Personal Story Archives - Psychedelics in Recovery

The Untethered Journey: Mickey’s Story of Recovery and Transformation

d lee — Mon, 25 Nov 2024 01:56:24 +0000

My name is Mickey, and for much of my life, I’ve lived two conflicting realities. On the surface, I was the embodiment of recovery success: sober since the age of 21, a stable career, a family, and decades of commitment to Alcoholics Anonymous (AA). To most, I was living proof that the 12 steps worked, that sobriety could transform a life. But beneath the surface, I carried a silent, gnawing pain—a deep sense of inadequacy, shame, and loneliness that I couldn’t name or escape.

Despite my sobriety, I felt like I was still just surviving, trapped in a cycle of people-pleasing, overworking, and desperately chasing a sense of worthiness that always felt just out of reach. This is the story of how I finally broke free—not by abandoning the principles of AA, but by finding new tools and perspectives through psychedelics that helped me uncover a deeper, more authentic version of myself. It’s a story of holding onto tradition while daring to step into the unknown, of learning to let go, and of discovering that sometimes, the path to healing means unlearning everything you thought you knew.

Inherited Pain: The Weight of Generational Trauma

Recovery didn’t begin with me—it started generations before. My grandmother struggled with what I now understand as anxiety, shame, and guilt. Her life was a meticulous balancing act, her house spotless, her antiques perfectly arranged, but her inner world was chaos. My father carried his own battles, crashing cars, getting into fights, and struggling with addiction. Yet, he made the extraordinary decision, over 50 years ago, to quit drinking and smoking in a single day, becoming a pillar in the local AA community.

I was born into a family of recovery, a lineage of resilience and dysfunction. Yet, as a teenager, I found myself following a familiar path. By 16, I was crashing cars, blacking out, and landing in treatment for the first time. Recovery didn’t stick then, but the seeds were planted.

At 21, after bouncing checks to a lawyer defending me for yet another DWI, I hit rock bottom. My father stepped in, calling me out on my self-destruction. This time, sobriety stuck. I entered AA thinking life as I knew it was over. Yet, as I listened to the promises, I dared to hope that maybe—just maybe—things could get better.

The Success Mask: Sobriety Without Freedom

Sobriety gave me structure. AA taught me how to live, how to work, and how to be dependable. I got a degree, a career, and a family. On paper, I was a success. But inside, the shame, guilt, and people-pleasing didn’t fade—they festered. I threw myself into workaholism, believing that achieving the American Dream would fill the hole inside me. It didn’t.

My addictions didn’t vanish; they evolved. Food, nicotine, caffeine—these became the new ways I numbed myself. Meetings helped me stay sober, but they couldn’t touch the deep loneliness and spiritual stagnation I felt. I watched others in recovery speak of profound spiritual awakenings, but they remained elusive to me. I thought maybe I just got sober too young, that I’d missed some essential step in growing up.

The Breaking Point: Realizing Success Wasn’t Enough

About five years ago, my carefully constructed life began to unravel. I’d reached a point in my career where I could pay off my mortgage and bills—everything I thought would bring me peace. Instead, I felt emptier than ever. Money couldn’t fill the void. My marriage felt like a hollow performance. I was working harder than ever, but for what? I didn’t even know.

The breakdown came swiftly. I lost my job after refusing to compromise my values during a heated board meeting. At home, I confronted my wife, admitting that I felt like our relationship was a sham. I told her, “I want my insides and my outsides to match. There has to be more than this.” I was desperate for authenticity, intimacy, and a sense of meaning.

The Call to Psychedelics: Searching for Answers

During this period, I stumbled upon the documentary How to Change Your Mind and the research of Joe Dispenza. Something about their work resonated deeply. I remembered my experiences with psychedelics in my youth—mushrooms and LSD had left a mark on me even then. I felt them calling to me now, decades later, as I faced the prospect of becoming another long-sober person who takes his own life.

With nothing left to lose, I took the leap. I sourced psilocybin and embarked on my first intentional journey, alone, without a shaman or guide. My only intention was, “Please help me. Show me what’s going on.” What I discovered was life-changing.

Letting Go: The Power of the Medicine

Psychedelics didn’t replace the foundation AA had given me, but they revealed truths I’d been too afraid to face. They showed me that I didn’t need to keep adding more helium to the balloon of life. I didn’t need more success, more knowledge, or more distractions. I needed to let go of the shame, guilt, and people-pleasing that had tethered me for so long.

In the year and a half since joining Psychedelics in Recovery (PIR), I’ve made more spiritual progress than I did in over three decades of traditional recovery. The medicine, combined with the insights of ACA and other modalities, has helped me address the root causes of my pain rather than just managing the symptoms. I’ve learned that I am enough, just as I am.

A New Beginning: Trusting the Universe

Today, I’m on the brink of even greater change. My marriage may end in divorce, and that terrifies me. But for the first time in my life, I trust the universe. I’m no longer swimming against the current, trying to control everything. Instead, I’m learning to let go and embrace whatever comes.

My journey isn’t over, but I finally feel like I’m on the right path. Sobriety gave me the tools to survive, but psychedelics have given me the courage to truly live. I hope my story can offer a glimmer of hope to anyone who feels stuck, who wonders if there’s more to life than just staying sober. There is. It’s messy, it’s terrifying, and it’s beautiful. And it’s worth it.

Bronze Star, Purple Hearts: A War Abroad, A War Within

d lee — Tue, 12 Nov 2024 03:30:40 +0000

Years ago, I was asked to speak at a conference on Addiction and Mental Health about Vietnam, PTSD and combat veterans. And so I did. And, during that talk, I also spoke in depth of my father. My father, Dennis, is a decorated veteran, though he’d never call himself that. A Bronze Star and several Purple Hearts, medals I found tucked away when I was a kid—all of them symbols of things he would rather leave behind. For decades, Vietnam didn’t exist in our home. And though I have crossed paths with people who try to find ways through trauma, who are open to paths he would never consider, he and I remain worlds apart.

I remember standing at the podium, feeling the weight of all those topics and how each one was woven through my father’s life like the quiet scars he’d never reveal. I spoke about the silent, invisible wounds of war, about how men like my dad returned from combat with memories they’d carry alone, tucked away like his medals in an old box in the closet. It was a tribute, a way to honor him, to give voice to something he’d always buried deep.

At the time, my understanding of healing was limited, shaped by the same world he grew up in—a world where you didn’t talk about your pain. He would simply tell me he was “fine.” I’ve come to understand how much weight that word can hold, how it became his mask, his way of holding back everything he endured. It was only years later, when I found myself immersed in addiction recovery and reaching toward unconventional methods, that I began to open doors my father would never walk through. Psychedelics became part of my journey, a tool that allowed me to go back into my own memories and trauma, offering a form of peace I hadn’t thought possible. But I knew, even then, that he would never accept this path.

My father is a Vietnam vet, a man decorated with medals that he saw as hollow symbols of an experience he’d rather forget. The first time he opened up to me about the December day his squad was obliterated, when he survived while his friends died, was decades after the fact. Vietnam had a way of creeping up on him in silence—he would disappear every December 16th, and even when he was home, he was distant, a shadow of himself. I’ve always known that his generation, men like him, bear their trauma alone, wearing their silence like a badge of honor.

Over the years, my father has told me more than once that not a single day passes without Vietnam on his mind. One year of service, but fifty years of remembering. Fifty years where every day brought him back, even if only for a moment, to those jungles, those losses, and those ghosts that wouldn’t let him go. To anyone else, this might sound unimaginable, but for my father, it’s simply the reality he wakes up to each morning and falls asleep to each night. My father first stepped foot on Vietnam at 19 years old. I attended my first rehab at 19. Two completely different lives, decades and thousands of miles apart.

I went on to talk about his resilience, the way he faced life afterward—marriage, fatherhood, work—bearing a heavy silence as if it were just part of him. He always told me he was “fine,” but I’ve come to know that “fine” often means bearing more than most of us will ever understand. He’s lived his life in quiet defiance of pain, holding onto the belief that suffering is meant to be endured, not healed. Alcoholism and divorce. Living alone. The same episodes of Andy Griffith on repeat on his TV every day.

Today, psychedelics are in their infancy as a recognized form of healing, and for men like my father, they’re still viewed with suspicion, if they’re viewed at all. To him, psychedelics would be a foolish venture, a choice he would probably see as weakness. His is a world where the past remains unspoken, the trauma unacknowledged, and he’s committed to that life. For him, healing means enduring, not transforming, and it’s that stark contrast that defines the distance between us.

Today, on Veterans Day, I think back to that podium and the bridge I tried to build in his honor. When I remember that podium, that audience, and that speech, I’m struck by how much has changed for me and how little has for him. Psychedelics have given me the chance to break free of inherited silence, to find peace in a way I never imagined. And yet, I have to accept that his journey and mine were never meant to align. Today, as I reflect, I understand that the closest I can come to honoring him is by accepting this difference. I see him for who he is—a man who fought his battles alone, whose silence is his shield, and whose version of “fine” will never mean healed.

For him, every day will continue to carry a memory of Vietnam. Every day, he’ll live with those unspoken losses. I wish there were more I could do to help him understand what I’ve found, but I know that some paths are simply not meant to cross.

And so I sit here, accepting that our journeys are different, that the best way I can honor him is to let him keep his silence, his version of “fine.” It’s a solemn peace I’ve made, knowing that he’ll continue to carry Vietnam with him, day after day, while I walk a path he’ll never choose. But perhaps, by understanding this difference, I’m honoring him as he truly is.

Sometimes when I go back into the histories of the psychedelic movement, I sometimes wonder about the worlds apart…the Timothy Leary’s and the LSD studies in the 1950s and 1960s…and people like my father 8,000 miles away in a jungle.

I do know that two things happened in 1968.

In October of 1968, Lyndon B. Johnson, President at the time, signed into law that LSD was officially illegal in the United States…and interestingly enough, it was the same time my father first stepped off of a plane into Vietnam.

-David Lee, PIR member

Finding Connection in Healing: A Veteran’s Journey from Silence to Psychedelics in Recovery

d lee — Mon, 11 Nov 2024 13:40:44 +0000

The weight of war clings to me like a shadow, one that I’ve learned to carry in silence. When I first came back from active combat, it felt like I’d been dropped on a planet where everyone spoke the same language but couldn’t understand my words. At first, I didn’t see how the war was still living inside me, slipping into every part of my life, unseen but relentless. The closest thing I felt to home was with a bottle in hand, but even that comfort came at a price.

Relationships were impossible to hold onto. Every attempt felt like trying to hold water between my fingers. I wanted to connect, to care, but there was a wall around me that nothing could breach. Friends from before the service would invite me to dinner, talk about their spouses, kids, even things like work drama and mortgages. I’d listen and nod, trying to relate, but my mind would drift back to dusty roads and the hum of helicopters. No one could understand, and I didn’t know how to let them in. The only thing I could connect with was a drink and the feeling that maybe, for a while, it would numb the constant noise in my head.

Eventually, I walked through the doors of a 12-step meeting, looking for something—anything—that would help. Sobriety gave me a sense of direction, and there were times in the rooms of AA and NA when I felt close to belonging. But the bond wasn’t complete. While people talked about their struggles and shared laughter about things like work trouble or raising kids, I sat there, unable to talk about the realities that filled my mind every night. Combat stories don’t fit well over coffee and donuts. I’d hear someone talk about a bad day at the office, and I’d nod along, hiding the memories I carried from far away.

I kept my back to the wall in every meeting, always making sure I had a clear line to the door. Small things like that gave me some control, a way to manage the hypervigilance. But every day, the PTSD lingered, silent yet insistent, feeding me with memories I didn’t want to relive. The startle reflexes, the tension in my muscles, the deep-rooted distrust—I faked it, hoping that one day, I’d make it. I wanted the brotherhood I had felt in the military, the sense that everyone in the room had my back. Instead, I felt like the loneliest guy in a crowd of people who wanted to help but just couldn’t understand.

One night, scrolling through my phone after another restless meeting, I stumbled upon studies about psychedelics and PTSD. It sounded like hope, something more than just a promise to keep showing up. But signing up for those studies felt like chasing smoke. So I stayed in silence, sober but alone, caught in a world where I couldn’t even speak about my experiences. The irony of it stung: I had been brave enough to face combat, but here I was, afraid to mention psychedelics in a room where so many people preached the idea of “open-mindedness.”

With time, I reached out for therapy. EMDR became a regular part of my life, and bit by bit, I could feel something softening. Trauma work opened doors in my mind that I’d bolted shut for years. The therapist encouraged me, guiding me toward memories I’d long tried to forget, helping me lay them down slowly and gently. But the demons didn’t fade; they lingered, stubborn and silent.

Finally, I signed up for a guided psychedelic therapy session. I walked into the room, unsure of what would come. At first, the experience was like staring at the walls I’d built around my heart, each brick stacked with old pain and stories too heavy to tell. But then, something cracked open inside me. Emotions flooded in, raw and intense, emotions I hadn’t dared to feel for years. Grief for lost friends, guilt for things I could never change, compassion for a version of me that hadn’t known how to heal. I let it all out, feeling each wave crash through me, washing away layers of hurt.

Afterward, I returned to the 12-step rooms, but something had shifted. I didn’t feel like I was the loneliest guy in the crowd anymore. The walls I’d built were thinner, and for the first time, I looked at the people around me and felt a sense of connection. I saw their struggles as deeply as I saw my own.

When I found a psychedelics-in-recovery support group, I didn’t expect to see such a diverse mix of people. Most weren’t combat veterans; in fact, many hadn’t seen the kind of life I’d lived. Yet as we started sharing, it became clear that our stories, though different in setting and detail, were bound by a thread of pain and survival. With walls lowered, we recognized pieces of each other in the silence and struggle that trauma had left behind. I’d try not to share too many specifics of combat—didn’t want to stir up memories for others—but I could sense that many in the room understood. They knew what trauma was, each in their own way, and they knew what it took to step onto this path of healing.

Now, as I sit among them, it feels like a new kind of group has formed around me. This is a safe space where I can share openly, where no one expects me to keep parts of myself hidden, and where disconnection fades. It’s strange to feel connected to such a variety of people, but here, finally, I’ve found a place where I can be whole.

Beyond Shame: A Journey of Healing in SLAA through Faith, Psychedelics, and Self-Acceptance

d lee — Fri, 01 Nov 2024 13:13:24 +0000

Growing up Catholic, I learned early on about sin, guilt, and penance. I remember sitting in church, watching candlelight flicker across the statues of saints, feeling awed by their holiness but convinced I could never be like them. I prayed, confessed, and tried to follow the rules, but deep down, there was always a part of me that felt irredeemably flawed, burdened with an inherent unworthiness I couldn’t shake.

As I got older, those feelings of guilt and shame only deepened. I’d often act out in secret, torn between my faith and desires I couldn’t seem to control. My life felt divided—keeping the surface clean and presentable while beneath, my heart remained tangled in shame. It became a familiar cycle: indulge in hidden moments, then plunge into guilt, throwing myself into prayers and promises to be “better.” Yet, nothing ever seemed to lift that weight off my shoulders.

Eventually, I found Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous (SLAA), a space where people openly shared their struggles, their secrets, and their need for connection. At first, I thought I’d finally found the solution. I dedicated myself to the program, attended meetings, and did my best to honor my edges. But as the years went by, I still felt the gnawing belief that I was unworthy. Even with support, the shame remained like a shadow, reminding me that I could never fully escape it.

One day, I stumbled upon No Bad Parts by Richard Schwartz. The title alone stopped me. Was it possible that I wasn’t as broken as I’d thought? Could it be that my desires and fears, the parts I’d been taught to reject, weren’t “bad” at all but just misunderstood? This idea felt radical, almost blasphemous, to think that I could look at myself with compassion rather than condemnation.

The more I read, the more I began to wonder if there was a way to reach these hidden parts of myself and embrace them. I’d heard about using psychedelics for deep healing, and though it felt like forbidden ground, I felt a quiet pull—a sacred urge to seek healing in ways I hadn’t allowed myself to explore. I chose All Saints’ Day for my first ceremony. It felt fitting, a day dedicated to honoring those who had struggled and found grace, each saint with their own journey of redemption.

On the morning of All Saints’ Day, I entered the ceremony with a heart full of prayer. I thought of the saints, those who had struggled, sacrificed, and transformed. I wasn’t entering this lightly; I was stepping into it with intention, hoping to find relief from a lifetime of feeling broken.

As the experience unfolded, memories rose to the surface: the hidden moments I’d spent in shame, the secrets I’d buried, the prayers whispered in desperation. But rather than the usual rush of guilt, I felt something softer. Each memory, each hidden part of myself, seemed to have a voice, a reason, a story. For the first time, I could see these parts not as sinful or shameful but as young, wounded, and in need of love. I saw myself as I was in those moments, not through the lens of judgment, but with compassion.

It was as if the divine presence I’d been taught to revere was showing me that every part of me was worthy, that my shame and desires were part of a larger journey toward wholeness. The shame I’d carried for so long began to loosen, replaced by a sense of peace and understanding. I felt connected to something greater, a love that embraced every part of me, just as I was.

In the weeks and months that followed, I continued working with No Bad Parts, learning to connect with and understand each facet of myself with gentleness. I began to see my faith in a new light. Instead of focusing on sin and guilt, I saw my religion as a path toward compassion and healing. When I prayed, I felt as if I was speaking not just to God but to the parts of myself that had been in need of love.

And then, as if by divine timing, I discovered a community called Psychedelics in Recovery. It was a place where others were integrating spiritual practices with healing modalities like psychedelics, a space where I could openly share my experiences without fear of judgment. In this group, I found acceptance and understanding I hadn’t realized I needed. Here, I could be open about my journey, my faith, and the blend of both with my healing work. I didn’t have to choose between my faith and my desire for healing; I could embrace both as part of my spiritual path.

With Psychedelics in Recovery, I discovered that my spiritual journey didn’t have to fit within a single framework. Here was a group that honored the need for both faith and exploration, tradition and transformation. For the first time, I felt that I could be whole—embracing my Catholic roots, my recovery, and my evolving understanding of myself.

All Saints’ Day has become more than just a holy day for me; it is a reminder that we are all on a journey toward wholeness, that no part of us is beyond redemption. Psychedelics, No Bad Parts, and the Psychedelics in Recovery community have shown me that I, too, am worthy of love, acceptance, and healing, just as I am. In integrating my faith with new ways of understanding, I’ve found the spiritual peace I’d been seeking all along.

Breaking the Cycle: Healing the Haunted Memories of Halloween through Recovery, Trauma Work, and Love

d lee — Fri, 01 Nov 2024 13:00:36 +0000

Growing up, Halloween was…different. My parents were draped in their own chaos, often more interested in the next drink than in their children’s happiness. I’d cobble together costumes from whatever I could find, dreaming of the “real” costumes I saw in store windows but never quite having the chance to wear. My friends’ parents would walk with them, carrying flashlights, chatting with other parents, watching to make sure their kids stayed safe. But I’d walk alone, drifting along in the night with other kids but feeling invisible, knowing there would be no one waiting at the curb for me.

Candy was the real currency on Halloween, but even that felt like it slipped through my fingers. Sometimes, after a night of trick-or-treating, I’d come home to find my mom or dad rummaging through my stash, often taking whatever they wanted or trading me a promise for something I knew they’d forget. Other years, I’d come home to a house in darkness, my pillowcase of candy the only glimmer of the holiday. I didn’t recognize the sadness I felt back then, nor did I understand why it hurt so much to not have anyone looking out for me. I just knew that Halloween wasn’t like it was for other kids.

When I got sober and started my own family, I poured everything I had into making sure my kids felt loved and safe, especially on nights like Halloween. Watching them race up each driveway, full of excitement, I’d smile and cheer them on, all the while pushing down the memories of my own childhood. I thought I’d dealt with the past, but as my kids grew, reaching the same ages I’d been back then, a flood of memories came rushing back. I found myself staring off into the distance, feeling echoes of a loneliness I hadn’t acknowledged in years.

One Halloween, after tucking my kids into bed, I sat alone in the living room, watching the pumpkin lights flicker in the window. The emptiness of my own childhood came roaring to the surface. I couldn’t shake the image of myself as a kid, walking alone, no one there to hold my hand or share my excitement. The weight of those memories became too much to ignore, and I knew I had to confront them.

That’s when I discovered Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACA). It was a place where others understood the hidden scars of growing up with parents lost in addiction, the unseen wounds that continued to shape our lives. In those meetings, I heard stories like mine, stories of hollow holidays, of broken promises, of feeling like we were invisible. For the first time, I felt less alone in the pain that had been buried inside me for so long.

But the journey didn’t stop there. Facing those memories opened up deeper layers of grief and trauma I hadn’t even realized were there. I started working with a therapist specializing in trauma, someone who helped me trace the echoes of my childhood and understand how deeply they had impacted my life. Together, we went back to those Halloweens, those lonely nights when I longed for someone to walk beside me, to keep me safe. I found myself grieving the childhood I’d never had, the comfort and safety I’d been denied.

Eventually, I felt ready to explore psychedelics in a therapeutic setting, hoping to unlock the last layers of buried pain. Those sessions were profound, taking me back to moments I hadn’t thought of in decades, letting me see myself from a new perspective. I began to understand that I wasn’t just grieving the past; I was healing the child I’d been, the one who’d walked through those lonely Halloween nights feeling unseen and unloved.

And as I worked through these memories, something shifted inside me. I could finally stand at the sidewalk with my kids without feeling the old weight pressing down on my chest. I wasn’t haunted anymore. Halloween became a celebration of healing, a time when I could see my children’s joy without the shadow of my own past.

In the end, it was my children, along with trauma work and psychedelics in recovery, that helped me find the wholeness I’d been searching for. They showed me the love and safety I’d never known, and in healing myself, I was able to break the cycle. I became the parent I had always wished for, the one who waited at the sidewalk with open arms and a warm smile, letting my kids know they were never alone.

Beyond the Steps: A Journey from Tradition to Esoteric Healing in Recovery

d lee — Fri, 01 Nov 2024 12:51:19 +0000

At my first recovery meeting, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being both relieved and trapped. The room was dim, the chairs arranged in a circle, and the walls were bare save for a few posters with slogans: One day at a time, Let go and let God, Keep it simple. Words I wanted to believe in, but that felt, at that moment, more like survival slogans than guiding principles. Still, I returned, meeting after meeting, clinging to the structure, the community, and the security that had eluded me for so long.

In those early days, my life was about basics—just keeping my head above water. For the first time, I had routines: meetings, work, even friendships with people who understood. It was good, but eventually, I found myself asking questions the steps alone didn’t answer. Why was it that even in sobriety, I felt haunted by the same old wounds? How was it possible to still feel so deeply alone, even surrounded by others who were on the same journey?

It was around this time that a friend pulled me aside after a meeting. “You ever thought about going deeper?” they asked, their eyes flicking around to make sure no one else could hear. “I mean, beyond the meetings, maybe exploring…other means?” They were speaking in code, but I understood. They were talking about psychedelics.

My gut reaction was resistance—years of program slogans and voices in my head telling me, Don’t do it. It’s too risky. Yet the words they’d said haunted me. A part of me yearned to go deeper, to find answers the steps couldn’t offer, to fill a void I couldn’t even explain. So, I sat with the idea in secret, wrestling with feelings of guilt and betrayal. My mind churned: What would my sponsor say? What would the others think?

Eventually, the pull was too strong to ignore. I decided that if I was going to do this, it would be in a structured way, with intention and respect. My friend introduced me to someone who held private psychedelic ceremonies. She was an older woman who exuded an ancient, grounded energy. I remember her asking if I’d be willing to meet myself fully, without pretense or guard. In that moment, I realized how much I’d been hiding, even in recovery.

My first ceremony felt like crossing a threshold. As the psychedelics began to take effect, memories surfaced—fragments of my past, but from a different angle. I saw my younger self, not through the lens of shame and regret, but with a strange compassion, almost as if I were watching someone else. I could feel the weight of trauma I hadn’t acknowledged: the disappointments, betrayals, and wounds that had slowly built up over the years.

And then, the strangest thing happened. The steps—the very ones I’d struggled with and sometimes resented—appeared in my mind, not as rigid rules, but as layers of understanding I hadn’t seen before. I understood that “making amends” wasn’t just about apologies but about healing the connection between myself and the people I’d harmed. Concepts like “turning my will over” took on a different shape, too. It wasn’t about control, as I’d once thought, but about trust. Trusting that there was wisdom beyond my own understanding, that life held more for me if I could let go of my grip on certainty.

This realization felt esoteric—like a hidden truth that had always been there but had only revealed itself now that I was ready. I had a sense of responsibility now, something that wasn’t about sobriety for sobriety’s sake but about wholeness. The experience was like peeling back the layers of a wound that I’d thought was healed, only to realize I’d only ever touched the surface.

Afterward, I was filled with an intense feeling of peace, unlike anything I’d experienced in recovery. I returned to my meetings with fresh eyes, suddenly aware of the incredible depth hidden in the simple words people shared. The twelve steps, once a rigid guide to survival, became a map for a journey of the soul. Each step revealed itself as a door to another layer of healing, another way to understand myself and my place in the world.

I had spent years afraid that stepping outside the bounds of tradition would isolate me. Instead, it connected me to those in my recovery circle in a way I hadn’t expected. Now, I see that the community wasn’t there to enforce rules but to offer a foundation, a space to return to, even as my journey took me into uncharted territory. When I finally opened up to my sponsor about my psychedelic experiences, I was surprised to find acceptance rather than judgment. They didn’t fully understand, but they supported me, recognizing that I was finding my own path, grounded in the same principles that had once saved my life.

Today, my recovery feels fuller, richer. The journey has become about more than abstaining from substances; it’s about discovering who I am beneath all the layers, all the stories, and all the fears. That word—esoteric—continues to echo in my mind, a reminder that some paths are hidden until we’re ready, that some truths require a journey before they’re revealed. And I’ve learned that sometimes, we have to go beyond what we know to come back home to ourselves, more whole than we ever thought possible.

A New Path in Recovery: From Atheism to Spiritual Awakening

d lee — Thu, 05 Sep 2024 00:02:43 +0000

For most of my adult life, I’ve considered myself an agnostic—sometimes, if I’m honest, an atheist. I walked into the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous over two decades ago, desperate and determined to get sober. And I did. I stayed sober through thick and thin, using the tools that were given to me: fellowship, the steps, and a lot of coffee. But, there was always this one aspect of the program that never quite resonated with me: the spiritual side. “God as we understood Him” felt like an empty phrase—something that wasn’t meant for someone like me, someone who didn’t believe in God at all.

Still, I worked the program. I did my inventories, made my amends, and tried to practice the principles in all my affairs. My life got better, and for a long time, that was enough. I even met my girlfriend in the rooms, and we built a life together around our mutual commitment to sobriety. But recently, I found myself feeling restless and disconnected, especially in my relationship. It was as if we were going through the motions—both sober, yes, but missing something deeper. We had built our lives on the bedrock of recovery, but the cracks were beginning to show.

It was my girlfriend who first suggested we explore something new. She had heard about people in recovery who had profound spiritual experiences through psychedelics—specifically, psilocybin. At first, I was shocked and a little angry. We were sober. This seemed like a step backward, a slippery slope that could lead to relapse or worse. But she was persistent, and honestly, her curiosity got me curious. I started doing my own research, cautiously reading about psilocybin journeys, their potential therapeutic benefits, and how some in the recovery community were finding new spiritual insights through them.

I was afraid of the stigma, the judgment. What would people think? Would I be kicked out of AA? I kept it all a secret, not ready to face the questions or the consequences. But the more I read, the more I felt drawn to the idea. Not because I wanted to get high—I had no interest in that—but because there was a part of me that felt so disconnected and, frankly, a bit desperate for a change. For years, I had stayed sober through sheer willpower and the support of my fellowship, but now, I needed something more. I needed to feel connected, not just to other people, but to something larger than myself.

So, with a mixture of fear and hope, I decided to try it. We found a reputable guide who could facilitate a psilocybin journey in a safe, controlled environment. I did everything right—or at least, as right as I knew how. I prepared mentally, set my intentions, and made sure I was in a good, safe space with people I trusted. And then, I let go.

What happened next is hard to put into words. During the ceremony, I felt something I had never felt before—a profound sense of awe, of connection, of something that can only be described as spiritual. It wasn’t like I saw God or anything, but I felt a presence, a consciousness that was far beyond my own. It was as if I was a part of something infinite and eternal, something that was both inside me and all around me. For the first time in my life, I felt a true sense of God-consciousness, a feeling that there was more to this life than just what I could see and touch.

The experience was transformative. It was as if a light had been turned on inside of me, revealing a deeper layer of reality that I had never known existed. I realized that my atheism, my skepticism, had been a kind of armor I wore to protect myself from vulnerability, from the unknown. And while that armor had served me well in some ways, it was also keeping me from fully experiencing life in all its richness and mystery.

After the journey, I felt a profound sense of peace, a calm that I hadn’t felt in years—if ever. It wasn’t that all my problems disappeared; my relationship still needed work, my fears and insecurities didn’t magically vanish. But I felt a new sense of perspective, a new way of seeing things that was deeply spiritual, in a way I never expected to experience.

Now, my recovery feels different. The fellowship, the steps, the inventories—they’re still important, but they’re not the whole picture. For me, recovery is now about embracing a spiritual path, exploring what it means to be truly connected to myself, to others, and to whatever that greater presence is that I felt during the ceremony. I still don’t know if I believe in “God” in the traditional sense, but I do believe in something now—something powerful, something meaningful, something that’s guiding me toward becoming the person I’m meant to be.

I’m still cautious about sharing my experience openly. There’s still a lot of fear and stigma around psychedelics, especially in traditional recovery communities. But I know what I felt, and I know it was real. It’s a new chapter in my recovery, one I never saw coming but one that I’m grateful for every day. And maybe, just maybe, there’s room in the recovery world for this kind of spiritual exploration. Maybe we can expand the conversation to include new paths to healing, new ways of connecting with the divine—however we understand it. Because, in the end, isn’t that what recovery is all about? Finding a path that leads us closer to the truth of who we are and who we’re meant to be.

Sitting in Silence: A Clinician’s Dilemma in Recovery

d lee — Mon, 02 Sep 2024 21:21:27 +0000

I never imagined I’d be here—sitting across from my patients and sponsees, carrying the weight of a secret that could destroy my career, my license, and my standing in the recovery community. But here I am, a clinician in recovery, bound by ethics and legality in a state where psychedelics are still illegal. And yet, I have tasted hope in a way I never thought possible.

I’ve been in recovery for years. I’ve done everything right. I’ve worked the steps, attended countless meetings, sponsored others, and had my own therapist. For a long time, these things were enough. They carried me through the early years of sobriety, the tough days, the restless nights. But then I hit a wall. No amount of step work or meeting attendance could touch the deep-seated, unresolved pain that lingered inside me. I could feel the darkness seeping back in, the edges of my recovery fraying.

Going back on psychiatric medications was an option, of course. I had spent years on them before, a cocktail of SSRIs and mood stabilizers that numbed me enough to function but never truly healed me. I had been off them for years now, and I wasn’t ready to return to that fog. I needed something different, something deeper. After a lot of research and soul-searching, I cautiously but hopefully decided to step outside the bounds of conventional treatment and into the unknown.

I went outside the country to participate in an ayahuasca ceremony. I was terrified but desperate. Sitting in that dark, humid room with the shaman chanting, the earthy scent of the brew filling my nostrils, I felt a fear that ran bone-deep. But as the ceremony unfolded, I began to feel something else—a release. A cathartic experience like nothing I had ever known. For the first time, I truly felt and understood how my repressed childhood trauma had affected every aspect of my life, even influencing my choice to become a therapist. I could see the threads of my pain woven into the fabric of my identity, guiding my every decision, my every relationship, my every action.

It was as if a fog had lifted, and I could finally see myself clearly. I cried—deep, guttural sobs that seemed to shake loose something inside me. I felt years of pain, shame, and self-loathing begin to dissolve. And in their place, there was hope. Real, tangible hope.

Returning home, I felt like a new person, but also like a person burdened with a new kind of weight. I knew I had found something powerful, something that could change lives. And yet, here I am, sitting across from people who are in the same place I was—desperate, lost, hopeless. People who have tried everything recovery has to offer, who have done the work and still feel empty, who are hanging on by a thread.

I want to reach out, to tell them, “There’s another way. There’s hope. I found it, and you can too.” But I can’t. I’m bound by the ethics of my profession, the laws of my state, and the anti-psychedelic sentiment that runs deep in the 12-step recovery world. Suggesting something as radical as a psychedelic experience could mean the end of my career. It could mean losing my license, my livelihood, everything I’ve worked so hard to build. It could mean being ostracized from the very community that helped save my life.

And so I sit in silence, giving the same advice and guidance I always have, offering empathy and understanding, but painfully aware that I’m holding back a part of the truth. I listen to their stories, their struggles, their pain, and I know there is more I could say, more I could offer. But I stay silent. Because in this world, even a whisper of psychedelics could end everything for me.

It’s a strange, conflicting place to be—having found hope but sitting across from the hopeless, unable to share it. I feel like a fraud sometimes, like I’m holding back a lifeline because I’m afraid of losing my footing. And yet, I also feel a profound gratitude for having found a way forward, a way to heal in a way I never thought possible.

Every day, I wrestle with this dilemma. Every day, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing by staying silent. And every day, I hope for a time when the conversation around psychedelics in recovery will be different, when we can talk openly about all the tools available to us, when we don’t have to choose between our own healing and helping others heal.

Until then, I’ll keep doing what I’ve always done—showing up, listening, offering support. And I’ll keep carrying my secret, hoping that one day, it won’t have to be a secret anymore.

A Wife’s Journey Through Addiction: Finding Freedom Amid Heartbreak

d lee — Sun, 01 Sep 2024 14:34:13 +0000

Living with someone struggling with addiction is like riding an emotional rollercoaster. It’s not just the person with the addiction who is caught in the grip of the disease, but also those who love them. I’ve been on this ride with my husband for years, oscillating between hope and heartbreak, moments of progress and painful setbacks. I’ve stood by his side, believing in his strength to overcome his demons, even when he didn’t believe in himself. Recently, I’ve found myself exploring alternative therapies, particularly psychedelics, as a potential path to healing. In this search, I’ve stumbled upon a surprising discovery—not only about him but about myself.

The Early Days: Believing in Love’s Power to Heal

When I first met my husband, he was already in recovery. He was open about his past struggles with addiction, sharing his story with a raw honesty that I admired deeply. I knew what I was getting into, but I believed in his strength and in our love. He assured me that he was done with that life, that he had fought his battles and won. I wanted so much to believe that love was enough to conquer the shadows of his past.

For a time, it seemed like it was. We built a life together, filled with laughter, quiet mornings, and dreams of the future. I watched him face down triggers and temptations, always finding a way back to me, back to us. There were days when I was sure he had beaten his addiction for good. He was attending meetings, working, smiling more. My heart swelled with pride and hope, believing that we had finally won.

The First Relapse: A Crushing Blow

But addiction is a relentless enemy. It waits in the shadows, ready to strike when least expected. I’ll never forget the day I realized he was using again. He had become distant, coming home late with flimsy excuses. I found the needles hidden in a drawer, and my heart shattered. It felt like a deep betrayal, a breaking of trust that left me gasping for air.

When I confronted him, he was filled with shame and anger. He promised it was just a slip, a mistake he wouldn’t repeat. “I can beat this,” he insisted. “I don’t need any of that other stuff. I just need to try harder.” I wanted so desperately to believe him, to think that this was just a small setback. But deep down, I knew. I could see the addiction in his eyes, the pull of something stronger than both of us.

Moments of Hope and the Cycle of Despair

Despite the setbacks, there were always moments of hope. Times when he would apologize, recommit to sobriety, and promise to do better. He would attend meetings again, make plans, talk about our future. For a few weeks, sometimes even months, things would improve. I would see the light come back into his eyes, and I would dare to hope again.

But it was a cruel cycle. Every time I thought we were finally on the right path, addiction would drag him back. Each relapse was a fresh wound, reopening scars that hadn’t yet healed. I would feel anger, yes, but mostly a deep, aching sadness. I couldn’t understand why he couldn’t just stop, why our love wasn’t enough to save him.

Relapse. Back in rehab. Back to meetings. We were like a cruel joke from a shampoo bottle. Wash, rinse, repeat. Over and over again.

Discovering Psychedelics in Recovery: A New Avenue of Hope

In my desperation to find something—anything—that could help, I started looking for alternative therapies. I read articles, watched documentaries, and joined online forums where people discussed addiction and recovery. It was there that I stumbled upon the idea of using psychedelics as a treatment for addiction. At first, it seemed too strange to be true. How could something so unconventional be the answer?

The more I read, the more intrigued I became. I learned about the potential of substances like psilocybin and ayahuasca to help “reset” the brain and break the patterns of addiction. I discovered stories of people who had tried everything—rehab, therapy, medication—only to find true recovery through psychedelic therapy. For the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of hope. Could this be the miracle we needed?

I joined several online meetings that focused on non-traditional recovery including psychedelics, thinking if I went there I could convince my husband to join. And, I found and joined Psychedelics in Recovery. At first, I joined these groups hoping to find a solution for my husband, some way to convince him to try this new approach. But as I listened to others share their stories, something unexpected happened. I began to see myself in their words particularly groups that dealt with childhood trauma, co-dependency and adult children of alcoholism.

Realizing My Own Struggle: The Hidden Pain of Co-Dependency

As I continued to attend these meetings, I realized that I wasn’t just there for him—I was there for me. I started to see that my own life had become centered around his addiction, his recovery, his pain. I had lost myself in trying to save him. The more I listened to others who had been through similar experiences, the more I began to understand the ways in which I had been enabling his behavior, the ways in which I had allowed his addiction to control not just his life, but mine as well.

The meetings became a lifeline for me, a place where I could finally voice my own fears, my own frustrations. I found a community of people who understood what it was like to love someone who is battling addiction, who knew the pain of watching someone you love self-destruct. I started to realize that I didn’t have to live this way, that I could find my own path to healing, even if my husband wasn’t ready to take that step himself.

Facing the Truth: He Doesn’t Want This Path

The more I learned, the more I felt the urge to talk to my husband about psychedelics. But I knew it wouldn’t be easy. He has always been resistant to anything outside of the traditional recovery methods. “I don’t need those things,” he’d say. “I can beat this on my own. I just need to try harder.”

I realized that trying to convince him to take a psychedelic journey might only push him further away. He was so convinced that he could do this alone, without “crutches,” without help. The truth began to settle in: maybe he wasn’t ready for this path, maybe he never would be. And I had to accept that.

Finding My Own Freedom: A Journey of Self-Discovery

For so long, I had been focused on his healing, his recovery. But now, I’m beginning to see that I have my own healing to do. Through these psychedelic recovery meetings, I’m learning to let go of my need to control his journey and focus on my own. I’m discovering the freedom that comes from releasing my grip on his addiction, from understanding that I can’t save him, and that it’s not my job to.

I’m beginning to explore my own wounds, the ways in which my own childhood and experiences have shaped me. I’m learning to find joy again, to find peace in the small moments. I’m discovering that I can still love him deeply while also taking care of myself.

Moving Forward: Embracing the Unknown

I don’t know what the future holds for us. I don’t know if he’ll ever be ready to try something new, if he’ll ever be open to the idea of psychedelic healing. But I do know that I can’t keep losing myself in his struggle. I can’t keep riding this rollercoaster of hope and heartbreak.

So, I’m choosing to focus on my own journey now. I’m choosing to find my own path to healing, to find freedom for myself. I’m learning to let go, to love him without losing myself, to support him without sacrificing my own peace.

This journey with addiction has been filled with pain and heartbreak, but it has also brought moments of profound self-discovery and growth. I’m finding strength in places I never knew existed, discovering a resilience I didn’t know I had. And while I still hope for his healing, I’m learning to prioritize my own. I’m finding that I don’t need to wait for him to find freedom—I can find it for myself, here and now. And that, for the first time in a long time, gives me hope.

Strangely enough, I haven’t yet done a psychedelic ceremony. I thought for months that I would find the right place for him. I would plan the perfect thing and it would change him and save our marriage.

But now I know it will be for me. I will be the one going.

Just me.

And that…is enough.

A Mother’s Fear: Living with My Son’s Opiate Addiction and the Search for Hope

d lee — Sun, 01 Sep 2024 02:32:38 +0000

There are days when I wake up, and my first thought is, “Is today the day I lose him?” My son, now in his twenties, has been battling opiate addiction for years. Every morning, I brace myself before looking at my phone, dreading the possibility of a missed call or a message from the hospital, or worse—from the coroner.

He wasn’t always like this. I remember when he was a little boy, full of life and laughter, with an insatiable curiosity about the world. He was my sunshine, my pride, and joy. But somewhere along the way, something changed. At first, it was subtle—a shift in his demeanor, the friends he chose, the secrecy. Then came the discovery of pills, and soon after, heroin. What followed has been a nightmare I can’t wake up from, one filled with stints in treatment centers, broken promises, overdoses, and the ever-present fear that today could be the day he doesn’t make it.

I’ve lost count of the number of times he’s been in treatment—rehab centers promising to save him, to bring him back to me. Most of them have been 12-step programs. I’ve attended meetings, listened to speakers, and read the literature, desperate to understand, to believe in the possibility of recovery. But for him, none of it has worked. Not for lack of trying, but something just isn’t clicking. The longest he’s been sober is a few months, and then he’s right back where he started—or worse.

The overdoses—God, the overdoses. The first time, I was shocked into a numb, dizzy panic, trying to process how close I had come to losing him. I remember sitting in the ER, my hands shaking, my heart breaking as I watched them work on him. But by the third or fourth time, a strange numbness took over. It’s not that I don’t care—it’s that I’ve been plunged into this chaotic rollercoaster for so long that my body and mind don’t know how to react anymore. It’s fear, anger, sadness, and exhaustion all rolled into one, a horrible cocktail of emotions that I’m forced to drink every single day.

I read articles almost obsessively now—trying to understand addiction, trying to find any thread of hope. Recently, I’ve been reading more and more about psychedelics and how they’re helping people overcome addiction. There are stories of people with the same struggles as my son—addicted to opiates, in and out of rehab, hopeless. And then, after a few sessions with something like psilocybin or ibogaine, it’s like a light switches on. They describe finding a sense of peace, a shift in perspective that makes them want to stay clean, to live again.

I’ve spoken to doctors, read studies, and even reached out to clinics overseas. But here, in the United States, there are no legal options. The DEA still classifies psychedelics as Schedule I substances, deemed to have no medical use, despite the growing body of evidence suggesting otherwise. I find myself caught in this impossible situation: there’s a potential lifeline for my son, and it’s just out of reach. Every day I read about another success story, and every day I feel that familiar mixture of hope and despair. What if this could be the answer for him? What if this is the thing that could finally pull him out of the darkness? And what if we never get the chance to find out?

I feel trapped. Trapped between the constant fear of losing him and the unbearable frustration of knowing that there could be something out there that might actually help, but it’s not available to us. I see his pain, his guilt, and his shame. I know he wants to get better. I know he wants to be free from this hell. And yet, every time we reach out for a lifeline, it seems to slip away.

Some days, I feel angry. Angry at the system for its refusal to adapt, to acknowledge that what we’re doing isn’t working. Angry at the stigma that surrounds addiction and mental health. Angry at myself for not being able to do more, to fix this, to save him. And angry at him, though I hate to admit it—angry that he can’t seem to pull himself out of this, that he keeps falling back into the same patterns.

But mostly, I feel scared. Scared that I’m running out of time. Scared that one day, maybe soon, I’ll wake up, and the worst will have happened. I live with that fear every day, and it’s a weight that’s slowly crushing me. I just want my son back—the bright, kind, funny boy who used to light up my life. I want him to have a future, to have a chance at a life free from this pain and destruction.

And so, I keep reading, keep hoping, and keep searching. Because what else can I do? Until something changes, until there’s a way for us to access these treatments legally and safely, I’m stuck in this waiting game, caught between hope and despair. But as a mother, I can’t give up. Not ever. As long as there’s a chance—however small—I’ll keep fighting for him. Because that’s what mothers do. We fight, we hope, and we love, even when it feels like we’re losing everything.

Rejected by My AA Community for Choosing to Live: My Journey with Ketamine Infusion Therapy

d lee — Sat, 31 Aug 2024 14:16:04 +0000

For over a decade, Alcoholics Anonymous has been my sanctuary. It was the place I turned to when I was lost, hopeless, and struggling to survive my alcoholism. In those early days, the rooms of AA felt like home—a place where I could finally breathe, speak my truth, and be accepted unconditionally. But recently, that sense of belonging has been shattered. I want to share my story with you, not to shame anyone, but to shed light on an issue that has profoundly affected me and, I believe, impacts many others in our community.

For years, I battled with not just alcoholism but also treatment-resistant depression. I did everything I could to manage it—therapy, medication, meditation, rigorous adherence to the 12 Steps—but nothing seemed to help. Every day was a struggle just to get out of bed, to keep going, to keep believing that things would get better. I kept showing up to meetings, kept raising my hand and sharing my pain, hoping that someone would offer a new perspective or a lifeline. But no matter how hard I tried, the darkness lingered, growing heavier with each passing day.

Then, my doctor suggested something different: a medically supervised ketamine infusion. I was terrified. I had heard of ketamine in the context of drug abuse, not healing. But I was desperate, and my doctor assured me that this was a legitimate, controlled, and evidence-based treatment for severe depression. After a lot of thought, prayer, and consultation with my therapist, I decided to give it a try.

The results were nothing short of life-changing. For the first time in years, I felt a lightness, a sense of hope that I had almost forgotten existed. The depression that had weighed me down so heavily started to lift, and I began to experience joy again. It wasn’t a cure-all, but it was a critical tool that gave me the strength to keep working on myself, to keep attending therapy, and to stay committed to my sobriety.

Feeling renewed, I went back to my AA meetings and shared my experience, hoping to encourage anyone else who might be struggling with something similar. I was met with a wall of silence. After the meeting, a few members approached me, not with support or curiosity, but with judgment and concern. “You know ketamine is a drug, right?” one of them said. Another told me, “AA is about sobriety, not finding new ways to get high.”

I felt my heart sink. I tried to explain that this wasn’t about getting high, that it was a medically supervised treatment that saved my life in ways that AA and therapy alone could not. But my words fell on deaf ears. The next week, a long-time member gave a share that was clearly directed at me, talking about the dangers of “experimenting with substances” and how that’s a slippery slope back to active addiction. Others nodded in agreement, and I felt myself shrinking in my seat, tears welling up in my eyes.

I left that meeting feeling more alone than ever. I had always believed that AA was a place of acceptance, of unconditional love, but now it felt like there was a line I had crossed, a rule I had broken by choosing a path to recovery that wasn’t purely about the Steps. The whispers behind my back grew louder, and soon, I felt like an outsider in the one place I had always felt safe.

I understand that the 12 Steps have helped millions of people, and I am grateful for the role they played in my journey. But I also know that recovery is not one-size-fits-all. Sometimes, we need more than meetings and sponsors. Sometimes, we need medical intervention, whether that’s medication for mental health issues, like depression or anxiety, or other therapies that help us heal. For me, ketamine infusion therapy was not a choice to abandon my sobriety but a decision to save my life.

I’m not writing this to attack AA or anyone in it. I’m writing this because I believe we need to have a broader conversation about what recovery can look like. We need to acknowledge that there are multiple paths to healing and that sometimes, the best way to stay sober is to address the underlying issues that led us to drink in the first place. That might mean therapy, medication, or other treatments that don’t fit neatly into the AA box. And that’s okay.

To anyone else who feels judged or rejected for taking a different path in their recovery: you are not alone. Your journey is valid. Your life is worth saving, no matter what that looks like for you. Keep fighting, keep seeking what works for you, and remember that there are many of us out here who understand, who see you, and who stand with you in your journey.

I don’t know if I will ever feel at home in my AA community again. But I do know that I am alive today because I chose to listen to my own needs and seek the help that was right for me. And that is something I will never regret.

A New Paradigm

d lee — Wed, 14 Aug 2024 23:39:35 +0000

Addiction is a tricky beast. It takes a beautiful thing and turns it into the hellish nightmare of obsession. It comes in many forms. An afternoon cocktail to take the edge off becomes a bottle a day. The rush of an afternoon at the racetrack becomes a way of life that takes away the house. The search for new and interesting ways to have an orgasm leaves the sex addict with no pleasure at all.

I used to drink. It started as fun. As a relief from life’s existential burdens of pain and fear. Eventually life became dull and problematic. I wanted more out of life. I couldn’t get what I wanted AND keep drinking. One had to go – my dreams or the booze.

So, I got sober. I went to AA. I learned how not to drink. I learned how to let go of my own demands and trust that if turn my will over the care of another power I might find the freedom I was looking for. I learned how to take responsibility for my own actions (change the things I can) and leave other people’s responsibility to themselves (accept the things I can’t change).

But perhaps the biggest gift of sobriety for me wasn’t on the list of promises in AA’s ninth step. I got to know what my values were. What I really wanted, down deep, beyond self-esteem, beyond ego. I learned that what I want to do is to contribute.

The coin that they give out for sobriety anniversaries in AA has a quote from Hamlet. It says, “to thine on self be true.” My recovery has been a journey of learning who that self is. Who I am. What are my actual values. My actual beliefs. Not the ones I had been handed or had adopted because of my family and various communities, but mine. And then I get to learn how to do what I can to live within those values.

My first last drink was almost 40 years ago. My last last drink was over 20 years ago. In between those two dates, I had a couple of short-lived convincers. (A convincer is what the British call slip or relapse – an episode that convinces one of one’s addiction.)

I have played a lot of roles in my primary recovery community, AA. Coffee maker, greeter, secretary, treasurer, GSR. Sponsee, sponsor. The role I value the most though, is being a friend. A friend among friends. A worker among workers as it is said. Over the years, work in the AA program has chipped off a lot of the edges of parts of myself that have been unhelpful. And those parts of myself frequently demand to be either the first or the last. The best or the worst.

A few years before I started looking into psychedelics, a men’s AA group I attend started reading a popular book on steps six and seven. It deepened my growth. I got a closer look at my character defects. My shortcomings. A more intimate understanding the exact nature of my wrongs. In recent years, I’ve found those terms about unhelpful character attributes interesting. Attributes that I tend to use for selfish, sometimes shameful purposes. Three steps in a row seem to point at the same list. Step 5 calls it the exact nature of our wrongs. I liked that. It’s not a list of wrongs, but the nature of them. The exact nature, to be precise. The wrong may be that I stole something. The nature of that wrong is that I coveted and demanded to have it and was willing to cross my own values to take something that wasn’t mine. Step 6 changes perspective and calls the list defects of character. That seems to be the most widely used way of referring to the list. They seem to indicate gaps in my moral makeup. Step 7’s shortcomings looks at my tendency to fall short of my values.

It was in that context that I started reading about some mental health benefits of psychedelics. An AA Sponsee recommended Psychedelics in Recovery. I had started with a psychedelic therapist. I had spoken with my AA sponsor and my doctor about going down that road. I was fortunate to have a sponsor who knew that he knew nothing about psychedelics. He said to me, “don’t ask me for permission, I don’t have any experience or opinion on it.”

Not everybody coming from traditional recovery programs has had that gentle or perceptive a response. I am grateful for my sponsor who knew the limits of his expertise. He checks in on me once in a while, ask me how it’s going. He observes with interest. And because of that, he remains a solid point of reference for me to check my motives and ideas.

When I came to Psychedelics in Recovery, I was asking the questions I hear from so many who come from traditional recovery.

• Have I crossed a line? Do I need to reset my sobriety date?
• How much of these plant medicines can I safely take?
• What, if anything, is permissible? What are the boundaries?

PiR seems to have no opinion on these questions. What PiR does have is a community of people in recovery who are asking these things of themselves and finding that the old narrative of “one is too many, a thousand not enough” doesn’t seem to apply with these psychedelic plant medicines. The allergy of the body and obsession of the mind doesn’t really come up for a lot of us in the context of the intentional use of psychedelics.

Traditional recovery programs often have very clear boundaries. In AA and NA, the definition of sobriety is clear: we don’t drink, we don’t take mind altering drugs. For people with food or sex addictions, boundaries are more nuanced, but ultimately do get clearly defined.

PiR has no answers and no opinion on these concerns. Individual members also often do not have answers or opinions. It’s a different paradigm. The definition of recovery is left to the values of the individual.

This position was confusing, even frustrating to me as a newcomer, coming in from a more traditional recovery background. I was encouraged to sit with it for a while and see how it plays out. Like in traditional recovery circles, I’ve found that sticking around and looking for the similarities and the good recovery is not a bad idea. Because of this, I find that I am having a new experience with some old things.

And through this new paradigm, I have a gratitude beyond anything could ever have imagined.

-Douglas, Moss Beach