The Amateur Apothecary

About the time I dabbled in DIY pharmacology. Warning: don’t try this at home!

I’m going to get the most embarrassing experiment out of the way first. The one I’ve been mortified to admit. The one that’s blush-worthy, ick-promoting, nausea-inducing, and just plain gross.

The preceding was your trigger warning.

Okay, brace yourselves. Yes, yes, I did this at one point in my quest for a cure, to heal what ailed me. It was the mid 1990s when I received my copy of Yoga Journal in the mail. I was a yoga fanatic back then and was convinced that my practice would heal every issue I ever had. Depression, weight problems, and an occasional touch of adult acne. There was one article in the issue about the ancient ayurvedic wacky-as-fuck practice of drinking one’s urine to treat a multitude of complaints. Magical thinking convinced me that this was my answer, and the article was all the proof I needed to try this new-old thing. Science didn’t matter; common sense was pointless. I was onto something special here and I went for it. That article was written just for me.

There, I said it. Yes, I did it. And double yes, it did not end well, though it seemed like a great idea at the time. I can’t say that a weight has been lifted by making this public admission. If anything, it’s increased my mortification. But I made a promise to myself. No more secrets.

Why did I do it? How can you ask me that question? Why? Because I was desperate for a cure. Because I didn’t want to take anti-depressants and sleep meds anymore. Because I was a fool, looking for a magic bullet. Because I spent my entire childhood taking pills and felt immense shame that I needed medication to be okay.

For anyone considering this questionable practice, I want you to know that when you drink pee fresh from the source––in my case, that would be my bladder––and it’s not chilled, it’s appalling. And for anyone who’s wondering if chilling it makes it better, I’m here to tell you that it’s disgusting on the rocks, too. No good comes from this practice. I made myself toxic. In my case, the outcome was a one-car accident. Thankfully, I was on a back road driving very slowly. I fainted, and my car ended up in a ditch. I was found unconscious and taken to a local emergency room.

I didn’t divulge my “drinking” problem to the doctor but made a resolution on the spot that I would never imbibe my bodily fluids ever again. I’ve kept my word.

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Did you do it? Thank you! Now back to the action…

I followed my doctor’s advice for decades, taking my meds like a good, compliant patient. I hate the word compliant, it’s patronizing, it’s demeaning. When patients aren’t compliant, they’re labeled difficult; they’re labeled troublemakers. It lives in your chart forever. When I wasn’t compliant it was because I wanted to be a partner in my care.

I was overprescribed for, and at different times during years of treatment was drugged into dullness, outrageous weight gain, ataxia, anxiety, gut issues, dry mouth, more depression, insomnia, seizures, dependence on benzos, and hypotension.

Sounds like fun, huh?

The desire to find another way isn’t uncommon, and the sometimes self-destructive impulse to deny mental illness and make unsupervised, ill-advised changes to one’s medication occurs often with these types of diagnoses. Playing doctor isn’t unusual and it isn’t always a terrible thing. As a patient, having my sense of agency undermined by so-called experts who didn’t listen was unnerving.

About 5 years ago, I started hearing about microdosing. The medical research community launched studies into the use of psychedelics in healing and treating depression and Complex PTSD. I was intrigued. I looked for books on the subject and read Ayelet Waldman’s memoir, A Really Good Day. She wrote about her experience microdosing LSD to ease the struggle of a years-old bipolar diagnosis and pre-menstrual dysphoria.

She tried all the things, the meds––a list as long as my arm––the therapists, yoga (she skipped the urine cocktails or she’s not fessing up). Waldman microdosed for a month after finding a source to supply her with ill-gotten acid from a man whose nom de médicine was Lewis Carroll.

Oh, those people in Berkeley are so creative. Waldman got positive results and I was even more intrigued.

Next, I read Michael Pollan’s fabulous compendium, How to Change Your Mind; a broad survey of the psychedelic medicine chest; ayahuasca, magic mushrooms, LSD, MDMA, ketamine, and the like. Riveted by the subject and Pollan’s writing, I read the book three times.

Then, I got busy. I did the thing I do when I want to learn everything I can about whatever my latest passion is. I ordered every book I could find on the topic of psychedelics. Old classics and newer tomes, replete with research studies, testimonials, and the fervent belief that there’s an arsenal of plant life (and chemistry) that could be helping a lot of us experience breathtaking emotional shifts and personal transformation. This is a topic anyone who lived through the 1960’s drug culture could have told you about without all those silly studies.

The 1960s was cutting edge, if not a bit chaotic. I could consult with any of the old hippies hanging on the Village Green in Woodstock for tons of good advice. I live right near by.

Did I read those books? No. I did the thing I do after I clean out a bookstore. I look at the stack and intend to read. But I don’t read. I skim and then lose interest. I’m bad at reading IKEA manuals, too. I just want to get on with it and build the thing. That never works out well.

I lost interest in reading the books, but I didn’t lose interest in wanting to experiment. I was ready. I wanted to change. I wanted to stop taking meds. I wanted a life-changing experience. And I’d forgotten or blocked the memory of the outcome of my pee-drinking endeavor.

I found a source. Not Lewis Carroll, William Burroughs, or Tim Leary. They’re all dead. My guy was a real person who wasn’t interested in concealing his identity. He believed in all of it and was committed to seeing change happen. He sent me blotter LSD with little smiley faces (perfect!) and taught me how to create my own microdose regimen. I did it for a while but really didn’t see much change. My brain has been restructured after years of meds and as a result, my tolerance is high. I thought I needed the big guns. I was frightened by the idea of tripping, but my curiosity far outweighed my fear. When I read Pollan’s book, he stressed the importance of working with a guide. I had no idea how to find one and didn’t have a budget for out of pocket “medical” expenses. And, of course, I was in a hurry.

I would describe myself––at least my self before recovery––as impulsive. When I wanted something, I made it happen, yesterday. I’m still that way to a degree, but I don’t operate in a vacuum anymore. Now I consult others before I act on most of my great ideas.

I reached out to a pal whose boyfriend grew mushrooms. I bought several servings that sat in my house for a while, until I got tired of putting it off, and summoned the courage to try. I was planning on flying solo, against all good advice, especially for a first-timer. I had no idea what I was dealing with. I could only envision a positive result. Foolhardy? Perhaps.

The decision was made. I planned on eating the mushrooms in the evening, tripping all night, and taking the next day off to land back in a less psychedelic reality. Nervous for many reasons, I kept talking myself down. I wanted to go into the trip from a positive place, not a worried one, as I was afraid to sabotage my adventure by planting a negative seed from the start. I was scared because I’d heard that people sometimes vomit after ingesting mushrooms, and that the mushrooms taste really bad. I HATE to vomit. But I wanted this so badly I was even willing to throw up if it meant that enlightenment was the payday.

I’d read that one should trip in an environment that’s comfortable for the individual, and though many recommend being in nature while tripping to heighten the connections, I HATE nature, too. I don’t really hate it, but it’s not my happy place. My happy place is my bedroom, so that’s the setting I chose. And I made sure I had snacks. Just in case. Just in case what? Just in case I got hungry while zipping through the galaxy, seeing goddesses, and learning the meaning of life? Whatever. I figured it would be good for me to have ice pops on hand in case I needed some sweet hydration. I had no idea what the fuck I was doing. But I was excited!

In a quiet ritual in soft light, I extracted the skinny mushrooms from the glassine envelope they came wrapped in. I knew they were good, because they were from a newly harvested crop, and the man who’d grown them had tripped the week before. I weighed out the recommended amount and opened my mouth, receiving them as if they were a form of communion. I don’t know from communion, I’m Jewish, but it felt sacred. Chewing them, I noticed they weren’t unpleasant-tasting, just earthy. I chewed and chewed and chewed, finally swallowing and then I sat in the middle of my bed and waited and waited and waited.

I monitored myself, evaluating the sensations in my body. Is it happening? Is that tingling I’m feeling? Am I tripping yet? I don’t think so. Why isn’t it working? What am I supposed to feel? Where are the vibrant colors not seen in nature that I’m supposed to be seeing? Where are the dripping, melting walls? Why isn’t my clock oozing off the nightstand and onto the floor, just like a Dali painting?

When are the sparkling fairies going to arrive to escort me to The Mother, The Goddess, who’ll bless me and restore me to my true self, the self that’s been hidden all along, waiting to break through? When will my ego begin to shatter, revealing the secrets of the universe? The secrets I’ve always known in some deep part of me. When?

I tried not to look at my clock because time is an artificial construct, right? But after 4 hours of sitting in the middle of my bed, waiting, it occurred to me that maybe I wasn’t going to trip, after all. Were these the same mushrooms my supplier used? It was 1am, and nothing. I yawned, I stretched, I cleaned up the wrappers and wooden sticks from the 4 mango popsicles I’d eaten that evening. Waiting is hungry business. I put my pajamas on and went to sleep. Better luck next time?

What I found out later is that psychedelics don’t work when one is taking anti-depressants, because the receptors needed to initiate the trip are blocked by the meds I was already taking. I guess I should have read those books. Oops.

After the mushroom fail, about 5 years ago, I wanted to see if I could withdraw from my psych meds the right way. And once I was clean, I could try to trip again and even find a guide. I was doing great emotionally and it was important to me to see if I could do my life without medication. For once, I didn’t want to do it on my own and my family doctor worked with me. He supervised the very slow, strategic withdrawal of my psych meds. When I say slow, I mean glacial.

Eventually, I was off everything psych-med related. I did well medication-free for about 2 years, and then one day found myself needing help again. I was crushed and felt like a failure…for about two days. Then I realized that there’s nothing wrong with using available tools if necessary. I said yes to one anti-depressant, which made a huge difference. I was off all the sedating drugs, the dangerous ones. And now, at night I eat a pot gummy and take an antihistamine to help me sleep. And I sleep. Restful, rejuvenating sleep.

I still take a lot of meds. But now, they’re different meds. I’m happy to call them my “old lady” meds; for hypertension, high cholesterol, GERD, and the like. Vitamins for strong bones and nutritional balance. Lots of Vitamin D, because, as I said, I don’t do nature.

I know it’s not nearly as interesting as the psych med cocktails chased with a slug of pee…but it’s so much safer, practical, and SANE.

I call them my “old lady meds” to declare my life, to say I’m here. I’m alive, I’m getting older––I’m going to be 65 in 6 months. I’m emotionally healthy and happy. For many years, I never thought I’d still be here and though I wish I didn’t need these meds, I’m grateful they exist for me to take as I make my way through a balanced and satisfying life.

When I realized that I was happy during my two years off meds, there was no longer a pressing need to trip. But that doesn’t mean I never will. Life is for living.

Afterword: Although I’m telling a funny-ish story here, it’s important for me to note that September is Suicide Awareness Month, and depression and other mental illnesses are no laughing matter. I love that at this my point in my life and recovery I’m able to laugh at myself, but this is serious stuff.

If you, or someone you know is struggling, please ask for help and don’t ever give up. Healing is completely possible. I know this to be true. Take good care. All love, XO

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