Part 1: I Did a Thing (Psilocybin)

I did a thing. 

Back in January, I tried psilocybin (aka “magic mushrooms”). I wouldn’t ordinarily admit to partaking of an illegal Schedule I substance on a public blog, but in this case, I received the drug legally as a participant in a clinical trial run by the University of Washington. 

The clinical trial studied the effects of psilocybin on metastatic cancer-related anxiety. Unsurprisingly, anxiety is one of those fun bonuses many cancer patients experience – another “gift” of cancer, yay! Overachiever that I am, I got a head start on things, honing my anxiety skills long before my cancer diagnosis.  

Art by Natalie Dee

I signed up for this trial after hearing many glowing reports about psilocybin, not just from fringe sources, but mainstream ones, too (looking at you Michael Pollan and Lisa Ling). I had hoped to come back to this blog in February with my own glowing report. I had high (natch) hopes of sharing deep insights into the meaning of life. But, I found I had little to say. My experience wasn’t bad, it just wasn’t much of anything. I spent 6 hours mostly seeing multicolored fractals peeling out into infinity. 

Photo by Kent

Like, really? I knew a divine experience wasn’t guaranteed, but I had hoped for more than this. I wound up feeling confused, frustrated and disappointed. Did I do it wrong? Why did everyone else seem to have elaborate experiences that revealed the meaning of life, but I got stuck staring at the equivalent of a cheesy poster in a head shop on Telegraph Ave.? And why do others find glimpses of infinity reassuring when it freaks me the F out? Was there something I was supposed to understand from the imagery that evaded me? 

I tried really earnestly to understand my experience. I spoke with the principal researcher and others with knowledge about psilocybin, I read books, I hit up Google, I journaled, I meditated. As my daughter might say, I did “the most.” But instead of improving my understanding, I found myself wading into a smidgen of an existential crisis, questioning the meaning of everything. Whoopsie daisy. 

Don’t worry. I’m fine – just perhaps a hair too analytical for psychedelics? Anyhoo, for the second time since my cancer diagnosis, an oncologist referred me out for specialized therapy — this time a unique 6 session protocol based on Viktor Frankl’s “meaning-based” approach. These referrals are hard to get, y’all! If I ever get referred out a third time, I expect a free set of steak knives.

In Part 2 I’ll discuss my experience with meaning-based therapy and where I’m at ~7 months after taking psilocybin.