I've recently integrated with an advocacy group working to get psilocybin legalized in the State of Washington for the treatment of drug resistant depression. A friend asked me about where I was with Spravato, a whole other story I'll be sharing with you, and I let loose a tirade on all the steps I would need to go through to microdose psilocybin.
After hearing some of the stories folks at the meeting were telling, all the while yucking it up with one another because they're familiar with the psychedelic experience, I'm unlikely to proceed with this effort on my own. It seems way too complicated, way to daunting, and illegal to boot. Not only would I need a supplier, but I'd have to experiment with titrating the dosage, finding one that resulted in a noticeable lift in mood but wasn't strong enough to produce a psychedelic effect. I just don't feel I'd be successful doing that of my own accord.
I would need to hire --- get this --- a "trip sitter". I had no idea there was such a thing, and I seriously laughed until I cried when I heard it. Several folks suggested I hang out at Evergreen (college) and casually approach passerby's in the hopes of connecting with a supplier and people willing take the trip sitter job. One even suggested I put a "help wanted" ad on Craigslist for a trip sitter. So then I laughed even harder. He may have been joking about Craigslist but the hanging out at Evergreen part was not a joke.
After the meeting, driving home, my laughter turned to tears of frustration, which morphed into my not infrequent wails of pain. This disease is unrelenting and I am pretty goddamn desperate for a solution. However, it's pretty clear to me that microdosing on psilocybin just isn't feasible to pursue at this time given the incredible complexity and the incredible risks - entirely apart from the illegality - considering I'm my mother's fulltime caregiver.
So that was all just pretty depressing. I don't like telling sad stories, but this shit is real and it's ugly, and I'm an excellent story teller. Furthermore, I feel compelled to educate. So sorry, not sorry.
The very good thing about my experience at the psilocybin meeting was it reminded me of this funny story about an incident that occurred in 2015. Thought I'd dust it off and post it here for your amusement.
I hope you get a good chuckle over my truffle trip and please do your damndest to have a great week!
The Marijuana Truffle Story
It’s been about four years ago now. When I was still working in Olympia. I had to give a presentation to a large group of professionals downtown Seattle. I did well.
My colleague and I had driven up together. After the conference, we decided to go for dinner to avoid Seattle rush hour traffic.
We found a nice place on Queen Anne hill. Before we ordered, my partner in crime said, “I’ll be right back. I left my phone in the car.”
When he got back, there was the very distinct smell of pot.
“You smoked!”
“Yes, but I didn’t lie. I did leave my phone in the car.”
“I want some!!!”
“I didn’t bring enough. But it’s legal!!! We can go buy some!”
I searched my phone and found a dispensary, Hashtag on Stone Way. Man did I think that was funny, even before we got the stuff.
We finished up and drove the mile or so to the dispensary. Inside was pristine, like a doctor’s office. All sparkly clean white with glass cabinets full of everything you could imagine. Sterile.
My friend looked at the smokeable stuff. I hate to smoke. I hate to smoke anything. So I headed for the medibles.
He left with a joint. I left with a marijuana truffle.
I bit into the truffle in the car. It was delicious. Not even a hint of pot taste.
“Don’t eat the whole thing, Coco. It might be too strong for you.”
“It’s so good!” I said, as I popped the other half into my mouth to savor.
We got on the road. For the first few minutes, I kept saying, “I can’t feel anything.” I’m so inexperienced. I do that every time.
We joked about if we got pulled over, what would we say?
“Officer, do I look like the kind of woman that would use pot?”
My friend mimicked the officer’s reply, “Ma’am, I just asked you for your license and registration.”
That kept us laughing all the way back to Olympia.
I dropped him at his house, walked round and picked up a bag of popcorn and a water bottle from the trunk, then slipped into the driver’s seat.
“Are you ok to drive?” he asked.
“Oh Yaaaaa!” I replied, laughing hard at the idea he even thought to question me.
I pulled out from his driveway, to the exit of his subdivision, and turned right. Missed the next left. I didn’t even see it. It was only a few hundred feet from the exit, but I missed it. I was immediately totally completely and hopelessly lost.
I felt like I’d driven into another world. Like a Jurassic Park world. It was summer. The trees that lined the road were leafy and green and the breeze sang through them. It was a glorious day. I noticed that. I certainly noticed that. I had never seen such colors. I saw the beauty, felt the beauty. But another part of me was rabid with fear.
I called my friend Hank. Platonic love of my life, Hank. Hank is a Google Earth junkie.
“Hank! I ate a marijuana truffle and I’m so high and I’m lost on ____ Road, at least I think that’s the name of the road! Look it up and tell me where I am! Tell me how to get home!”
“Coco. Do not drive. Do not drive. Pull over. Now.”
I couldn’t pull over. It was a windy country road. There was no shoulder to speak of. I couldn’t pull into someone’s long gravel drive, park the car, and wait to come down. Of course they’d call the police!
“I can’t I can’t! Please! Look it up on Google Earth and tell me where I am!”
“Coco, I have no idea where you are. I can’t find you on Google Earth. Do not drive. Do not drive. Pull over now.”
“I can’t!”
Hank stayed with me on the phone. He kept talking to me. I could hear the words, but each word appeared in a cartoon bubble above my head. I kept trying to put the bubbles together in the right sequence, so I could understand what the fuck Hank was saying. I just couldn’t. To not be able to comprehend what someone, my friend, speaking my language, was saying, it terrified me. I got even higher and more panicked.
Finally, the road came out near the edge of town and I got a bearing.
“Thank you for staying on the phone with me Hank. It’s been like 45 minutes.”
“Coco, we’ve been talking for 9 minutes,” Hank replied.
“Oh.”
I hung up and pulled into the downtown McDonald’s parking lot. I sat there for an hour. Then two hours. Then three hours. I tried to fix on a plan for handling my predicament. There was a hotel across the street. I had the money. I could just stay overnight.
During the fourth hour, the phone rang, it was my brother. He was asking me about the paperwork I needed to sign and file. My mother and I were buying his house.
I maintained for a few minutes, acting as sober as possible, as serious as possible. When he’d finished asking questions, I asked, “Are you working tomorrow?”
“No.”
And then the floodgates of my bad high opened. And out poured all my fear.
“Oh my God I ate a marijuana truffle and I am so high and I keep waiting to come down and I just keep getting higher and higher and higher and I’m in the McDonald’s parking lot and it just won’t stop and I have no idea what to do.”
“Just hang tight. I’ll come and get you.”
My brother drove the hour to Olympia to pick me up, then the hour to my mom’s to take me home. When we walked in the door, my mom was confused to see my brother.
“Coco ate some pot candy,” he said, highly annoyed and rolling his eyes. My mother laughed. She laughed!
I didn’t laugh though. It was a serious bad bad trip I was on. Serious bad. Awful. Horrifying. Like a fucking overdose. I went to bed, even higher than I’d been hours previous. My up just didn’t stop. Up and up and up. Awful. I hated it.
I’ll never eat another marijuana truffle. Bad trip. Very bad trip. Aint doing it again. Nope. Never.
