I’m staring down a mug filled with a warm brown liquid. I’ve traveled a long way to drink this cocktail that looks like chunky hot chocolate.
“Drink it down slowly,” instructs Shawn, my guide for what will be one of the most unusual therapy sessions I’ve embarked upon, unusual because the chunks in my beverage are not undissolved chocolate squares but psilocybin – that is, magic mushrooms.
I haven’t come all this way to see Shawn just to get high. This is about psycho-spiritual healing.
I had been itching to see what psychedelic-mediated therapy would do for me ever since I began following Michael Pollan, the author of the best-selling book How to Change Your Mind. A little psilocybin, mushroom advocates explain, can work wonders to address one’s fear of death, an issue that’s become much more up front for me as I’ve been going through treatment for aggressive lymphoma.
Many people who choose to dabble in psychedelic-mediated therapy go to one of the luxurious retreat centers that have popped up in places such as the Netherlands, Jamaica and Costa Rica. There are usually around five therapists and 15 participants. Costs can rise into the thousands of dollars for a weekend, including gourmet vegan meals.
Shawn offered a different approach: one-on-one therapy while under the influence. He would stay with me for the entire trip (which lasts around six hours) in order to contain me if uncomfortable or painful memories arise or in the unlikely event I had a psychotic break.
The mushroom drink was not unpleasant. Any bitterness was masked by the sweet chocolate. After draining my mug, I lay down on a mattress on the floor of Shawn’s counseling room and donned a pair of eye patches. Some people opt to wear headphones, too, but Shawn suggested he play music on his Bluetooth speaker so we could communicate more freely.
I relaxed on the mattress, waiting for the mushrooms to work their magic, so to speak, but after 45 minutes, I didn’t feel much of anything.
“That’s odd,” Shawn said quietly. “Two and a half grams is usually enough for a first time.” He brewed up another half a cup which I enthusiastically downed.
Another 45 minutes passed and … still nothing. Did Shawn procure the wrong kind of mushrooms? I worried.
I started to drink a third cup when, finally, I started feeling woozy. I lay down again. I was prepped to see reality blur, colors dance, maybe even a few visions of angels.
To my surprise – and initial disappointment – there were no hallucinations forthcoming. I was definitely in an altered state, just not what I’d anticipated.
And then I couldn’t shut up.
For the next three hours, my mouth ran almost stream of consciousness, like a populist politician at a pre-election rally. I related how I felt betrayed by my body. I shared personal details about my family
All the while Shawn listened intently, feeding back to me what I’d said, asking questions where appropriate, gently guiding, always nurturing. Would my babbling still seem so erudite when I listened to the tape – yes, Shawn recorded everything – the next morning?
“I’m probably driving you nuts,” I said to Shawn at one point.
“Everybody’s journey is different,” Shawn responded, adding that mine was not such an unusual reaction. “I’m here for whatever comes up.”
It’s hard to imagine how this would all work in a group retreat setting. Part of the power of this encounter was having Shawn there by my side the whole time, facilitating what essentially became a multi-hour therapy session.
It was late afternoon by the time the mushrooms wore off. Shawn prepared a plate of rice, beans and salad (what, no fungi?) which I eagerly devoured (for the full psychedelic experience, you’re not supposed to eat anything prior to ingesting the psilocybin).
In the days following my trip, I noticed that I was feeling more vulnerable and exposed than usual. A sense of surprising sadness had broken through my usual veneer of normal functioning. I would get teary unexpectedly. I wanted to hug whoever was nearby. It was as if my heart had cracked open, suffusing me in unbridled love.
Indeed, the sensation I had after the trip was not unlike falling in love for the first time.
I wanted more!
Had the mushrooms stripped away my usual cognitive defenses to reveal emotions I’d long hidden away? Maybe. One of the ways psychedelics work is by blurring or breaking down the barrier between the logical, cognitive, intellectual left side of the brain and the emotional/ creative/ connected right.
I was now living much more on the right side of my noggin. Or put differently: I had access to the side of my brain I tend to shut down to avoid getting too close to difficult, painful thoughts.
My wife, Jody, has had these sorts of intense experiences at the end of the week-long meditation retreats she used to attend in the days before Covid. Mushrooms got me there in just a few hours. In terms of return-on-investment, I’d say the mushrooms win.
“How long will this feeling last?” I asked Shawn, as I prepared to leave.
“Could be a week, a month, or maybe forever,” he replied. “Once the gate has been cracked, you’ll know how to open it again.”
“Do people come back and do psychedelics with you a second time?” I asked.
“Some,” he said. “You didn’t have a bad trip; you didn’t feel nauseous. I think you might be ready for a higher dose next time.”
But alas, the feelings ultimately faded and my fears around death returned, although these days they’ve given way to musings about the nature of quantum mechanics and consciousness. Or was that, perhaps, also an after effect of the mushrooms?
I first experimented with magic mushrooms for The Jerusalem Post.
Photo by Damir Omerović on Unsplash