and bury those feelings the patient was struggling to uncover even deeper. I think we all can agree how ludicrous this situation would be. But when we substitute "psychedelic" for "psychotherapist" and the same thing happens, everything changes somehow. It must be that there's something wrong with the drug itself, we conclude. But in reality there are many, many people who benefit from psychedelics and whose stories don't make the gossip circle or the TV news, just as there are countless women who are forever changed for the better the day they give birth.
So why would anyone want to take a psychedelic and be confronted by painful memories anyway? Well, for the same reason anyone would want to have psychotherapy, and even for some of the same reasons they'd want to have a baby, I think. The initial hours of agony in any case are really not the point; the end result in the time that follows is. I tend to think that the agony itself is often a kind of sacrifice, one necessary to make the ecstasy that follows it truly meaningful. But in any event, no one talks endlessly about the day he finally came to terms with some painful issue any more than a mother endlessly talks about the hours she spent in labor. No, the patient talks about his new interests and opportunities now that he's feeling better, and the mother talks about her baby's current goings-on – not about the day the kid got there.
And so it is with a person who takes psychedelics responsibly – anyone who has benefited from them will tell you how much brighter their lives are for the days, months, and even years AFTER a trip, not necessarily during. Not that there's no such thing as a beautiful, happy, peaceful trip – in fact, I should clarify and add that I think beautiful experiences are the norm among people who have some awareness of what they're doing. I can say with confidence that the vast majority of my experiences have been very pleasant both during and after, and even the more turbulent times have ended well and benefited me in one way or another. I definitely don't believe the hellish or “bad” trips are the majority; they're just the subject of the most publicity, and so garner the most attention.
If we ignore the sensationalism surrounding psychedelics and focus instead on these similarities between childbirth and the psychedelic experience, we can see that these drugs give us a way to be reborn, in a pretty literal sense. I believe this is their core purpose, and it comprises the final and most significant similarity between childbirth and the psychedelic experience. After childbirth, if everything goes right, the mother is left with an overwhelming instinct to protect and care for her baby. This is obviously very important if the child his going to survive and flourish. And similarly, after a psychedelic trip, if everything goes right the space cadet is left with renewed self-confidence and interest in nurturing himself. He is left with renewed faith in his abilities, his self-worth, and his goals.
He is now free to look upon himself as a parent looks at a child – with awe, wonder, and unconditional love. Through the psychedelic experience he gives birth to a new incarnation of himself, and by doing so strengthens his resolve to nurture himself, much as a mother cements her instinct to nurture during the process of giving birth. Indeed, this is where the true power of psychedelics lies – they can help us to recognize three very important things: One, that we are each beautiful, special, and have limitless potential for joy; two, that it is our own individual responsibility and no one else's to nurture and protect those qualities in ourselves; and three, that we are completely capable of handling this responsibility. This is how psychedelics allow us to be reborn as our own capable, loving parents – and frequently, as adults.
And from what I understand, mothers frequently describe giving birth as a life-changing event and the greatest accomplishment of their lives. Indeed, the moment a mother delivers her baby she successfully overcomes what is likely the biggest obstacle she has ever faced – an obstacle that, for the hours leading up to that moment, seemed completely overwhelming. Many women experience an altered state of consciousness while in labor, which science tells us is due to naturally occurring chemicals that are released in the brain. After giving birth, she returns to waking life with a sense of overwhelming joy, accomplishment, and a strong instinct to protect and care for her newborn child.
And interestingly enough, this description of childbirth is very similar to what many people experience when they take psychedelic drugs. Oh man, I got you! This essay is really about drugs! I lulled you in with two paragraphs about childbirth, and now I have the gall to compare eating filthy, illegal drugs I bought on the street to the natural beauty of childbirth. But let me explain – this essay isn't that long and I swear there's truth to this...
The psychedelic experience is indeed very similar to what I have described in the second paragraph. Upon taking the drug, the space cadet is likely presented with some sort of obstacle. This obstacle often involves first being confronted with a skeleton in the closet, and then being made to decide whether to deal with said skeleton or to be plagued by it for what seems like an eternity. This situation is akin to that of the mother-to-be in the throes of labor, who is presented with the option of either giving birth or staying pregnant forever. In the case of the either the space cadet or the woman in labor, both of their options seem pretty terrible.
Yes, the space cadet is also transported to an altered state of consciousness, one in which time seems to stand still and his demons seem more patient than he ever could be. This can be a very uncomfortable place to be, and having all this thrust upon him in an unpleasant setting will only make matters worse. Examples of unpleasant environments include a loud party full of strangers, a jail cell, an expanse of wilderness in which he finds himself lost, or any place with his parents or some other authority figure yelling at him. Some environments are equally unpleasant and potentially dangerous to a woman in labor, most notably hospitals. Both his and her environments have a dramatic impact on their experiences because he and she are both so vulnerable at the time they take place. It's not any more unreasonable or unlikely that he may end up in some way scarred from his experience than she may from hers, if they take place in a bad environment.
Taking psychedelics at a party is often about like having intensive psychotherapy on a crowded subway. Both psychedelics and psychotherapy tend to bring about personal, emotional moments that deserve some tender respect and privacy. No one would choose to finally deal with a childhood trauma or their guilt over something they've done in a loud room full of strangers. Of course – it doesn't make any sense, and if attempted it's entirely likely that the experience will make things worse and bury those feelings the patient was struggling to uncover even deeper. I think we all can agree how ludicrous this situation would be. But when we substitute "psychedelic" for "psychotherapist" and the same thing happens, everything changes somehow. It must be that there's something wrong with the drug itself, we conclude. But in reality there are many, many people who benefit from psychedelics and whose stories don't make the gossip circle or the TV news, just as there are countless women who are forever changed for the better the day they give birth.
So why would anyone want to take a psychedelic and be confronted by painful memories anyway? Well, for the same reason anyone would want to have psychotherapy, and even for some of the same reasons they'd want to have a baby, I think. The initial hours of agony in any case are really not the point; the end result in the time that follows is. I tend to think that the agony itself is often a kind of sacrifice, one necessary to make the ecstasy that follows it truly meaningful. But in any event, no one talks endlessly about the day he finally came to terms with some painful issue any more than a mother endlessly talks about the hours she spent in labor. No, the patient talks about his new interests and opportunities now that he's feeling better, and the mother talks about her baby's current goings-on – not about the day the kid got there.
And so it is with a person who takes psychedelics responsibly – anyone who has benefited from them will tell you how much brighter their lives are for the days, months, and even years AFTER a trip, not necessarily during. Not that there's no such thing as a beautiful, happy, peaceful trip – in fact, I should clarify and add that I think beautiful experiences are the norm among people who have some awareness of what they're doing. I can say with confidence that the vast majority of my experiences have been very pleasant both during and after, and even the more turbulent times have ended well and benefited me in one way or another. I definitely don't believe the hellish or “bad” trips are the majority; they're just the subject of the most publicity, and so garner the most attention.
If we ignore the sensationalism surrounding psychedelics and focus instead on these similarities between childbirth and the psychedelic experience, we can see that these drugs give us a way to be reborn, in a pretty literal sense. I believe this is their core purpose, and it comprises the final and most significant similarity between childbirth and the psychedelic experience. After childbirth, if everything goes right, the mother is left with an overwhelming instinct to protect and care for her baby. This is obviously very important if the child his going to survive and flourish. And similarly, after a psychedelic trip, if everything goes right the space cadet is left with renewed self-confidence and interest in nurturing himself. He is left with renewed faith in his abilities, his self-worth, and his goals.
He is now free to look upon himself as a parent looks at a child – with awe, wonder, and unconditional love. Through the psychedelic experience he gives birth to a new incarnation of himself, and by doing so strengthens his resolve to nurture himself, much as a mother cements her instinct to nurture during the process of giving birth. Indeed, this is where the true power of psychedelics lies – they can help us to recognize three very important things: One, that we are each beautiful, special, and have limitless potential for joy; two, that it is our own individual responsibility and no one else's to nurture and protect those qualities in ourselves; and three, that we are completely capable of handling this responsibility. This is how psychedelics allow us to be reborn as our own capable, loving parents – and frequently, as adults.
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