Meeting Molly
I was poking around my old journals and came upon this “verse” I wrote sometime in 2018, along with a couple notes. I’m including it to provide some context for how I was feeling at the time. I wrote this at some point before my little mushroom excursion.
Angry
Angry at being sick
Angry at doctors, nutritionists, and more who haven’t been able to figure out what’s wrong
Angry that I didn’t use my IRA to pay my taxes years ago
Angry at financial advisors for giving me that advice
Angry that I can’t exercise
Angry that I haven’t been more productive
Angry that Donald Trump is president
Angry that there are people who think he is a good president
Angry that people are so hypocritical
Angry that I seem to have completely forgotten how to mentally get myself to a better place
Angry that I haven’t contributed more to my kids’ college funds
Angry that I am $100k in debt
Angry that I didn’t get more time with my girls growing up
Notes
I want to create an epic love story
My heart physically aches
I am profoundly sad
I feel like I’m not living up to my potential
I feel like I learned nothing over the past four years
Maybe I’m bipolar?
So, yeah, there was a bit of, uh, anger (rage?) lurking just below the surface.
And now back to our regularly scheduled program.
I wish I could report that my six plus hours with 1.5g of the “Penis Envy” strain of Psilocybe Cubensis one afternoon in July 2018 had “fixed” me. I had visions of my body suddenly healed, business pouring in along with smart and attractive women throwing themselves at me. Unfortunately, this was not the case… yet.
Having read about microdosing, which is consuming around 1/10th of an “active” dose of mushrooms, I thought I’d give that a shot. Now, the capsules that were prepared for me had closer to 1/6 of an active dose, but I didn’t let that stop me. More is better, right? Go big or go home. There was a definite afterglow to the trip I’d had. For several days to a week, I felt quite good, although nothing much had changed; the pelvic pain was still there and I was still tired and foggy. I microdosed for a month or so. Over that time, I began to feel a bit edgy, anxious, activated.
Gear for a portrait shoot at Wrigley Field | September 2018
I was finally able to connect with an underground therapist in the Midwest. I will refer to this person as they/them out of a desire to protect their identity. It turns out there is a large network of therapists and guides who have been working underground for years to assist people with healing and keep the promise of these medicines alive. They do so at great risk of their freedom and livelihood. The therapist suggested I discontinue the microdosing, so I did. The beauty of it is that, unlike with antidepressants, you can just stop and there are no adverse effects.
An initial session was scheduled over video conference where I once again(!) went through the story of my background. After that, I had an in-person preparation session. I told them my intention was “To do mushrooms again, and do them the ‘right’ way - with a guide/therapist.” To which they suggested the compound MDMA would be more effective as I was dealing with the effects of PTSD and this medicine was quite effective at treating PTSD. MDMA is 3,4-Methyl enedioxy methamphetamine, the active ingredient in the party drug Ecstasy, and also known as “Molly”. Once again, who was I to argue with an expert that I was paying?
Side note: while I always trust my gut instinct and do my best to be discerning, I’ve found it very helpful to let go of control (partly this is because I’m not REALLY in control) and trust those who have been put in my path to assist me. If I had all the answers, I wouldn’t likely be in the mess I’m in. The whole process is one of continuing surrender. Also, psychedelics do not in any way lend themselves to control by the person taking them. It’s kind of the point.
After scheduling and rescheduling my appointment several times for a variety of reasons, we finally settled on a Saturday in early November. The week prior Johnny had gotten us a gig as assistants for Miller Mobley, the photographer who was photographing Michelle Obama for the cover of People magazine to promote her book, “Becoming”. We spent the day at the Obama home in Hyde Park, where we were searched and sniffed. We had to schlep all the gear down the loooong driveway to the back of the house into the garage, only to bring it back to the front for most of the shots. I was in agony most of the day, as there was a lot of lifting. My left shoulder was killing me and my dick hurt every time I picked something up, which was often.
Some of the gear we carried into MO’s garage for the shoot | November 2018
All in all, it was a very interesting day. When MO arrived and departed, everybody had to go to the basement. I assume this was mostly for security and also because it’s nicer to arrive to an empty home than one full of strangers. We ate lunch in the basement. The kids in the schoolyard across the street went positively berserk when they realized who was home. At one point, the photographer told us we needed to move faster. This, in spite of the fact that he had gone off script with the lighting and there were about four of us trying to maneuver in a small salon with a grand piano and a bunch of lighting equipment. I honestly nearly walked off the set I was so pissed. I certainly wasn’t there for the $450 I was making. Note to photographers - don’t ever rush your crew. That is how accidents happen. The shoot was a success, and when it was over, I was walking across the yard with the former FLOTUS and I said, “Thank you for all that you do.” “Oh no, thank YOU,” she said. Uh. Ok? The best thing to come from the day was a photo with her and Johnny. Unfortunately, despite using it prominently on my dating profile, to date it has proven mostly ineffective.
MO checking out my aura after the shoot at her home where we assisted | November 2018
The following Saturday I got to the therapist’s office, which had been transformed from the standard decor of a sofa, chair and desk to something much more inviting. There was a really soft futon mattress on the floor, tapestries on the wall and flowers and candles. There was a laptop with an amp and headphones. I brought a photo of my daughters and one of myself as a two year old for the altar. We chatted for a bit about expectations and intention. They told me the experience would not be anything like the mushroom trip (I promptly forgot this bit). I won’t lie, I was moderately nervous. My intention was to heal my pain and know myself. They smudged the room with smoke from a Palo Santo stick, we pulled Tarot cards and they recited a beautiful Four Directions prayer, calling in the Spirits to work with us. I recall tearing up fiercely when Pachamama (Mother Earth) was called. All of this kind of blew my mind, as this was a PhD therapist! I pulled “Hawk” and “Force - North/White” cards from the Tarot deck (I believe it was an image of a pack of horses galloping across a beach.) They held off on reading the meaning until after the ceremony so as not to influence anything. I ingested 123mg of MDMA, taken as powder in capsules, at 11:10am.
We chatted and I nervously joked about things for 30-40 minutes. The therapist would periodically open the window to clear the air / energy and smudge the room with Palo Santo using a feather wand. At some point, I needed to pee - not unusual. It was painful and constricted. I kept waiting to “trip” in the way I did with the mushrooms. I felt a little floaty and there was blue fringing around the periphery of my vision. I had some involuntary body movements. Walking to the bathroom, I was a little unsteady on my feet, however in general didn’t think I had “dropped in”. About 90 minutes in, I asked for and was given a booster dose of 40mg. This typically deepens and lengthens the experience. About ten minutes later, I rolled over into the fetal position on my right side and my body began undulating. A ball of energy the size of a tennis ball (of course) began moving through my body. The therapist was helping to guide this energy as it went to my left (frozen) shoulder, down my back, through my pelvic area (they didn’t guide it there - boundaries!) and up my stomach, over and over again. It felt as though snakes were twisting and twirling up my legs. I was breathing more deeply than I ever had in my life and it all felt completely involuntary.
The music was absolutely gorgeous. The playlist was perfect. It resonated throughout my being. It was nothing I’d ever heard before. About 30 minutes after the booster, I sat up and took off the headphones. I was thinking about Johnny. I thought he lost his father when he was 10 or so. As it turns out, this is when his parents divorced. His father passed shortly before he graduated from high school. Always projecting, I said, “Johnny didn’t have a father, that’s why he has problems.” (Who I was to judge, I don’t know.) Then it hit me with the force of a 747 crashing into the ground - I didn’t have a father. I didn’t have a mother either! Let me clarify that - I did have both parents - physically. My father is still alive and my mother passed in 2020. My parents were barely 22 when I was born and went on to have two more children in the next five years. Emotionally, they were very undeveloped. Who isn’t at age 22? So, I got in touch, at a very deep level, with the fact that I did not get the emotional support I needed. I think I’ve mentioned before that the words, “I love you” were seldom, if ever, spoken in our home. I was finally beginning to see that my parents did the very best they could do, given their situation. I got that they did love me, they just were unable to show it in the way I wanted it. The therapist had told me during on of the initial sessions that I needed to learn how to “receive”. This sounded preposterous to me. How does one learn this?
Johnny with the gear for a video shoot at Rohner Press (are you sensing a theme?) | September 2018
I began to see that the back pain I’d had since high school was a result of several factors, one being that I wasn’t allowed to speak my truth, unless it parroted my father’s. I learned early the result of showing emotions. “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about.” My first back spasms occurred junior (or maybe senior) year when I asked a girl from another high school to the homecoming dance. She was hot and drove a brand new Nissan 280ZX. She said yes, then dumped me a week or so before the dance. I was beside myself and needed Flexiril for three days so I could walk. I’ll return to this incident in a future installment.
There was more - I sang in a beautiful voice I didn’t know I had and I cried. It wasn’t like the uncontrollable release while on mushrooms. I only remembered because I’m reading the log of the session. Throughout the afternoon my body never stopped moving; there was so much energy pent up in it. All in all, I felt as though I experienced the effects of at least ten years of therapy - in the span of about five hours. When I left, I still had constriction in my bladder / urethra however, the pain I had suffered for months in my left shoulder - the pain that a $1200 cortisone shot and physical therapy didn’t relieve one iota - was GONE. Vanished. Poof. 100% gone. My range of motion remained severely constrained, but Halle-fucking-lujah, the pain was gone.
The next day, I lay in bed with Chester at my side and remained in a fairly blissful state for most of the day. It was so peaceful. At one point, I felt as though I was Pachamama and I felt her pain, viscerally, at our collective treatment of her. I cried. I asked the therapist about the songs and they sent me a few. I began going down a rabbit hole, listening to related recommendations. I almost felt as if the medicine was reactivated several times over the next few days. It was glorious.
A few days later, I began to journal. My first therapist, Billy, would be so proud. Shit was pouring out of me as the cracks in the damn began to spiderweb out from center. So many things were coming together. Four additional integration sessions were included with the package. After that, I began seeing the therapist regularly. It was very helpful to reflect on what came up with an experienced person. I was journaling so much and sending my writing to the therapist. At one point they said, “You don’t need to send it to me.” As if they had another 10, 20 or 30 minutes to read my musings!
There were some difficult times as I adjusted to the new reality and, while my shoulder pain was gone, I continued to experience all the same pelvic pain and I often found myself sad and depressed. I was reading all that I could get my hands on about psychedelic medicines - books, trip reports, articles on the internet - you name it. I was supremely frustrated that I remained in pain. At one point, I was at Amy’s house and we were discussing the mental health of one of our daughters. I, of course, was all for connecting her to my therapist for medicine work. Now, Amy’s husband Tony and I get along great. However on this day, when he pushed back, he said, “After all, you aren’t fixed yet.” (Side note: don’t ever say that to anybody.)
Lucinda Williams performing at Fitzgerald’s for the Beyond Hunger benefit concert | November 2108
Frustrated at my seeming lack of progress, on New Year’s Eve, I decided to have my own journey. I asked Johnny to sit for me, just in case. I procured some MDMA and, after fasting for three days (thinking this would help my overall condition, WTF? Side note - it didn’t and I wouldn’t recommend it prior to using most medicines), I drug a mattress into my living room, took 120mg and put on my headphones.
As I dropped in, once again, the body started doing it’s thing again - writhing and contorting and gently thrusting. Overall, I saw how just how much anger I had buried in me. I was seemingly NEVER allowed to express emotion - neither anger nor love. I saw how I was trying to release anger through sex, through tennis, through whatever I could. At one point, I was pantomiming scooping the emotions out of my pelvic area. Chester, who was with me that weekend, had been sitting with Johnny on the couch up until that point, hopped down and came over to see what was going on. I reached my hand out to pet him. He took one sniff of that bad juju and went right back over and sat with Johnny. He wanted nothing to do with whatever I was digging up. I saw how my father was an absolute wall. There was no possible way I could have gotten through. Winning an argument is impossible, so I learned not to engage. At some level I let myself off the hook for this.
Chester licking his nose | September 2018
MDMA is an empathogen / entactogen. It imparts a great deal of empathy to the person who takes it. When this is turned inward (versus taking it a rave) what this medicine does for me is to open a communication pathway that seems to come from below (heart) instead of above (brain). There is so much wisdom in our hearts. I’m sure there are other ways to tap it. This method happens to be very powerful for me.
All that said, after these two trips, I still wasn’t “fixed”. The pain remained. I was still tired and foggy. I had to pee all the time and it hurt like hell. Work was a grind. There was no great love in my life. Then, at some point in my “studies” of psychedelics, Ayahuasca showed up. It just so happened that my oldest daughter was going to spend the second half of her gap year in South America - Ecuador, to be exact. A place that happens to be right next to Peru. Hmmmmmm….
