In Pursuit of Joy: MDMA and the Therapeutic Value of Ecstatic States

As a longtime psychedelic user, I didn’t think MDMA could possibly have much to offer. It proved me wrong in the most astonishing way possible.

Image: Psychedelics are Medicine

Note: Names of individuals and some inconsequential details have been changed in order to protect the privacy of those involved.

They were the tiniest capsules I had ever seen, an impromptu gift from my very generous friend Michael. The pale crystals in each pill amounted to roughly 2 mg/kg of my weight, which was a bit higher than what Roll Safe recommended as a starting dose. But being significantly experienced with real psychedelics, I assumed that ecstasy was more likely to underwhelm than anything else. I swallowed a pill at 1 PM and waited restlessly for around an hour. It was the last time I would go into a new experience with such indifference.

“Do I feel something?” I typed on my iPad half an hour later, hoping to record the session as it unfolded. “I want to smile. Everything looks beautiful and music is different. Feels kind of like coming up on acid so far, but maybe more stimulating. A little nausea and lightheadedness.”

As I typed, my pupils expanded and the screen started to blur in a white haze. Something was definitely happening! Before I had any time to reflect on it, the effects abruptly ramped up with no warning. While traditional psychedelics mimic the structure of serotonin and cling to 5HT2A receptors, MDMA binds to dendrites and axon terminals instead. This results in a massive flood of serotonin into the synapses, followed by significant amounts of dopamine and oxytocin.

I can pinpoint the exact moment that my serotonin started to flow out, because it was one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever felt on a mind altering substance. With the exception of taking such a drug, the only other circumstance preceding the release so many neurotransmitters at once would be a life or death scenario, and it was the closest thing I’ve felt to an actual brush with death. The walls and ceiling started to crawl with static, my vision tunneled, and I was seized with a profound sense of impending doom. I briefly forgot that I was under the influence of something, and felt my sense of time and self begin to slip away in a mental fog comparable to a strong acid trip.

Lying in bed, my eyelids twitched involuntarily and I briefly regretted taking the pill. Would the next 6 hours feel so overwhelming and unpleasant? Before I had the chance to sink deeper into regrets, the intensely psychedelic effects receded just as fast as they came on, leaving one of the strangest and most astonishing sensations I had experienced in an entire lifetime.

The ability to think clearly returned, and I became aware of my boyfriend Will standing nearby, dangling a feather wand over our cat and laughing in joy. His delight seemed contagious, and I was able to stand up again.

“No drug has ever made me feel like this.”

Glancing at the iPad screen, I saw that only four minutes had passed since the last entry. Time dilation of such a magnitude would have carried an uneasy edge on psilocybin or LSD, but currently felt nothing less than delightful. My entire being had been transmuted into champagne bubbles, lighter than air and spilling over with an overwhelming joy that was impossible to contain.

“This is rolling,” I typed. “Wow!” It would be the last entry of the day.

Walking into the living room felt like seeing my home again for the first time. In fact, it felt like walking, seeing, and existing for the first time, period. I sat on the couch in a pile of furry pillows, petting the softest one with my mouth open, unable to come up with words to describe how I felt. The cliché of what I was doing further intensified the joy.

Somewhere out there, I imagined someone else was on ecstasy for the first time, petting a furry pillow and thinking about me. Forever connected in such a weird and wonderful way, though we would never meet in person.

Will held out a peach, but actually eating it seemed like the least interesting thing in the world. Instead, I ran it over my face, blown away by how wonderful it felt. Attempts to communicate the experience out loud were reduced to professions of love for the peach.

I’d gotten it wrong with my initial assumptions, and on no small scale; this was nothing like tripping, and even more intense in some ways. Being a writer, I love the challenge of putting the ineffable into words. For the first time in my life, I was left speechless. And it was wonderful.

“Overheating is a very real risk,” Will said, running an ice cube over my face and shoving a bottle of Pedialyte into my hand. Even in front of the air conditioner, we were sweating bullets. I filled the bathtub with cold water and dipped my feet in, fully clothed and not concerned about soaking the hem of my silk dress.

While still dazed at how unique the effects were in comparison to other drugs I had taken, one substance in particular did cross my mind. Like MDMA, mescaline is also a phenethylamine. It not only holds distinction as the sole classical psychedelic with such a structure, but as the only known phenethylamine with a history of ritualistic use. Indigenous people of the Americas have used the sacred Peyote and San Pedro cactus varieties in ceremonies for at least 5000 years, predating recorded evidence of any other psychedelic substance.

From the vantage point of this experience, I could draw a line between some of the subjective differences in effects produced by mescaline and the other standard psychedelics as well. While most tend to result in a degree of physical dissociation at moderate doses, or even out of body experiences at heavier ones, San Pedro extract had offered a more gentle headspace and distinctive entactogenic effect not unlike MDMA. It was also the most stimulating among all of the psychedelics I had tried, and my favorite substance to take before a long hike. In terms of both structure and psychoactive properties, mescaline felt like a bridge between MDMA and heavier psychedelics.

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“We need to call Michael!” I insisted, longing to thank him for making this happen. A few minutes later, we had him on the other end of the line. There was no hesitation or awkwardness when we told Michael how appreciative we were of the gift and how much we loved him. It struck me as profoundly sad that people may spend years cultivating close friendships, yet remain afraid to tell those friends how appreciated they are. In retrospect, we tend to regret things we did not do in the past more than things we did. How many times had I failed to say something until it was too late, and how many close friendships had I missed out on while paralyzed by the fear of opening up to people?

Despite being so heavily inebriated by a drug, it was sobering to understand how attached I was to what other people thought of me.

“How are you feeling?” Will asked me. “Do you feel free right now, as if all of your stresses and worries are gone?”

After some thought, I acknowledged that it was great, but that I still preferred psychedelics and always would. Despite the airy euphoria and absence of any negative emotions, MDMA lacked the depth that I was accustomed to from heavier mind altering substances. The mental burden had been lifted, but I also had little interest in thinking about life or trying to figure out how my anxiety had gotten so bad.

Wanting to go further within my mind, I put in headphones. While the novelty hadn’t yet diminished, finding the right music was surprisingly hard. I have never been a fan of electronic dance music, but Led Zeppelin didn’t quite sound right either. I settled on Siouxsie and the Banshees, and came to the conclusion that music doesn’t actually sound better while on MDMA; it just feels good dancing to it. Again, I longed for the emotional gravity of listening to Holst and Stravinsky on LSD and being moved to tears. But only for a brief moment; perhaps such a comparison wasn’t fair.

Maybe it wasn’t so much that MDMA lacked depth, but that it’s therapeutic value came in a much different form than I was used to, veiled behind a façade of euphoria.

Experienced psychedelic users can attest to how difficult it can be to delineate between recreational, medicinal, and spiritual use of these substances; attempts to do so formally could even be harmful as they are decriminalized and turned into pharmaceuticals in coming years. Who among us will be granted permission to explore our own minds, and who will have the authority over such permissions? What criteria will determine what a “therapeutic” or “spiritual” psychedelic session looks like, and most importantly, will those responsible for making these determinations have any personal experience with the substances they regulate? Rare legal exemptions for religious use of psychedelics may give us some clues.

An ancient leather pouch recently discovered in Bolivia suggests that Ayahuasca has been used in the Amazon basin for around 1000 years. Ritualized consumption of the powerful psychedelic tea may date back much further, despite limited archaeological evidence. By comparison, Christianity did not make its first appearance in South America until 1493.

The US Religious Freedom Restoration Act was initially introduced with intentions of preserving the First Amendment right of free religious exercise. Freedom of sacramental psychedelic use has fallen into a murky gray area, as many organizations have discovered while seeking religious exemptions from drug laws. In these cases, it falls to the DEA to determine legitimacy of the religious organization in question. While traditional use of Ayahuasca predates the spread of Western organized religion to the new world, federal exemptions only recognize legitimate use within the context of two Christian churches. Ironically, individuals seeking to work with the sacrament in a more traditional context must do so in underground ceremonies, at great risk of legal penalties. Many other religious organizations have failed to secure legal approval for other psychedelic sacraments over the years, bringing up questions about what sincerity of religious practice actually looks like, and who gets to determine it. Will such arbitrary lines be drawn over use of psychedelics in therapy once they are approved for clinical use?

In addition to a lingering suspicion for anything esoteric that falls outside of the Judeo-Christian realm, it could be said that our society has a larger problem with pleasure in general. We hold onto a deeply rooted puritanical ideal that an end result doesn’t count unless suffering was involved in the process, and that something can’t possibly have any substantial value if it felt good. This attitude extends far beyond conservative culture, showing up in places as unlikely as psychedelic communities where individuals debate the validity of a mystical trip or slam others’ experiences as superficial.

If psychedelic assisted therapy is to succeed, the healing potential of ecstatic states must be acknowledged, especially given the role that burnout plays in depression and anxiety.

Coming to terms with the healing potential of a recreational experience, I no longer felt guilty for enjoying the lighter side of MDMA. Our neighbors gone for the day, Will turned up the music and moved the furniture out of the way to dance. Again, there was not a shadow of self consciousness as we floated weightlessly across the floor. Despite initially feeling like I was learning to inhabit a body for the. first time, every movement seemed as effortless as it could possibly be. We laughed and sang along to the music for some time, until Will prompted me to smile for a picture. I had no second thoughts about it, and made no efforts to conceal my much maligned gap teeth. The resulting image remains one of my favorites, an eternity of infinite joy captured within a single point in time.

As the sun set, I migrated to our pool. When the chill of the water shocked me, and not in a pleasant way, it became clear that the enchantment was wearing off. The experience had been a lot all at once, and would require some time to unpack. Despite the overwhelmingly positive nature of it, I was dumbfounded at the thought that many people roll once a week and couldn’t imagine going through such an intense experience again for at least several months, if ever.