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When a freak brain hemorrhage struck out of nowhere a couple of years ago, I became a little depressed, stuck in a rut, and strangely fearful of death.
So when I heard about people (in my neighborhood, even) using hallucinogens to push beyond their preoccupations, to help them live without fear, I decided that was a trip I had to take.icture this: You’re in a house in suburban Baltimore, tripping on four different drugs, watching grown men and women—including at least one grandmother—cuddle platonically on mattresses.
The more I talked to my fellow journeyers, the more I realized that almost all of them were dealing with death in some way. Was it possible that if you “die” in Ayahuasca Land, it was somehow as real as brushing your teeth?
Because all this—the drugs, the group work, presumably the Mariah Carey as well—is supposed to cure you of your crippling fear of death. Aside from the occasional cheeseburger, I pretty much ascribe to the Mediterranean diet.
A subarachnoid hemorrhage is like a bruise in your brain—I heard this many times, from a battalion of doctors—and like a bruise, it takes a long time to heal.
Even on Dilaudid and oxycodone, surfing in and out of consciousness, I had abominable headaches.
The experience fit the name so perfectly that I felt a bit of semantic pleasure. I took a piss and went downstairs, feeling a vague lingering pain.
I sat on the couch for a while and then called my wife, who insisted we go to the hospital just to be safe.