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If someone had offered to kill me, I would have given them the thumbs-up.
The world and my elaborate, one-of-a-kind past in it had evaporated: I was Present Pain.
Some are weeping, some are stroking each other’s faces, one is reciting the nursery rhyme “Humpty Dumpty” in a voice stunned by grief. When you look at the tree above your head, the branches all burst into ghostly flowers, a continuous bloom.
My guide for the evening had accepted my 400 dollars, the price for my journey, in tie-dyed pants.I was shaken from the depths of sleep, once an hour, for the same torture test: I endured an angiogram without anesthesia—my heart rate was too low—which squirted my head with pyrotechnic bursts of pain.I discovered that walking is a triumph, a subconscious alignment of highly skilled maneuvers that requires a perfectly unbruised brain.Filling every room, blaring from Sonos speakers, is Mariah Carey’s version of “I Want to Know What Love Is.” You want to lie down yourself, preferably on a vacant mattress, but someone tells you to stay out of the sunroom because it’s “very angry.” The drugs you’ve been given have cute names, like secret agents: S and K and Ma, a blend of several “sacraments.” Their true identities are MDMA, DMT, psilocybin, and whatever the active compound is in kanna. The stains were from a girl who’d been made into soup and fed to the homeless. Per instruction, you haven’t eaten since lunchtime. Your guide, a suburban mother who’s confessed to tripping over 500 times, is nowhere to be found.* You lie there, waiting for something bigger to happen.Because all this—the drugs, the group work, presumably the Mariah Carey as well—is supposed to cure you of your crippling fear of death. Aside from the occasional cheeseburger, I pretty much ascribe to the Mediterranean diet.