“Hi Erica, nice to meet you. Come through.”

I follow him down a blue hallway. Passing shut doors, I can hear murmurs through the cracks. I’m terrified. How am I going to fill him in on all this? How can I convince him the disorder of my reality is real if it’s all in my head?

As soon as we sit down and start chatting, I calm down a bit. He asks me about my history. Whether or not I’ve been to therapy before, family ties, habitual tendencies. I tell him about the counselors I’ve seen and how they’ve helped me begin to piece together some of my stories. He reads every word I speak and takes notes.

“Now tell me a bit about your drug history.”

I give my spiel. It’s long. Hard drugs in my teens… pot daily for maybe too long, on and off… but psychedelics were always different. Even if I started using them purely recreationally, they were profound beyond expression. I would wake up the next day without a hangover. Feeling clear, renewed.

Then I tell him about more recent psychedelic use in ceremonial settings.

“Riiight… okayyy… but it’s still just another temporary fix, right? Like, it never lasts.”

I discombobulate. “No…? They definitely do something. Those experiences are in me, a part of me. They altered the expression of my DNA in some way, it was a physical download and reboot, and while the ‘afterglow’ may only last a few weeks, I’m constantly reminded by that beauty, by those teachings…”

In the weeks that follow, things seem to click. I’m better able to notice the patterns from within, see where I’m leaking energy, and practice a shift.

“They were some of the most beautiful experiences of my life,” I continue.

“Mmhmm… okayyyyy…” he says behind a tight lip with wide eyes, looking down at his scribbling hand. He’s visibly concerned.