Magic Mushrooms

The doctor scanned the results from my blood work and food journal. She shook her head.

I braced myself. Okay, this is it. Shoot it to me straight. Just tell me what’s wrong with my thyroid already.

“You’re almost too healthy to be sitting in my office,” she said, “I’m going to leave two referrals at the check out counter. A sleep specialist and a psychiatrist.”

What? How’s that possible? The fatigue, the weight gain, the loss of motivation. Sleep always sounded good, but wait, a psychiatrist? 

Instead of verbalizing a response, I nodded and accepted the print out.

With my mom’s thyroid issues and all the symptoms, this can’t be true. Maybe I should get a second opinion. 

Because depression wasn’t an option.
***
After a year of exploration and healing, I sent one of my friends an article about the positive effects psilocybin can have on depression. Like hitting the brain’s reset button. I also knew she struggled with it, and I wanted to help her by illuminating alternative healing methods.

“Wait, you’re depressed?” she asked.

I hesitated. Up until that moment, I never verbalized my feelings to anyone. I was so used to being the one others leaned on. But, maybe it’d help her more if I owned up to my own experience.

“Pretty much off and on since my dad died,” I said.

“I’d never guess. Everything seems so wonderful in your life.”

“Well, it’s not something I advertised. It was easier to just stay inside my apartment and not have to put on a front to anyone.”

Because the one thing I hated worse than feeling depressed was feeling disingenuous to myself. The disconnect being the fact that I wasn’t being genuine to myself by holding everything in… But, I felt safe within a false sense of security.

I was an excellent pretender and hid emotions from my friends and family. I shielded them from my pain. Because I loved them so much that I wanted them to think I was okay. It had to be something else. I can’t love them and feel depressed at the same time. (Can I?) I think some of this derived from a longing to be needed and not to be the one needing. However false, it gave me an illusion of strength that nobody was in on my secret. That I was handling it.

But, I also don’t think I recognized or could own up to the fact that I was experiencing depression. I wasn’t supposed to be depressed. Not a six foot tall, painfully optimistic blonde. I identified so much with being the optimistic and spiritual person, the provider, the lifter of spirits that I didn’t feel comfortable identifying with depression. In my mind, my emotional pain didn’t equal depression.

Even though I didn’t connect the emotional pain with its physical manifestation, the pain was still real. I didn’t want someone’s comparison to deem mine invalid. I felt some people might look at me and think, what does she have to be depressed about?

I probably shouldn’t have given a fuck about that. But, I maintained the cover until the answer found me. What I deemed as a harmless night of fun with mushrooms turned into several therapeutic experiences.

I’m not a scientist. I only hold what I’ve experienced to be true. And my fungal experiments exponentially helped me.

My attention catapulted to the present as a lot of what already exists was magnified. A tree’s leaves swayed and it was as if I could see them breathing. I held a deeper appreciation for nature’s beauty, for sunsets, for connection, for love. For the first time in years, I felt pure joy and was reminded how much happiness is possible. 

Yes, there were giggling dance parties and fireside chats. But, there were nights where I travelled into the depths of my soul and found answers. There were also inexplicable experiences in my mind that answered questions I didn’t even know I held.

I honestly feel they gave me the freedom and the comfortability to own up to my experiences.