That was not a Microdose…

I have been in psychedelic circles for many years now, and one of the common misconceptions about psychedelics is the necessity for large doses and the mystical experience. While large doses of psychedelics have assisted me in having mystical experiences and subsequently curing my childhood sexual traumas and associated c-PTSD diagnosis, I have also found incredible healing potential in low-dose magic mushroom trips. 

A few years ago, during a particularly challenging time where there was a lot of change going on in my life, I decided to microdose some psilocybin mushrooms I’d been gifted. On this particular day, I also had back to back Zoom meetings, however, as I sat and joined in I realised quite quickly, that this, this was not a microdose! Luckily, we were about to break for lunch. During the break, I was beckoned to my bed and decided a meditation might help. This is what I experienced:

As I close my eyes, I am instantly transported and find myself standing in the center of a vast white space that goes on and on for what seems like lifetimes. I am holding my hand out and I look down at it in bewilderment; in it lies a large sponge, a black, sticky, tar-filled sponge. I can feel the sponge’s weight in my palm. I can feel pressure resting lightly on my shoulders, and glancing behind me, I see there are two hands there with arms outstretched. It is me, looking back at myself. I don’t flinch, she doesn’t flinch. I don’t say anything and neither does she; she just stands watching me, waiting. On her shoulders rest hands, and behind her, again, is me, a self, an exact version of me. She too is motionless, comfortable and ready, almost waiting for the lesson I am about to receive. Behind her is another and another and another, these women, a network of selves that spirals around and around, and doesn’t seem to have an end. I am every one of them, and they are every bit of me. But here I am at the centre; I am the catalyst for what is changing for them, if I want to be.

I turn back around in fascination and in awe of what I saw, gazing down at this sponge before me. Its sticky tar is just begging to be squeezed out, it is begging for me to succumb and do it.

Do it, squeeze it. Don’t resist. Just squeeze it a little bit, just to see what happens.

So, I do. 

I squeeze the sponge, and as I do, the black tar begins its journey from my hand, down onto my wrists, down my arm, wrapping itself around my limbs and tainting me with its sickly dark scent and mess. I am frozen and cannot release my hand, as the fear of what I have done grips me.

I continue to squeeze, and as I continue, I notice a shift in the never-ending vortex of selves behind me. I look to the self who rests her hands upon my shoulders. She looks into my eyes as the tar seeps onto her hands and up her wrists, and from there it quickly engulfs her. She grimaces, but she stands as strong as she always does. I grimace with her for what I have done, for she does not control the sponge. But I can’t seem to let go. 

Behind her, each clone of myself grimaces in discontent, for what I have done to them, but they understand, one after the other understands what I have done and accepts it anyway. Each and every one of them begins to weep through tar-soaked faces, and they stand and accept that this is how they are tainted now, and I panic. 

Because I have the control, I infected them. I infected me. 

I stare back down at my hands, now covered in black, sticky tar, and I realise, I did this, which means I can undo this. 

The sponge is light while the selves are heavy.

I take one last glance at the selves behind me, in their vast white space, covered head to toe in black tar. 

I stare back down at my hand and let go. I slowly release the sponge, and as I do, the black tar begins its journey back into itself, streaming down and out from the bodies of my selves. I look behind me as one by one the black tar slides from them down into the woman before them, and back into the woman who stands before me, her arms outstretched, her hands resting on my shoulders, and she smiles at me as the remnants of the tar slide from her fingertips back onto me. I turn back and watch as I finally release the last of my grip, and the sponge again rests weighty in my palms, filled with black, sticky tar. I realise it represents my desire for control, and how much what I do and don’t do changes the world around and within me. That the desire to control everything and everyone around you can grip you and fester and feed the darkness, that letting go and acceptance starts with me, that only I have that power.

I come out of my meditation 45 minutes later, silently slip back into my chair and into my Zoom call, ready to give my report with my cup of coffee, unbeknownst to anyone that I just relinquished - that I realised the path to least resistance is to just let go.

I wanted to highlight in this piece how simple my epiphany was. I am a regular person in the world, with regular people commitments, doing regular things, paying bills, having meetings, raising kids, going to university. I was just a regular person who needed to have a moment, and I took that moment and came back understanding myself a little better. 

While larger mystical doses of psychedelics certainly have their place in psychedelic exploration and healing, they are not always necessary. Sometimes all we need is a little bit of these psychedelic tools, to help us access the spaces we can’t always find.

Author: Antanika Muscaria