Four years ago I bought “magic” mushrooms from a company in Canada. The box arrived wrapped in holiday paper. Inside was a quality t-shirt and a pair of cheap footies. At first I was alarmed that I might have been ripped off, but then I found a cardboard divider underneath. The product was behind that. The cleverness felt human and thoughtful. Care changes how the body receives experience.
I didn’t take mushrooms to have a good time, but to survive.
When I was taking mushrooms to help with Complex PTSD recovery, most of it was grueling work. Very little was enjoyable. From an Interpersonal Neurobiology (IPNB) lens, that is significant. Enjoyment requires safety, shared presence, and enough internal balance to allow play. Those conditions were mostly absent from my life. I had been too isolated for too long, thanks to repeated and egregious medical and psychiatric abuse after I asked for help with severe Complex PTSD from extreme developmental trauma. Three of the disease management industry’s standard treatments nearly killed me within three years. After each, they assured me the harm wasn’t a problem because it was standard treatment.
The only two times I had fun on shrooms were when I did them with my friend and we were outside together, with her dog. There was shared presence, another mammal, nature, sound, movement, and no hierarchy. My system could settle enough to experience joy.
The first time was near her place. It was a perfectly beautiful day. The town in West Virginia bore a gash of a valley cut by a creek, an old mill race, and the remains of a stone mill. It sat below everything else and was buffered with trees, so it felt like its own little world. The roar of the water drowned out the sounds of the city. That kind of containment reduced threat and made room for connection.
The other time was in the forest near my house. That was silly and fun. Again, no performance, no fixing, no power over. Just presence.
Aside from those, I found little enjoyment in mushrooms, although it was interesting to this biology nerd. There were very few visionary experiences. From an IPNB perspective, that also makes sense. My system wasn’t seeking transcendence, but coherence. Mostly, I had insights. I put things together into a clearer picture of my lived experience, how it affected me, and how I could integrate it.
At first, and for many times after, I spent the whole trip in bed, lying there and groaning in response to the sense of healing. This was embodied integration. A system that has been held in survival for a long time doesn’t leap into joy. It moves slowly toward balance.
The best way I can describe the feeling of those trips is like the first warm spring day after an awful winter, when you go outside with your sleeves rolled up and the sun hits your skin. You feel the glow from the warmth, the hope of the returning sun, the promise of spring, and butterflies and birds, and fresh fruits and vegetables, and long evenings on the patio with friends. That’s how it felt inside my whole body. That is what coming back toward regulation feels like after prolonged threat.
I actively integrated a lot of trauma during those sessions. Memories and emotions would arise. I allowed, observed, named, and experienced the emotions involved. That sequence is important. It’s how experience becomes integrated rather than overwhelming. Then, I would soothe myself so I could come back more into balance. That back-and-forth is regulation in real time. It’s also damn hard work.
I experienced sixteen trips in sixteen weeks. After that, I went on microdosing for a few months. I had occasional trips after that. Twenty-two total. It was a lot. It was expensive. But my condition was so extreme that I needed to take extreme measures.
The only solo trip I had that wasn’t just hard work was one where I saw myself and my first pain specialist as nine-year-old kids. We were in an open space in a fruit orchard, dancing and mirroring each other. From an IPNB perspective, this was pure attunement: mutuality and resonance. There were no rules, no expertise, and no hierarchy. Just coherence between two humans. It felt sweet and innocent and attuned. It was really nice. Thinking about that trip still gives me a sunshiny feeling.
I haven’t tripped or even microdosed in a long time. My body has no interest in shrooms anymore. The shrooms have done what they could, and my body has released the need for the tool. This is the simple, hard-won effect of integration: a system, once extremely dysregulated, is now steady enough to continue recovering without that medicine.
