"I Took a Pill in Ibiza"

There’s a great song by Mike Posner that I just discovered – “I Took a Pill in Ibiza”. As music often does, it got me thinking. It may come as a surprise to some of you that I, on a number of occasions over the past 12 years, have experimented with drugs. Not many, and not frequently, but I have.

The first was fairly tame - marijuana. In my college days I suffered a lot with migraines, and so an acquaintance named “Sketchy” gave me a spliff in the hope that it would fend off the migraine I was having at the time. I don’t recall whether or not it worked, I just remember being drowsy and telling Mum about it when I got home.

Before I continue - as soon as I’d finished writing the above passage about weed I began to smell the stuff so clearly that I called my flatmate into my bedroom to confirm that the smell was indeed real; sure enough, it was. Weird. The first time I decide to write about my drug use, somebody lights up a fucking blunt outside my house. Funny that all the years I’ve spent writing about mental health hasn’t produced any therapists. Also, yes. His name really was “Sketchy”. He was giving out free drugs; of course that was his name.

Anyway, back to the point.

I told Mum, and she was fine about it. I knew that she had done drugs in her younger years and so I had no concerns about confiding in her. This level of trust is why we’re best friends today. She simply asked that I was careful and responsible with it, and trusted that I would be. For what it’s worth, I was. I never really took to the stuff anyway, and subsequently tried it a handful of times to very little fanfare or consequence.

Years later in 2013, my old man passed away. This happened during my first major bout of depression, and I made a point of carrying the whole thing on my back. I organised the funeral down to exactly what the speakers would each say and ensured that my family never saw me cry. At the time, I felt that this was the right thing to do. “Show no weakness, be strong for them.” As should hopefully now be apparent, I was a very different person then. I now understand the importance of speaking up and sharing pain, and I believe that vulnerability and openness are each demonstrations of a greater strength within. That said, I wasn’t handling it well.

Around 10 months later, another acquaintance of mine informed me that they had come into possession of a stash of magic mushrooms and offered me the chance to experience them free of charge. Intrigued by the prospect, I gave it thought. I consulted my Mum, and this time she was more concerned. She had known people to have life-altering “bad trips” and was worried that my head wasn’t in the right place. I told her that I was going to try it anyway but assured her that I would set the conditions of my “experiment” in such a way that would be as safe as one could be whilst trying magic mushrooms. Once again, she trusted me, albeit nervously.

I waited for a night when I was happy and relaxed. I surrounded myself with trusted friends who talked me through what I should expect and advised that the necessary help would be called in the event that something bad should happen. I went into the whole thing with nothing more than an open mind and intrigue.

This is me, very high. Note the plate-sized pupils.

I hadn’t given the remotest consideration to the idea that it might help me process a tragedy that I had yet to come to terms with, but that night wound up being the most profound night of my life. Chemically speaking, I was the happiest I’d ever been. I experienced various hallucinations of my parents, and had a conversation in my head that sincerely helped me come to terms with both Dad’s life and death. Aside from that, the night was genuinely fascinating. I walked four miles to get home, and it felt as though the stars themselves had aligned. A few years later, when “GreyMatterLeaks” first began, I even wrote a piece detailing the whole experience for a reasonably well-known artist. They were seeking drug-based story inspiration for an art piece and I was looking to write. Whether my experience was of any consequence to her remains a mystery, but I may release the article one day if there’s any significant interest.

I never did mushrooms again, simply because that first experience meant too much to me. I knew that what had taken place went exactly as it was meant to, and whilst I’m no believer in fate or grand design, I do feel as though somehow that night was a necessary part of my story.

Fast forward to a year or so later. I’ve just come out of a very intense and difficult relationship that ended in a weird way. The depression has returned, stronger than ever. In large part, this bout of depression was a result of the breakup, but as ever there were other inner demons at play. My self-worth was disappearing at a terrifying rate and I was spiralling. This time I was abroad, and I wound up scoring 20 euros worth of ecstasy from some random bloke selling knock-off Ray-Bans.

This was significant for me because it’s a drug I would never have considered taking were it not for the complete lack of interest I had in being alive at that time. I was pissed up, and the offer of something else to either kill me or dull the pain for an hour or six seemed inconsequential. Fortunately for me, it was. I don’t remember much of the night, but I do remember that guilt that caused me to hide it from Mum for years.

Whilst it’s true that I’d never considered taking it before, it wasn’t that that haunted me. Were I so inclined, I could no doubt have sourced it at home from somebody I trusted. Still stupid, but far less so than taking it from a stranger in a country I’d never been to before. I didn’t feel guilty because of the drug; that was what it was. I felt guilty because in my depression, I cared so little about my own wellbeing that I gave no thought to the people who did.

I realise in hindsight that this was to some degree a symptom of the illness, but I’m still not proud of it. Eventually, I told Mum. She tells me she was heartbroken, but mostly because she realised exactly what I now know – that I must have been truly broken to be so stupid. I knew it would hurt her to know, but like I said, I tell her everything. Good and bad.

We’re just shy of 1300 words in, and if you’re still here, you may be wondering what prompted this “laptop confessional”. Aside from the song I listened to, it’s my current relationship with drugs that brings this topic to the forefront of my mind.

As you may know, I was drugged a year ago, leading to PTSD and the drastic and at times near-fatal exacerbation of my depression and anxiety. 215 days ago I found out I was negative for HIV and I stopped smoking an hour later. 53 days ago I stopped drinking completely. As a result of what happened, I can’t stand the thought of losing control over my own body.

3 days ago, I was medication free for the first time in 2 years.

For the record, I transitioned to another medication today that I’m currently scrutinising in real-time in order to catalogue the effects, but I wanted to spend a few days medication-free first. I wanted to know how I would feel.

The answer surprised me. The days I spent without my medication were the clearest and most normal days I’ve had in months. A week ago, I was having daily thoughts of suicide. Mum suggested that the Mirtazapine I was on might be the reason I’d been so much worse the last few months. I think she may have been right. I truly believe that continuing with that drug would have resulted in my death within the next 18 months.

This revelation that I was perhaps better off without the medication is why I’m tracking the side-effects – come this Friday I’m seeing my doctor and strongly considering ceasing medication almost entirely. My experience this morning with the new medication was unpleasant, and whilst the second dose tonight hasn’t been bad at all, it doesn’t feel like it helped. So essentially, it fucks me up or leaves me as I am. There’s the rub.

Over the years I’ve been willing to subject myself to all manner of mind-altering experiences for the sake of having stories to tell when I’m older. I wouldn’t change that. I’m glad that I made those choices because they informed both who I am now and the opinions I have on certain drugs. With that said, my mind is twisted up enough without adding more knots. It may be time to accept that I’m just not a person that can be helped by medication; a realisation that is both a slight concern and minor relief. I’m still processing it.

As for everything else, I guess now just felt like the right time to tell the story. I realise that whilst some of you already knew, many of those who know me personally may be surprised/disappointed/amused/etc to find out that I’ve taken drugs in the past, but ask yourself if you liked me before you read this? If you did, consider that experiences such as these are why I am who I am. More to the point, I’ve made a habit of being open and honest when I write, so if you’ve ever admired that quality at all in me, this is still that.

My thoughts on the matter are much the same as they’ve always been – so long as what you’re doing is of no harm to others, do whatever the fuck you want. Just be careful, be safe, and learn from everything.

Good or bad.