Week 4: LSD, God, and the Edge of Me

The Long Hard Road Out of Hell {Part 8} - This was not included in the original protocol

This Week’s Vibe:

Sounds like my normal again:

🖤

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Still in Recurrence

Addiction. It might seem like a simple concept, but it’s far from it. Addiction is personal—so deeply personal—and overcoming it is no easy feat. If you hear someone claim they beat addiction on their first try, I’d bet they’re lying. In that same vein, what kind of true recovery story would this be without a prolonged relapse, right? (See what I did there? I’m a pro at dodging accountability.)

It’s been an interesting week, to say the least. I was offered the job I interviewed for last week, but—I hate to admit it—I turned it down. I know what you’re probably thinking: I’m in no position to reject paid work. But the salary was so low it wouldn’t let me move out or do much beyond covering my son’s school fees. Plus, it demanded so much time that I wouldn’t be able to continue with The Dope Doula or trauma support—my dream job, which I’ve been building toward for the past six years.
Accepting it felt like giving up on that dream.
On the brighter side, I attended a long-overdue meeting that went incredibly well. It was with someone I deeply respected and admired, and he invited me to join his team. In time, I might even use their platform to share my work. It’s not an immediate fix for my situation, but it feels more aligned and promising for the long haul.

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Always an Adventure

Now, back to the week’s events. On Friday evening, I spontaneously decided to take a small dose of LSD—250µg, to be exact. Psychedelics are often touted as a help for addiction and depression, though I’ve never bought into that. After all, I lived through the largest unofficial “experiment”—aka “The ‘90s” or “Rave Era”—which proved psychedelics didn’t prevent or cure addiction, nor did they lower suicide rates. That said, therapy and “ceremony” weren’t exactly part of that psychedelic free-for-all—unless you count kneeling in a circle passing a chillum, hitting a changa bong, and dashing to the dancefloor before exhaling, or munching mushrooms in a drum circle as “ceremony.” Plus, solo psychedelic use was rare; polydrug combos were the norm back then—and honestly, they still pop up at retreats too, with pairings like kambo and iboga, or psilocybin with MDMA or ketamine. But I digress.

So, I took the LSD and got to work setting the scene: I made two smoothies and put them in double-walled cups on my bedside table, prepped some tasty snacks—figs, pineapple, and a beetroot wrap stuffed with cream cheese, sweet peas, grated carrot, yellow and red peppers, baby broccoli, baby spinach, and mozzarella, finished with a drizzle of fresh lime. I also grabbed a litre of coconut water and some electrolyte-infused water. I strung up fairy lights, wrote contemplation prompts on a clipboard, and dressed in something nice and comfy.
I decided I’d do a proper trip report, taking notes on my iPhone, and even opened my laptop on one side of the room to hit record.

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The entire iPhone note. I know, right?

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If you’re curious about that voice recording—I won’t be sharing it. It’s mostly me crying, sniffling, and repeating how “fucking beautiful” everything is, how I’m “in it” and “part of it.” Things escalate when I realize all I want is to share it with a certain someone, and I can’t figure out why that’s my deepest longing—or why I can’t just be content with it being me alone.
Talk about those little insecurities sneaking in…

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Suffering, Beauty and God

That “absolute beauty” I kept raving about? The visuals. This trip felt more like an extended DMT experience than your typical LSD journey. I got swept up in a stunning display of sacred geometry—fractals of green, teal, and blue with golden hues, like peacock feathers, expanding and evolving. I dissolved into it, losing track of where I ended and the universe began. I kept saying, “Oh God. It’s God. And it’s me! I am it, part of it! It’s so fucking beautiful! And it’s me too! Oh God!”—oscillating between hysterical laughter and sobbing.

At one point, I realised I’d been sitting on the bathroom floor for ages but couldn’t muster the will to move to my bedroom, no matter how much I wanted to. I wondered if I needed help. I racked my brain for someone to call who could come over. The only person who came to mind was that particular someone I mentioned, but the distance between us made it impossible. It wasn’t that I didn’t have people—just that my brain couldn’t access those memories right then. I couldn’t recall anyone else in my life!

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Trip Sitters

Suddenly, it hit me: my bestie! She doesn’t live too far, though it was past midnight—maybe 2 a.m.? She’d probably be asleep. I called anyway. When she didn’t pick up, I started to panic. Why was I panicking? I was fine. I’d be fine. It’d just be nice to have her there, not essential. I sent her a few messages to explain. Then she called back (or did I call her again?).
My girl’s the best—she is trauma-informed and Zendo-trained, after all. She stayed on the phone with me for a bit (a few minutes? An hour? Who knows?). I could tell I’d woken her up, and she was wiped out—she hadn’t signed up to be my trip sitter. So, I wished her goodnight.
Now what? I thought about calling my good friend and stylist, but hesitated—he’s in recovery himself, and it didn’t feel right to put this on him. Then, a message popped up from an angel I’ve connected with on Substack. Like she was sent! Our time zones are worlds apart, so it was a decent hour for her. She’s never done drugs or been around anyone on them (except cannabis), so I wasn’t sure how she’d take it. I sent her a voice note. She replied—friendly, even excited. I asked if she’d be prepared to sit with me and offer some mental support. She thanked me for checking consent and agreed, but worried her responses might be off. After reassuring her, I flooded her with messages echoing that recording from my notes—beauty, awe, dissolving, laughter, tears, all that jazz.

Then I noticed a message from my BFF. He’s six hours away but awake—we used to love tripping together. If anyone gets me, it’s him. He held me through the toughest trip of my life a decade ago. So, I called. We burst out laughing right away. I explained what was happening, described the visuals, and told him what I thought I needed. But then, during a pause, it became evident that he wasn’t laughing with me anymore—he was laughing at me.
Cunt. I didn’t feel safe, so I hung up.

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Surrender and The Hero

Puffy-eyed and exhausted, I stumbled back to my room and started recording one voice message after another—ten or eleven in total—sending them to that beautiful person who had occupied my acid-laced mind all night. An hour later, I checked: still unread. Thank God for Telegram—I deleted them all.

As the sun began to rise, I felt a bit calmer and decided to watch some anime. Just as Akira’s credits rolled, my phone rang. It was him! My heart skipped a beat; I was still tripping—not as intensely as two hours earlier, but still fried. I tugged my oversized Nirvana hoodie over my head, letting it cast shadows across my face, and answered, hesitating to turn on my camera at first. He asked about the flood of messages he’d seen in his pull-down menu, now mysteriously gone from our chat. I admitted my embarrassment. He seemed disappointed. We ended up talking for the next ten hours. I laughed, I cried. I ran through the full spectrum of emotions but didn’t spiral. He stayed regulated throughout, which naturally, modulated my responses. Gotta love the human nervous system.

I must admit, I (obviously) love the dopamine and trace amounts of oxytocin that come with our interactions—I am an addict, after all—but it also scares me. When they tell you to avoid getting involved with someone new in rehab, it’s not just for their benefit or convenience. During recovery, we’re prone to confusing the dopamine from novel connections with deeper feelings. Plus, if the relationship doesn’t hold up and ends abruptly, there’s a decent chance of relapse.

But I’m a big girl—I know what I’m doing, and, quite frankly, I’m not into emotional masochism anymore. I’m at an age where I can no longer afford to pass on beautiful connections and special people just because of what-ifs; in other words, fuckit! I’m loving this!

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About the Protocol:

So, shall I get to the part everyone’s here for?

I haven’t managed to get the peptides yet—unfortunately. My “mentor” ghosted me on our last meeting. I hate asking for help or favours, so when people don’t show up, I assume they’ve lost interest. I let it go and move on.

On a brighter note, I’ve found ethically sourced iboga microdose caps. I asked the supplier about reciprocity—how he engages with the Bwiti tribe and how I can give back—and his response nearly brought me to tears. He’s the first supplier I’ve encountered who truly gets it. Admirable.

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Yes, about the taper:

I’ve gotten several DMs asking about my progress with the meth taper. As I hinted at the beginning of this essay, I messed it up. Royally. So now I’m stuck going cold turkey without the peptides and hoping for the best.

I want a shortcut. I want an easy way out, goddamn it. But that’s not how this works, is it?

So, what’s my takeaway from the LSD trip so far? I’m not separate from consciousness or the universe. It’s excruciatingly painful—and that’s exactly what makes it so beautiful. It’s God. And I’m part of it.

Would I do it again? Fuck no. Not alone.

That said, I’m sitting here, looking at a changa and hashish Jeffrey that I rolled earlier…

What do y’all think? To smoke or not to smoke? Drop your vote in the poll and opinions in the comments ;p

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This poll will not determine whether I smoke or not. I’m just curious to see what y’all think x

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The End

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Thank you for taking the time to read Matters of Substance. These pieces are like love letters—intimate reflections where I bare my soul, sharing raw details of my journey through trauma, drugs, addiction, and healing. As a South African, I cannot set up Substack subscriptions, and I want to keep it free for those who cannot afford the info. However, if you feel compelled to support my work, please consider donating the amount you would be willing to pay for a subscription by following this link: