Experience with Magic Mushrooms

In the early 2000s my flatmate got hold of some magic mushrooms.  I had never tried them before and was curious to experience the effects.  We invited a few friends over and while everyone chatted and some rolled joints, my flatmate boiled the mushrooms in a saucepan of water and made everyone tea.  Normal tea, milk and sugar for taste, the water loaded with psilocybin.

At some point it was decided that we would watch Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, recently released on DVD and VHS.  Either before the film started or shortly after, my stomach suddenly felt very heavy, apparently an effect of magic mushrooms.  As I watched, I realised this was the best film I had ever seen.  Everything was really interesting.  I was fascinated by the story, the imagery, the brilliant Alan Rickman.  Never had a better film been made.

We each had two or three cups of mushroom tea that evening, not particularly high doses.  I remain quite bemused that the law prohibits the use of this rather benign substance.  Higher doses apparently lead to more intense psychedelic experiences, with some people having quite bad trips, but at low doses, it makes things interesting.

I won’t go into a big political argument about its legal status but I will make a couple of points.  Some people’s live are devastated by the misuse of drugs, both legal and illegal.  Some people’s lives are enhanced by responsible use of drugs.  What a sensible person does with their own body and mind should be of no concern to any government.  I am an adult.  I make my own choices in life and do not welcome any restriction of my personal freedom.  Not that the law dissuades anyone who wants to do such things; any sensible person will take precautions against being caught by the authorities just as a child hides things their parents would frown upon.

via Daily Prompt: Mushroom



Paralysed from the neck down, I refuse food, accept little water. Mum, in despair, forces food into my mouth, pleading for me to eat. I choke. She cannot save me. Desperate, terrified, horrified, frantic, panicking, fear of God and full of self-loathing for the rest of her life. I see this in her eyes. In my last moments I get a satisfying, cold revenge.

Now YOU suffer.

How my sexuality has evolved

When I was a child, I enjoyed taking my clothes off with friends – other boys.  As I grew older, still pre-pubescent, I would fantasise about taking off my clothes with girls in my class.  When adolescence came, I would have intimate feelings towards both boys and girls.  In late adolescence, I accepted the label ‘bisexual’, at least as far as my close friends were concerned.  I wasn’t sexually active, but still enjoyed feelings of attraction to both genders, though I wasn’t prepared to share this with the world.

Due to some childhood trauma, I was terrified of intimacy.  Getting close to anyone caused immense, intolerable distress.  I lost my virginity (such a silly phrase – where did it go?) in my 20s.  In the same month, on separate occasions, I had sex with a man, and with a woman.  Emotionally, I found it incredibly difficult to deal with.  Early relationships are bound to be met with problems, but I was an adult, and felt like a failure.

I was also resistant to the side of me that was attracted to men.  Although homosexuality was becoming increasingly accepted in society, I didn’t want it in myself.  I didn’t want the stigma.  I didn’t want to relive that childhood trauma.  Denying part of my sexuality meant denying all of my sexuality.  Attraction to men and women were embroiled.  I remember thinking I’d rather not have sex than be gay.  Emotionally, I was still ill-equipped to cope with relationships, whether brief or long-term.  I was celibate for many years.

Sexuality is not fixed.  If it were a scale where 1 is heterosexual and 10 is homosexual, some days I might be 3, some days I might be 7, some days I might be D, where I felt more asexual, which makes the scale more two-dimensional than a typical one-dimensional scale.  Various labels have been created to try and identify these different states, but my old-fashioned view found it difficult to comprehend.  I was content with the idea of varying degrees of bisexuality while still finding it difficult to countenance in myself.

But what is a natural aspect of every living creature is impossible to ignore.  I never considered myself to be homosexual, yet when I heard the word ‘gay’ I would turn scarlet.  In fact, if I heard mention of sex at all I would turn scarlet.  I was ashamed of how I felt, what I had done.  The childhood trauma still loomed large in my psyche.

Counselling did, to some degree, help me accept these feelings, albeit with some reservation.  I was able to move forward emotionally a little.  But I don’t think any amount of psychotherapy could really delve into the depths of my mind and resolve deep-seated issues.

By some chance, I had the opportunity to take changa, a psychedelic substance comprising of DMT and psychoactive herbs.  I didn’t know what to expect.  What did happen was profound.  I had several hits of changa over the evening, each lasting just a few minutes, and each being different.  Essentially, what it did was allow me to experience pure emotion, without the baggage of a story or narrative, without associations with other people, society, or my own preconceptions.  All of that was stripped away for the duration of the trip.

With some hits I would find myself staring at a psychedelic painting, amazing at how the image appeared to move and resemble other things.  With other hits I would be curled up in a ball, face-down, hands over my face.  I experienced raw emotion and nothing else.  I would be laughing and crying at the same time, the two states overlapping.  There was laughter, there were tears, and where the two states met there was outward expression – the typical shaking of the chest and tears one might associate with extreme sorrow or extreme joy.  The distinction was blurry.

Life carried on after that evening.  Other aspects of life still had to be attended.  After a while I realised something.  I had absolutely no attraction to men.  It’s gone completely.  It’s as if it was all just an emotional hang-up from childhood, the unresolved trauma expressing itself in ways as complicated as the adolescent mind, never really moving on, and never dealt with as it should have been in childhood – with understanding, acceptance and love.  The experience of feeling the emotion pure and raw, with absolute acceptance, and no unnecessary narrative, allowed it to be fully expressed without the involvement of anyone else.  My psychedelic experience was truly liberating.

So I no longer consider myself to be bisexual.  I have no attraction to men, other than for friendship.  I am still as attracted to woman as I have always been.  So I suppose I am heterosexual.  Or I would be if I had a girlfriend.  That’s not to say I can’t be aroused by the sight of an erect penis in pornography.  Just as when reading a novel or reading a book one might empathise with a character and put oneself in their shoes, another man with an erection is quite easy to empathise with.  But I could ask myself some simple questions.  Do I know what that feels like?  Yes.  Do I want to touch or be near that man’s penis?  No.  Would I even want to be in its presence in a heterosexual orgy?  No.  So while it might arouse me, I then want to find a woman to truly engage with that arousal.

Some might argue that I have been ‘cured’ of homosexual feelings, but this is bullshit.  I have released long-held emotional trauma.  This experience could have entirely different effects for someone else – they might release similar emotional trauma and be ‘cured’ of heterosexuality.  I am more in touch with myself.  A phase which maybe should have lasted just a few years in childhood, or be expressed with sexual experimentation in late adolescence, has been dealt with, the emotion processed.  I am left with complete acceptance of anyone’s sexuality.  I no longer blush when I hear the word ‘gay’ or any mention of sex because these things no longer form part of my emotional baggage.  But my dad said the word ‘spliff’ the other day and I blushed and had to move the conversation on quickly.

I still struggle to understand transgender issues.  Having never had personal experience of this it’s difficult to grasp except intellectually, and even then I cannot possibly comprehend what these people go through.  Currently, I could never advocate hormone treatment or surgery, as self-acceptance has been part of my credence for a long time, even as I struggled to accept aspects of myself.  But there is acceptance of one’s body, and acceptance of one’s mind, and where these are at odds, I have no answer.  But I’d happily give them some changa to see what effect it would have on them.

Seasonal Affective Order

The use of the word ‘disorder’ in articles about mental health points to the idea that if only someone could be cured of whatever ‘disorder’ they have, they could be happy living in modern society with no problems. This is contrary to the idea that modern society can be the cause, or major contributing factor, of mental illness. I tend to think of aspects of life in anthropological terms. I have no education or training in anthropology, but I wonder what life was like in our hunter-gatherer days. After all, we have barely, if at all, evolved since those times, yet we do so much which ignores the impulses our evolution developed to keep us healthy.

One phrase that I especially dislike is Seasonal Affective Disorder. I don’t think there is anything disorderly about being affected by the seasons. What would our hunter-gatherer ancestors be doing in winter? I imagine they would have been working hard during the summer and autumn gathering food to store for winter. Then they spend winter sheltering from the cold, munching the stored food, expending little energy as there isn’t much food out there to gather anyway, sitting around a fire, telling stories, making love, and looking forward to spring.

What I can’t imagine them doing is forcing themselves to wake up before dawn every day, venturing away from the safety and comfort of the tribal winter home, expending energy doing things which do not directly contribute to their or their family’s wellbeing, are not amusing, entertaining or stimulating, hidden away from natural daylight, before returning to the home after sunset, with nothing to show for their efforts.

This is not to say they wouldn’t be productive. They could be making new spears, bows, arrows, baskets, discussing what they have learned in the past year, figuring out what they will do next year. A time of preparation, intimate communication, and social bonding.

Someone who has less energy at this time than in the warmer months would not be seen as having a disorder. It would match the demands of the season perfectly, even having an advantage over someone who wants to go out wandering during the day, risking hypothermia and getting lost in the dark because they misjudged the time of the sunset. In this scenario, the person affected by the seasons is perfectly normal, and could even act as a source of wisdom for the rest of the tribe. At the turn of the season, he feels a change in himself, and prepares for the human equivalent of hibernation, maybe encouraging others to get ready for the coming cold period.

The word ‘disorder’ seems to be applied to anything that is different enough from what is generally accepted as normal to affect someone’s mood or behaviour in a way that is at odds with the demands of modern society. But we are still as human as the hunter-gatherer. You can’t turn a dog into a cat by teaching it to climb a tree. Ignoring emotions is, as anyone with experience of mental health issues knows, potentially damaging psychologically. In that vein, we cannot simply ignore a biological impetus just because modern society wants to do the same stuff all year round.

Dog in a tree


At the same time, we cannot ignore society just because our evolution hasn’t caught up. As human beings we are very adaptable, as long as we can work out what needs to be done. Working fewer hours during the winter, so that you can get up when it’s light and get home before dark, perhaps. Maybe saving money during the rest of the year to use during this time. After all, if hunter-gatherers stored food for winter, it makes sense that we modern humans store money to buy food in the winter.

I certainly don’t have all the answers, but I would like to see the end of labelling perfectly normal traits as disorders. The very word ‘disorder’ is discriminatory. It’s like saying, “You do not function correctly,” rather than, “Your needs are different from mine.” It also points to a kind of authoritarianism. “If you don’t follow our rules you will be punished.” Disobedience results in stigmatisation. I believe we can learn something from everyone. By shunning people and labelling them we deny ourselves valuable lessons, and deny them the right to be who they are.

Despair, Loneliness, Denial, Celibacy, Bisexuality, Acceptance, Lust, Relationship

Long periods of time I spent alone, nursing my sorrows, yearning for someone I would never have, lamenting the missed opportunities, misspoken and unspoken words, hating myself, hating my family, hating my friends, hating the world, blaming my parents and God (if ever I thought of its existence) for traumatic childhood events. My identity was locked in the past and it took me a long time to bring my consciousness to the present moment, to take responsibility for my life, my emotions, my thoughts, my urges.

Lonely as I was, my heart and mind were too fragile to risk being hurt again, so, moving on from love lost, I had to rebuild the foundations of my psyche, to become strong enough to face the trauma from the past. I stopped wishing for someone to solve my problems and be my light. I had to find my own way. I decided I didn’t want anyone until I had myself sorted. It wouldn’t be fair on them and would likely hurt us both. Still, I tried to deny aspects of myself. I thought I could embrace my heterosexuality while denying my homosexuality. I told myself I’d rather be single forever than gay. Well, being single is easy when you know your head is too messed up for a relationship and porn is readily available, but denying half of your urges (more like a quarter, really) is an exercise in futility. It’s like banging your head against a wall while wishing you didn’t have a headache.

Technically, true celibacy is abstaining from all sexual activity, including masturbation, but I’ve never been an ascetic. I needed that time not pursuing, wishing for, hoping for any kind of intimate relationship. I was afraid of intimacy and yearned for it at the same time. To overcome both states I had to transcend the whole concept.

It seems a little odd to think that in my late teens and early twenties, being bisexual was something that didn’t really matter. It took an unpleasant homosexual experience to turn me off for so long. Women simply felt more natural. But still, I could not cope with relationships. Things always got dug up from the past.

It was my latest depressive episode that led me to seek professional help. This had recurred so many times, and though I had made progress on my own, it was slow and my stagnation was getting to me. I needed help to free myself to be who I am. NHS waiting lists for counselling are abysmally long, so I contacted a counsellor for private sessions. That sounds really simple, but making that call took me a couple of months of deliberating, debating, too afraid to face my own shadow. Making that call was a big step forward.

Along with all the other help she gave me, a phrase my counsellor used a number of times which stuck in my mind was ‘self-acceptance’. Eventually, free from past events that used to plague me, I got to a point where I could stay in the present moment more, not dwelling in the past or being anxious about the future. I could take responsibility for my own life and accept who and what I am.

I am bisexual, amongst other things. It’s one part of my identity, not even a major part really, for all the headfuck and heartache I’ve allowed because of it. I feel no need to shout it from the rooftops and more than I would shout about picking my nose or eating chocolate (not at the same time). I don’t particularly like when someone makes their sexuality a massive part of their identity, being really camp, misogynistic or womanising. From my point of view, it degrades themself as a person. It’s like saying, “I’m an accountant. Everything I do is about being an accountant.” Substitute ‘an accountant’ for gay, bi, straight, depressed, spiritual, happy, nationalist, politically affiliated – you get the idea. Every person is so much more than one part of their identity. The idea of coming out is, to me, more a statement of how intolerant and gossipy society is that people are initially afraid of their own selves, and then have to categorise themselves in order to fit in somewhere, than of accepting oneself and just living.

I got to the stage where I could almost convince myself I was ready for a relationship. I wasn’t really quite there, but it was a start. I began flirting with someone online, took her out for lunch, but there were no sparks. More recently, an old friend kept cropping up in my mind – the other man in the homosexual experience I mentioned earlier. I looked him up – one thing social media is actually useful for. It was so strong in my mind that I knew I wouldn’t sleep if I didn’t make contact, so I sent a request. After a bit of online chat we arranged to meet up. I didn’t really know what to expect but was prepared for anything – friendship, dislike, casual sex, relationship. After not much time and a few meetings, it was obvious those old feelings were still there. Years ago it was the wrong time for both of us. Now, it all seems to fit into place.

So now I am in a relationship. It still seems a bit weird to say that after 12 years of not being in one and thinking I’d be more likely to have killed myself by the time I was 40. We’re both very independent, so used to being alone and happy with that. The phrase ‘other half’ makes me gurn as it implies that you are not a complete person on your own. ‘Boyfriend’ is just as abhorrent – we’re not boys, we’re in our 30s. ‘Partner’ seems best. We’ll go with that. He says he’s fallen for me but I don’t feel it so deeply. I can’t say what the future holds, how I will feel in months or years to come, so this might last a few months or it might last a lifetime. Whatever happens, I know I am strong enough to deal with it. And so is he. We’ll take it day by day.

Here’s to the present!

Why I’ve been telling my colleagues about my depression

Warning: Swearing and references to self-harm.


This week I returned to work after three months off with depression.  I’ve had it for over twenty years, since my teens, and it comes and goes.  Since my last stint on anti-depressants, I tried to maintain normal mood variations, but I had been struggling for a couple of years with low moods and suicidal thoughts.

My father had come to my house to help with some DIY.  He was expected, but I really felt like slashing the arteries in my wrists.  I boiled the kettle, made tea, made no eye contact, unable to hide the misery I was feeling but not wanting to express it either.  He said something about sanding and varnishing my new skirting boards and was quite surprised when I shouted, “Fuck the fucking skirting!”

“I’m only thinking of you,” he said.

“I don’t give a shit about the skirting!”

I’d had a throat infection so he said, “Is the cold getting to you?”

“It’s not the fucking cold!  I’m depressed!  I’m suicidal at times.”

I broke down and wept into my hands.  Dad, ever practical and helpful, was at a loss.  He hugged me until I had relaxed a bit and asked me what I needed.  I said I didn’t know.  He didn’t like to see me distressed so he left me to be on my own.  I had been sleeping late in the day so I asked him to call my GP in the morning and get me an appointment.  I got back on the anti-depressants.

Acknowledging how I really felt was a big relief and seeking help was an important step on the road to recovery.  From past experience, I knew better than to think I was well just because I felt better than I had been, but I allowed myself to enjoy the high that came from the release for as long as it would last.

Nearly three months later I had another low period, but still wanted to return to work, as I wanted to get back into a routine.  The doctor increased my medication and said to give it another couple of weeks to allow it to take effect.  I am now on a ‘phased return to work’, which basically means I can choose my hours until I feel better.

My HR manager and supervisor have been really good.  I can take breaks whenever I want, I have finished early because the long days were more of a struggle than I expected.  I was told I could work much shorter days, but to me that seems pointless when I am trying to get back to normal life.

I was welcomed back.  I had been missed.  People obviously ask what illness I had, so I tell them.  Depression.  I’ve been fairly open about it.  I’ve sought out colleagues I’m friendly with to have a chat.  Anyone else who has asked, I tell them.  I’ve had various responses: sympathy, understanding, misunderstanding, indifference, related stories, curiosity.  I don’t want sympathy; it makes no-one feel better other than the sympathiser.  Someone asked, “Are you all better now?”  Clearly someone who doesn’t know about depression.  Someone asked with interest how it affected me, and I found myself trying to summarise without going into detail.

I tell people because despite increased awareness of mental health issues, there is still some stigma attached to it.  Even I tried to deny it myself in order to carry on regardless.  I’m not completely open about it.  I’m a very closed person on the whole.  I just wanted to say what I had as if it was something like diabetes.  It’s a condition.  It’s manageable and treatable.  It probably won’t go away completely.  But, most of all, there is no shame in having it, and if anyone feels that things in life are too much to bear, have the strength to admit it and seek help.

I’m still a long way off being well.  There are a number of things I my mind I need to address.  I am grateful for the help I have received and maybe could have used my time off work to sort things out, but just having that time as a respite has done me a world of good.  Now I still need to seek further help, and I imagine there will be times when I simply can’t face work.  I am fortunate that my employers will allow enough flexibility to aid in my recovery.


Numb.  No feeling.  Can’t sleep.

No anger.

No shame.

No joy.

No happiness.

No fun.

No future.

No past.

Trepidation.  Something stirs beneath the surface.  I don’t want to disturb it, but I want it gone.

A numb fear.  Fear of facing what holds me.  Clinging, cloying, smothering, restricting.

Let me go.

Let it go.

We are not friends, this thing and me.  Yet it is part of me.

It sometimes hides and I forget it’s there.  But it comes back to make me feel sorrow, regret, shame, guilt, undeservedness.

You don’t deserve joy, it tells me.  Then give me death, I moan.  You don’t deserve death.

Numbness is a kind of solace, but brings no comfort.

I am like a ghost.  I died a long time ago, yet continue to exist, lost, aimless, numb.

The numbness is a shield.  It protects me from the thing that doesn’t want to be exorcised.  The thing that holds me back, keeps me down.

What would I be without it?  What am I now?  These questions seem like they should mean something.

Maybe it’s not what I could be or what I am.

Maybe it’s simply…

I am.