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IIt was spring when my wife's waters burst, three months ago. We rushed to the hospital, terrified. If our daughter arrived now, she might not survive. If she did, she would probably be living with health problems for life. Jo spent the next four days in the hospital while we prayed that the work would not begin. But the night after we got home, Jo's contractions started and we went back to the hospital. Immediately, a fetal monitor was placed on her belly. The rapid heartbeat we had followed so closely the days before was gone. Our daughter was dead.
The train of our life has been moved on a parallel track. We could see the train on which we had to park, crossing the milestones – the expected date for delivery, introducing the baby to our family, the first smiles. But before us now lies despair, guilt, funerals, pictures of our precious daughter that some family members could barely look at each other and support groups where each story would be more heartbreaking than the last. There is no good way to lose a baby, but I would call my unusual coping strategy: I became obsessed with growing magic mushrooms.
Even before death at birth, I had lived years of anguish, exacerbated by long hours spent working alone as a writer, by self-esteem issues, by a young family ( we already had a three-year-old girl, Grace), by a mid-life crisis … the causal cocktail, he began to feel like a complete depression.
I had tried cognitive-behavioral therapy, which had softened it, but I felt that I needed something radical to get me out of the deepening of negativity and lethargy. I had read that psychedelic substances, such as LSD or psilocybin in magic mushrooms, taken at very low dose, were presented as the latest so-called smart drugs. I was interested in microdosing, not for the stimulation of creativity advocated by Silicon Valley supporters, but for the effect it would have on anxiety; on breaking down negative thought patterns.
During my writing, I had met Dr. Robin Carhart-Harris, of Imperial College London, one of the leading researchers on psilocybin as a potential treatment for depression. He spoke to me about the promising results that he had observed in people suffering from treatment-resistant depression. He also explained how the brain of people participating in a mushroom excursion "lights up" in an fMRI scanner, thus revealing the communication between areas that normally do not "talk" to each other. (He is currently preparing a trial comparing psilocybin and SSRIs for the treatment of depression.)
In another study at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, mushroom picking has been shown to reduce the anxiety of life-threatening cancer patients, resulting in a dramatic improvement in mood. and well-being. I've also found an article in the Lancet concluding that magic mushrooms are the least harmful "recreational" drug you can take. Mushrooms are not addictive and you can not kill yourself by overdosing, as long as you take them in a safe environment. It's a mystery to me why they share the illegal class A status with crack, cocaine and heroin.
So in the months leading up to the loss of our daughter, I decided to try the microdose. This posed a problem: I did not know any drug dealer. So, I turned to YouTube. I discovered that to grow magic mushrooms at home, I needed two things: mushroom spores, in a syringe filled with sterilized water; and a growth medium, or substrate, in which I would inject the spores. A simple substrate is a mixture of organic brown rice flour, on the one hand water and two parts of vermiculite (a moisture retentive mineral that is sold in garden centers). I've also discovered that although it's illegal to grow magic mushrooms, it's not illegal to buy spores – just look at the microscope, for example. I found an online spore syringe for £ 15 plus postage and a premixed and sterilized substrate kit, on eBay, for £ 26. I was really excited to take a step forward to improve my mental health.
The syringe has arrived, with a note from the seller pointing out that I absolutely must not use these spores to grow mushrooms because, you know, it's illegal. I am a pathetically obedient citizen under normal circumstances. But I was informed of the science and assessed the risks.
The technical process of growing magic mushrooms seduced my nerdy side. Any bacteria or unwanted fungus can contaminate the substrate. I've taken care to put on latex gloves, clean the alcohol on the arms and all surfaces before injecting the spores through the plastic lid of the substrate vat. In the dark, it would take about six weeks for my spores to germinate and colonize the entire substrate with mycelium, making it white. After that, I "gave birth" to the colonized "cake" in a daylight-lit "fruiting chamber" – a transparent plastic container with a lid and vented with a layer of hardened perlite (a volcanic glass) at the bottom, to keep the objects moist – and wait for the mushrooms to grow.
It was during the period of colonization, before seeing mushrooms, that Jo and I lost our daughter, whom we had already called Isobelle. We would later discover that the most likely reason for his death was poor follow-up after Jo was treated with antibiotics for an infection. When Jo returned to her GP a few weeks later, complaining of other symptoms, the Nice guidelines were not followed and she was sent home and told not to go to the hospital. To make it. We would blame ourselves later for not being quite demanding.
Isobelle being stillborn after 24 weeks of pregnancy, our paternity and maternity rights began to work. We spent a lot of time at home. In my grief, I became obsessed with the progress of my mycelium, which was growing in the darkness in a bathtub on a cupboard. I had even installed a night vision camera inside the tub to control the growth of my phone: like a live grass, but slower.
When the cake was completely colonized, I put it in the fruiting chamber. After about four days, small brown dots, baby mushroom heads, began to appear. Soon, my first crop, or "flush," was ready to be picked. At that time, my mother-in-law was helping us after Isobelle's death. Few mothers-in-law would approve the class A drug harvest in the kitchen, but mine is different. She is a passionate gardener – and open minded. I placed the fruiting chamber on the kitchen table, put on my surgical gloves and started harvesting under the gaze of my wife and mother. I was proud of my first flush. "My son-in-law is Walter White," my mother-in-law said, referring to the Breaking Bad school teacher who has become a methamphetamine cook without any hint of admiration.
About three weeks after Isobelle's death, my anguish under the sorrow, I decided to start the microdosing. I would take 0.3 grams of dried mushrooms every three days (popular diet among microdosers, recommended by Dr. James Fadiman, author of the Psychedelic Guide to the Explorer). I was so messed up that it was hard to know what effect it could have. I just knew things could not get worse.
On the days when I took the dose, my mind was more open and freer; I would do more side links thinking. I would feel closer to nature, which would be more beautiful, and I felt more "present" at the moment, better connected to my family and my own emotions, more likely to trigger conversations with people. unknown. The dose was too low to cause visual disturbances. It was more of an energetic opening feeling – I would notice details that had already passed me.
In the months following our loss, Jo and I struggled to stay intact. We were crying frequently, trying to be strong for our daughter, Grace. Jo is thrown into gardening. Together we participated in support groups organized by the incredible charity Sands. Jo also started weekly sessions with a counselor. I did not think the therapy suited me, but I immersed myself in mushroom cultivation. I used spores from the first push to make my own spore syringes and I injected six other pots bought on the internet. Even before these were colonized, I bought Mason jars, customized them with air filters and injection ports, sterilized them and filled them with my own varieties of substrate. Soon, I had 18 colonizing and fruiting pots. They were mostly hidden above the wardrobes, out of Grace's sight and reach.
I've read that adding coffee grounds to the substrate could increase yields. The next day, I noticed a garbage bin outside Waitrose, in the gardening section, with a sign saying, "Pick up your coffee here." Practice. I quickly decided that I wanted to "grow in mass", increase my performance. This approach was longer, with a variety of processes and ingredients, but produced a dense canopy of large mushrooms – one as long as my hand.
There was no logic in my behavior. I already had enough mushrooms to microdose for at least a decade, if I had chosen to, and I was not about to become a drug dealer. To say that my wife was patient is a euphemism. She saw this as what it was: a weird coping mechanism, something productive that I should focus on. I had no financial motive; I was risking seven years in prison and the destruction of my family for what had become a crazy hobby. "I liked it, I was good at it," as Walter White said, reluctantly, I stopped production less than six months after I started. Most of the time, when you dehydrate them to store them, they lose about 90% of their mass, yet my production cycle has filled about 10 liters of containers.
I have often felt the need to cry over Isobelle, but over the months it has become increasingly difficult for me to let it go: one way or the other, I I was thinking out of my emotional state. But on days when I microdose, I noticed that I was much more likely to sit with my feelings and cry. It was a relief.
In the summer, we discovered that Jo was pregnant again. We were still shocked by Isobelle's death and pregnancy became a huge source of stress and fear. We dreaded to think that this new child would die too. In September, my grief was withdrawn into me like a dark and stifling mass. I felt that there was no point in anything. Following my professional commitments has become a difficult struggle. I seemed to return to a depressive state. The microdosing did not prevent my deterioration. It was then that I started to consider taking a full dose of mushrooms.
***
I had gone on a mushroom trip once in my life, five years ago, with friends. We spent part of this trip in a garden and experienced the famous psychedelic visuals. The bark of a tree was flowing and swelling; the grass has moved into diamond formations; time has become incomprehensible. But what I remember most about this trip was to realize that my relationship was solid, despite my uncertainty about the new relationship I was in. (This faith would be confirmed: reader, I married her.)
For this new trip, I calculated my dose based on that given to the subjects of the Carhart-Harris study on people suffering from treatment-refractory depression. For my body mass, it worked at just over 3g. I bombarded the dried mushrooms into a powder, added a glass of orange juice, bombarded it again, swallowed it and hugged my wife. This time, the light show did not interest me. Terence McKenna, the late ethnobotanical and psychedelic explorer, recommended taking psilocybin alone, in silent darkness, if your goal is an inner journey. It was noon, so I closed the curtains and went to bed.
I spare you the minutia of a "travel report". Within an hour, the walls were breathing, the colors on the wall in front of the bed were passing so fast that I had to look away, and the white paint from the ceiling had liquefied and started rolling the wall towards me. I was grateful that this is not my first rodeo.
I closed my eyes and took the fetal position. I remember going through a whole range of everyday memories and being surprised to find that the conscious thoughts I had left did not focus on Isobelle. Then, these images are superimposed and joined, like these artistic portraits made up of thousands of smaller images. Suddenly, there was Isobelle – she was all, all at once. A bomb of pain exploded in my head. I had the impression that the deepest animal parts of my brain were opening up, my whole body feeling its loss. I spent the better part of three hours crying.
On several occasions, Jo came to check if I had become bloody and bloody. She was worried. But I did not feel scared or alarmed. I felt that what was happening in me was fundamentally benevolent – serene, even. My brain, seemingly unblocked by psilocybin, was taking care of itself. I tried to offer Jo a reassuring smile and realized that it was the same as the one I had seen on his face so often since Isobelle's death. A smile that said: "I'm really trying to be strong, but I do not think I have it in me." We were one, we both cling to the nail.
I had another achievement during the trip. A few months after Isobelle's death, Grace's breathing habits had changed. She had begun to hold her breath unconsciously, at random moments. She could not tell us why. We considered taking her to the doctor, but we could not see what a doctor could do. During my trip, I felt in my bones that despite all our efforts to protect Grace, the tension in the house was nested in her little body. I also cried.
The trip was a colossal liberation. It did not cure me of my sadness and worries about the new baby, but I felt lighter, more flexible and able to face the challenges ahead. According to scientific research, it was a controlled experiment as far as possible. But fungi stimulated my psychological well-being so much that I thought it was important to add my story to the multiplication of anecdotal evidence of their therapeutic potential. It is stressful to write this, even anonymously, because of the severe penalties associated with the cultivation of magic mushrooms. I never sold what I made, I had what I grew up with and I have no intention of breaking it again.
Our new baby has arrived in the spring. The terrain is difficult to overestimate. Thanks to the black hair, like her mother; Isobelle was blonde, like me, which breaks my heart. Our new daughter is somewhere in between and is getting rid of beautifully.
Jo is now organizing events to bring grief into public conversation, to try to lift the taboo from this fundamental human experience. Grace's breath picked up after a few months, thank goodness. She often speaks about Isobelle and fits well to her new brother.
My anxiety continues to grow and decrease, but I have not returned to my depressive state. The upheaval of those 18 months has shown that, for my own sanity, I need to involve myself more in the world, with other people and with my emotions. This opening is what the microdosing takes care of smoothly. I would not hesitate to use it again to combat anxiety or depression – if it was not so illegal.
• Some names have been changed.
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