A Journey Through Shadows

The delicate lace of my beloved nude nightgown dances lightly against the contours of my chest, inciting an intimate whisper of sensation. The melodious strains of James Hill add a subtle harmony to the balmy summer night, an invisible orchestra playing a serenade just for me. Incense weaves its smoky tendrils throughout the bedroom, blending with the invigorating evening air that sneaks in through the bedroom window left ajar. This alchemy of elements, meticulously arranged, has fashioned a sanctuary that is, in essence, calming yet invigorating, introspective yet expansive, and subtly provocative.

I am ensnared in a state of prolonged anticipation, a patient sentinel awaiting the stirrings of the extraordinary. My first measured dose of psilocybin was consumed with meticulous precision at 2:00 pm, with guidance from the detailed instructions on the package. Disillusionment whispered at 3:30, prompting a replication of the initial dose. By 4:30, I invited a further exploratory increment into my system.

And I'm still waiting.

No matter how many times I've done this before, the same feeling of anticipation arises each time. With my eyes closed, trying to focus on the intricate details of the melody and lyrics from James Hill's music, all sense of time fades away. Suddenly, colours dance in front of my eyes.

As the twilight faded, vibrant hues began to swirl before my eyes.

At precisely 8:18 pm, I shrugged off any reservations and indulged in the remainder of the mystical cocoa treat. I knew my tolerance wasn’t high; this was my mere third rendezvous with the mind-altering world of mushrooms. My initial encounter was timid—I was apprehensive about the potency, so I meticulously mashed them into a lemony concoction and gulped it down, only to succumb to sleep and wake up six hours later with no recollection.

During the second encounter, I was determined to stay awake, braving a doubled dosage infused in a steaming cup of tea. By sheer coincidence, it was the same day Taylor Swift unveiled the extended version of her Midnights Album, the elusive 3 am Edition. I was in a trance, each video painting a narrative that felt personally tailored for me. Her song "Bigger than the Whole Sky" resonated deeply, seeming to mirror my complex emotions.

This particular day for my mushroom experiment wasn't chosen at random. I had just been informed about the pregnancy of a close family friend. A whirlwind of emotions waged war within me—anger at their seemingly effortless journey towards parenthood, anxiety about the potential heartbreak they might face before the time was ripe for public announcements, and an overwhelming melancholy for my own losses. The whispers of avoidance around the subject of pregnancy felt like an echo in a canyon, a constant reminder of a grief that was mine alone.

Casting a glance at the seemingly effortless journey others embarked upon towards parenthood, I found myself ensnared in a complex array of feelings - the anticipation of the potential heartache they might stumble upon before it was time for jubilant announcements, coupled with a profound sense of loss that was uniquely mine. The hushed conversations skirting around the topic of conception resounded like a haunting echo in a cavernous abyss, an unwavering reminder of a grief that was my solitary cross to bear.

I felt akin to a hunchback, banished to my bell tower - a memory too grotesque and laden with pain to be a part of refined social gatherings. A woman of thirty-two, striving relentlessly to maintain a facade of normality when the stark truth was that I was anything but. Contrary to a hunchback, I was graced with striking beauty, not a boastful claim, merely an unvarnished truth that shadowed my existence. My arresting blue eyes, fringed with long lashes, the smattering of freckles across my cheeks, and the single dimple that played peek-a-boo on my left cheek when I smiled, which was a rare occurrence, unfailingly charmed those around me, coaxing mirror smiles in return.

My confinement wasn't a bell tower, but a picturesque country haven where the passing days echoed with deafening silence. My children were safely ensconced in daycare, my husband was immersed in his work, leaving me to my solitude. My days were filled with the soulful melodies of music and enlightening podcasts, invigorating laps in the pool, and the rhythmic pounding of my feet on the logging roads as I ran. I sought solace in the vibrant blooms of my lilies and the therapeutic process of trail-cutting through the woods, trekking and pouring my soul into art and poetry. Periods of time would stretch into days where the only adult conversation was the one I had with myself. This life was my chosen sanctuary, my idyllic retreat, tainted only by the pervasive undercurrent of loneliness and sorrow. There were days when I craved the simple human connection of conversation. Instead, I found my release in the pages of my journal, pouring my emotions into ink, and fervently hoping they would remain undiscovered.

On this particular day, the lyrics to the song "Bigger Than the Whole Sky" unfolded; I visualized an unborn child and confronted my own losses. The verses echoed, "Goodbye, you were bigger than the whole sky, you were more than just a short time, and I've got a lot to pine about, I've got a lot to live without, I'm never going to meet, what could've been, would've been, what should've been you, What could've been, would've been you.". I bid adieu to my unborn children and implored the cosmos to bless my family with a healthy child. And then, I surrendered to sleep. Because finally, after what felt like an eternity, I permitted my mind to start unravelling the intricate tapestry of pain and loss that had been my constant companions.

As the clock strikes 8:48 pm, I realize I have devoured an entire chocolate bar, which, according to its packaging, should have served twenty-two portions. How did I get here? The answer lies in the anti-depressant I switched to five days ago, following an adverse reaction with my former SSRI. The recent days blur together into a nightmare of the pharmacy's listed side-effects. Unbeknownst to me, someone else had switched my pills in my blister pack. A cloak of self-loathing and self-destruction clung to me, weaving thoughts of harm into every action. Anger frothed within me, directed inexplicably at my husband. The paranoia that my mental anguish was inflicting harm on my children gnawed at me, whispering that their lives would improve in my absence. Positivity was an alien concept as the weight on my chest multiplied, becoming an unbearable burden. However, a ray of hope pierced through my haze when I noticed a new pill among my daily medication. Seeking help, I reached out to my doctor and pharmacist, only to be turned away, and told it would take days for anyone to consult with me. I was instructed to continue my medication regimen as is, while I was sobbing uncontrollably with my innocent children asleep in the back seat of my car, parked precariously close to a roaring, tumultuous river. I could almost feel the icy water enveloping the car, swallowing us into its depths, as vivid images of plunging into the river haunted me. The pleas for help echoed in my voice, but they seemed to fall on deaf ears.

I returned home, a prisoner of my tormenting thoughts. How could I shield them from the darkness within me?

Survival meant distancing myself from my babies. The anxiety was a relentless oppressor, convincing me that my heart was faltering, my body attempting to achieve what my mind lacked the fortitude to do. Yet, I did not die. That's the cruel paradox of panic attacks; they fill you with a longing for release, yet they lack the mercy to provide it. They simply leave you yearning for oblivion.

The day had reached it's end when the doctor's voice finally filtered through my phone. Her tone was clinical, and detached, as she queried about my thoughts on our medication plans. Let's set the record straight — I don't have a medical degree and never will. Even the sterile scent of alcohol swabs, or the incessant beeping of medical monitors, can trigger panic attacks in me. I have no desire to introduce a new medication to my daily regimen or amplify the pharmaceutical cocktail I'm already consuming every dawn and dusk. Why? Because they have proven ineffective. A brush with adverse reactions has left me wary, especially when I consider the dauntingly inaccessible medical aid that I might require.

So now, I seek a profound revelation, a moment of clarity—an incentive to cling to life. I need a hint, a direction to go in, to process all the pain and find a way to release my sadness for my family. I cannot do this alone, and I am disappointed in the support provided by those around me. That's why I'm here — I want to experience a captivating atmosphere of contentment that will replace the oppressive shadows of my own pain, offering a peaceful catharsis.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Much love,

Caroline