When, several years ago I began my search for a guide, I hoped to alleviate my anxiety around dying. As an agnostic I've no concerns about an afterlife, but when I thought about utilizing the option of Medical Aid in Dying (MAID) in order to avoid the excruciating pain of another heart attack, I felt a deep-seated fear that was too strong to transcend.
A lot has changed since I arrived in October of '23. The fear has eased, or, at least has appeared to. Still, I want to examine my motivations. Is consciousness, simply being aware, sufficient reason to continue. What if a stroke disables me and I cannot take the drugs of MAID?
It has taken a long time to get on hospice. And the fact that I am entitles me to MAID. But when?
Hopefully, today's journey on psilocybin provided some insight.
The Results
This was the smoothest, most benign trip I've had since 50 years ago in the jungle at Palenque. Liftoff was feather-lite, a gentle ascent into euphoria.
Once there however, it seemed intent on showing me scenarios in which I was helping or leading groups of refugees. Intent on perusing the basis of my anxiety around death, I kept shaking myself out of the altruistic reveries and trying to focus. It was not to be.
After the first hour I asked for a two capsule booster. Then, every time they, there were two, came to check on me, I was offered two more...which I eagerly accepted....4 times in all. I hadn't realized how starved I was for the experience. And having competent support made cutting in the after-burner feel comfortable.
One of the guides said she found me crying pretty intensively; she slid her hand in mine and I calmed somewhat. I didn't recall the specifics, but the sadness seemed to revolve around our separateness; that no matter how much you tell someone you love them, there's really no way for them to feel it.
After six hours it began to wind down. The guides took their leave and Michelle and I spent a pleasant evening together.
The main benefit, as is usual for psychedelics for me, was a falling away of the societal strictures and a sense of "cohering," as if my parts were, once again, perfectly fitted together.
Photo: Alex Abair from iNaturalist
A sixty year friend died last fall. He has some autoimmune issues managed by drugs but a crazy cancer took him in 45-60 days. Raised in a hardcore Catholic home with a mentally ill mother and meek father he was an agnostic by age 18. Over his past few weeks I offered several times to arrange a visit or visits from any or several Pike ST escorts. Responding "Sorry, Art, I'm just past that" I thought the escorts could ease my oncoming grief and loss. The imagery of the second option remains but no pool tables were included. While not a declared agnostic I'm generally of the 'wait and see' and 'there might be something' perspective. My childhood involved very regular attendance at a Lutheran church that only a few decades before had stopped having Norwegian service. My friend and I would compare note re our respective abuses at the hands of the Luther/non-Luther structures. I suggested to him that the Catholic church had all those spooky rites ( really like that swinging smoke gizmo) and that not could I arrange for him a visit from a Catholic Priest but a Priest who'd worked at the Vatican which would certainly add some chevrons to the vestments, because 'there might be something.' He declined. He declined, also, on drugs because he claimed it added to his anxiety. What better time to stretch reality, or what we think is reality, than when time is a bit short.
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