How Magic Mushrooms Could Be Michigan’s Next Frontier – And Why It Matters | Michigan News | Detroit

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Tyler Gross

Cross over: Detroit is one of the last major cities to decriminalize “magic” mushrooms. Advocates say they have the potential to help with mental health.

JThe first time I took magic mushrooms was New Years Eve. I was nervous not knowing what to expect, but found myself fueled with excitement to be able to tick that box. of life experience on my internal wish list. After all, 2013 was going to be my year.

We didn’t have big plans for the final hours of 2012, a year I was more than happy to leave in the past. Nine and a half times out of 10, I was unhappy for a myriad of reasons, including my chronic pain, my depression and the breakdown of my family unit, but mostly because of the difficult situation I found myself in: at 24 years old, I was engaged to a man I’m not sure I ever loved (in fact, I’m sure I didn’t) who was seven years older than me, which doesn’t seem be a big deal, but when we met I was only 20 and he was 27, and, well, I had spent what I was told were the best years of my life at shoulder the weight of believing that I should have known better. On the bright side, the Celexa I was prescribed (by a psychiatrist who had me unpack a lifetime of pain in less than 15 minutes before pushing me out the door with a piece of paper in hand) had did a pretty good job of numbing all the parts I wanted to numb, mainly the parts of me that were wide awake, the parts of me that could feel anything. I felt small. But I dreamed, one day, of taking up space.

For our first trip, we decided to fungus proof our Ferndale rental home, which we shared with our roommate and my best friend, by setting up “travel stations” everywhere. At the dining table we had paint, a camera and various art supplies. The bed was very comfortable with freshly laundered sheets. A Spotify playlist has been created. Then there was what I call the place where the magic happened, not like in a MTV cribs sort of, but the kind of magic you read about and never really believe until it happens to you.

I had purchased these mushrooms from a co-worker at the Detroit medical marijuana dispensary I had been working for a few years and, as someone who hates all culinary mushrooms (I used to tell waiters and restaurant staff I was allergic to mushrooms just so I wouldn’t have to see those funky bastards on my plate), I wasn’t thrilled to have to eat them. Thus, we recorded several hours of Gilmore Girls (i.e., according to an Instagram post I made that night in 2012, which simply said “Happy New Year, everyone #mushrooms” under a photo from my Amazon library, which contained the seven seasons of the hit CW show) and ordered a Pizza.

The pizza was the perfect vehicle for the desiccated mushrooms because it masked the taste and texture. At the end of the first Gilmore Girls episode, my fiancé at the time was clearly on a rocket ship bound for Tripsville, USA. During this time, I felt nothing. I watched him observe the world which, according to his behavior, must have turned into a body of water. Another broken episode and still nothing. During this time, he went to explore our modest bungalow with the curiosity of an extraterrestrial being landing on Earth for the first time. From my research, which involved asking, like, three questions when buying a Ziplock bag of these, I knew that a mushroom trip could take about eight hours and I was already almost two hours behind. between them. So I called my supplier, who asked me a series of questions to figure out why my body wasn’t interacting with the psilocybin in the mushroom.

“Oh wait, you’re on antidepressants, aren’t you?” ” they asked. (I have always been a source of TMI.)

“That’s it. SSRIs reduce the effects of mushrooms,” they said. “So you’ll have to eat the other eighth if you want to catch up.”

There were a few slices of pizza left and a whole bag of mushrooms. I stood over the sink as I quickly ate them, so as not to taste the earthy/manure flavor of the mushrooms. Again, I found myself waiting. Until I am no longer.

The night was rather hazy. I don’t know if we counted to midnight or if midnight even happened at all. I ended up in a tent we had made earlier that day. We tied sheets to the ceiling to bunch around our pile of pillows and strung Christmas lights up and down, side to side. My then-fiancé, with tears in his eyes, was convinced that I was an angel from outer space. Not really. He was overwhelmed by my aura, I guess, which shone and shimmered under the white Christmas lights. I had a very different reaction because I don’t remember being flattered by her trippy declarations of love. What I experienced in this tent would change the course of my life: I received a message. What or who, I have no idea, but as my fiancé fell lower down the rabbit hole, placing me higher and higher on his angelic pedestal, I was suspended by the cosmos. There was no music, no sound, no movement, just stars and blackness and the absence of everything. But a voice came through the void, and it sounded like Cate Blanchett as Galadriel from The Lord of the Rings“You have to go. Don’t look back. You really have to go this time.” After hearing a few iterations of this same message repeated many times, I fell back on my earthly pillows and when I looked at him, still in awe of myself, I knew I had to go.

The voice, which I realized many years later was mine, was right. And so I left. Not that night or the next day, but two weeks and a hurtful indiscretion later, I was gone. It would take another mushroom trip, almost a decade after the first, for me to realize that the voice never really left and therefore I had been running ever since.

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