DRUGS for the SAKE OF DRUGS

A largely indefensible position.

My best friend since high school, who has a PhD in anthropology from Yale, once told me that there were two things common to every single tribe of people in the world, no matter how diverse or disconnected.  Number one:  the suppression and control of women’s sexuality, and number two:  the use of recreational drugs. 

I have enjoyed drugs most of my life. I am capable of enjoying things in moderation, which, naturally, is the key to successful casual drug use, and the part most people get wrong.  I understand all the horrific aspects of drug use — I lived through the eighties.  Fentanyl is a horrifying new epidemic; far more devastating than crack when it comes to turning people into outright zombies. An old friend of mine died recently when the cocaine she was using was laced with fentanyl. 

It is unfortunate that certain types of drugs are still considered to share the same legal taboo as bath salts, meth or oxycontin, which was pushed through the FDA by George W. Bush’s legal lap dog, Alberto Gonzales, despite the fact that it was known to be 100 times more addictive than heroin. 

There are a lot of good times and positive lessons people can derive from mind-expansion and alteration.  Consider the Druids, or the Coptics, or the Native Americans, all of whom tripped their balls off in the name of describing the face of God. Consider the stadium loads of kind hippies following the Grateful Dead, gangs of whom trouble no one.  Consider the peaceful city of Burning Man. 

Back in 2021, a study performed by a nonprofit group called the Multidisciplinary Association of Psychedelic Studies revealed that persons suffering from PTSD, treated with a combination of talk therapy and the drug MDMA (street names:  Molly, Ecstasy), were making tremendous progress. 

This is something that ravers have known since the nineties. Those day-glo, large panted kids in Jamiroquai hats have been having those deep, intimate MDMA conversations since high school, and sharing meaningful connections with one another — experiences that positively informed their general outlooks. 

So, I have a friend, “Judy,” who was working as a physical therapist, and at some point a couple of years ago, she started doing what she called “medicine work,” which involved tripping on various psychotropic drugs (MDMA, ketamine, mushrooms, DMT, etc.) at some rich woman’s house who charged a premium for this service, because it was all under the auspices of  being a “therapeutic” or “healing”  experience.  WELLNESS, that grimy Gwyneth Paltrow buzzword, was suddenly rearing its ugly head in the world of (still illegal) drugs.  Judy was very clear in her ardent opinion that she wasn’t doing drugs recreationally — she was doing drugs to help others do drugs in order to help them.  Drugs suddenly couldn’t be fun anymore — to do them correctly, they had to be medicinal, aka strictly administered in a private setting by a controlling overseer or authority (which ruins doing drugs for about half the reasons for doing them. ) 

However, I am not picky, so when Judy invited me over to do some “therapeutic MDMA” I figured it would be about as pleasant as the other times I’ve done MDMA, which were pretty fun. 

When I went to her house however, it was clear that fun was the last thing on Judy’s mind.  Her apartment was heavily aromatherapized when I entered, and there was a yoga mat with a blanket on it in the middle of the living room.  Judy insisted that to get the full therapeutic effect, I had to “keister” the two pellets of MDMA — which I’d never done before, so I figured what the hell.  I went in the bathroom and did my best impression of Stevie Nicks.   As we sat around waiting for the drugs to take effect — me on the yoga mat, Judy sitting on her knees beside me like a geisha— Judy tried to prepare me for what would be an exploration into the deep self.  She wanted to hunt the depths of my brain for some real open lacerations of white hot trauma. However, as the MDMA came on — subtle like — and a  creeping sensation of mild pleasance started to tingle over me like warm snow, I just found Judy’s somewhat canned guided meditation and exhortations to look into the creepy aspects of my upbringing thoroughly ridiculous.  

“I’m SORRY,” I told Judy, laughing.  She was not laughing.  “I just can’t get there from here.”  Judy pouted.   “I’m in too fine a mood!  I feel fantastic.” 

“But that’s not the point,” Judy insisted.  

It was then that the term “harsh my buzz” came to mind.  The introduction of psychotherapy to my drug experience, I found, was detrimental to my drug experience.  It was impossible to go into the Jungian black zone.  I was too amused. 

And being amused, to my mind, is the whole point of having drug experiences — to artificially move your brain into new kinds of happiness, a space away from trauma, the strange logic of which can, in special instances, carry over into your non-drugged, daily life. 

Done right, drugs can be a transgressive, restorative pleasure. 

Done too right, they can completely lose the point of themselves.

Judy felt like I had failed her by having too positive an experience. 

“That was just recreational,” Judy complained.  I shrugged.  

Yeah…SO? 

Judy’s visits to this rich woman’s house, which took place over a couple of years, were supposed to be toward some kind of accredited certification that would officially allow Judy to be a professional, certificate-holding therapeutic drug-taking expert, but unfortunately there was some kind of scandal, and the rich woman “lost her accreditation.”  

So poor Judy ended up doing 2 years worth of top-shelf drugs for no reason whatsoever.  

But she did give me some absolutely fantastic mushrooms, which I did at my uncle’s house when he and his girlfriend were in Thailand for a 10-day spiritual retreat.  They were over there in the land of Buddhas, abstaining from speech, sitting in strict meditation for hours each day, and I was in his excellent bathtub overlooking the ocean with a glass of wine achieving total, blissed-out nirvana, like a cheating slut.   I achieved a consciousness of consciousness - nature consciousness, human consciousness, animal consciousness, bird consciousness — I could see them all, in my mind - frequencies of collective energy that revealed themselves beautifully, like strata on a mountainside.  I feel this revelation was absolutely true.  I recall it often.  It still makes me happy. Despite all reason, outside the law and against the regimes of all drug taking professionals - I even found the experience - dare I say -  therapeutic. 

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Artwork: “Immortality,” oil on linen, Cintra Wilson 2022