How magic mushrooms could become Michigan’s next frontier – and why it matters | Views | Detroit
Tthe first time I had magic mushrooms it was New Years Eve. I was nervous not knowing what to expect, but found myself fueled by the excitement of being able to tick that life experience box off my internal wishlist. 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, depression, and the breakdown of my family unit, but mostly because of the situation I found myself in: at age 24 , I was engaged to a man I’m not sure I ever loved (actually, I’m sure I didn’t) who was seven years older than me, which doesn’t seem like a big deal, but when we met, I was barely 20 and he was 27, and, well, I had spent what I had been told to be the best years of my life bearing the brunt of believing that I should have known better. On the positive side, the Celexa I was prescribed (by a psychiatrist who had me unwrap a lifetime of pain in less than 15 minutes before pushing me out the door with a piece of paper in my hand) did a good job numbing all the parts I wanted to numb, mainly the parts of me that were wide awake, the parts of me that could feel everything. I felt small. But one day I dreamed of taking up space.
For our first trip, we decided to protect our Ferndale rental home, which we shared with our roommate and my best friend, from fungus by setting up “travel stations” everywhere. At the dining table we had paintings, a camera, and various art supplies. The bed was very comfortable with freshly laundered linens. A Spotify playlist has been created. Then there was what I call the place where the magic happened, not like in a MTV cradles kind of way, but kind of magic that you read and never really believe until it happens to you.
I had bought these mushrooms from a colleague at the medical marijuana dispensary in Detroit where I had worked for a few years, and as a person who hates all culinary mushrooms (I used to tell the waiters and restaurant staff that I was allergic to mushrooms just so I didn’t have to see these awesome bastards on my plate), I wasn’t thrilled that I had to eat them. We therefore accumulated several hours of Gilmore Girls (that is, 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 show CW) and ordered a Pizza.
Pizza was the perfect vehicle for dried mushrooms, as it masked the taste and texture. At the end of the first Gilmore Girls episode, my then-fiancÃ© was clearly on a rocket bound for Tripsville, USA. During this time, I felt nothing. I watched him look at the world which, according to his behavior, must have turned into a body of water. Another broken episode and still nothing. Meanwhile, he left to explore our modest bungalow with the curiosity of an alien landing for the first time on Earth. From my research, which was to ask, like, three questions when I bought a Ziplock bag of it, I knew a mushroom trip could last about eight hours and I was already behind on almost two of them. them. So I called my provider, who asked a series of questions to find out why my body wasn’t interacting with the mushroom’s psilocybin.
“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 fungi,” they said. “So you’ll have to eat the other eighth if you want to catch up with it.”
There were a few slices of pizza left and a whole bag of mushrooms. I stood over the sink as I ate them quickly, so as not to taste the earthy / manure flavor of the mushrooms. Once again, I found myself waiting. Until I wasn’t.
The night was mostly hazy. I don’t know if we counted until midnight or if midnight has even arrived. I ended up in a tent we had made earlier today. We had tied sheets to the ceiling so that they would pile up around our pile of pillows and hang the Christmas lights up and down, side to side. My then-fiancÃ©, 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 sparkled under the white Christmas lights. I had a much different reaction because I can’t remember being flattered by his trippy declarations of love. What I experienced in this tent was going to change the course of my life: I received a message. What or who, I have no idea, but as my fiancÃ© fell lower into 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 darkness and the absence of everything. But a voice came through the void, and she 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 that same message repeated over and over again, I fell back on my earthly floor pillows and when I looked at it, still in awe of me, 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 my first one, for me to realize that the voice never really left and therefore I’ve been running ever since.