The idea of listening to a reformed drug user share their journey to enlightenment sounds about as captivating as those guys evangelising Christian sects on soapboxes by the train stations. So I’ll spare you the revelations.

I like to think of myself as a discerning yet fun-loving person, who lives consciously, surrounded by supportive friends and family. I’m pretty comfy driving my occasionally wayward ship of possibilities (and pirates) into the horizon.

But we can’t always match up to our own image of ourselves and I’m the first to admit that. However, a good old self-enforced reality check is a good idea sometimes, if we have the ability to do it when we need it.

Whilst I was an early starter with substances, my focus was always pretty balanced. Admittedly, as my travels and friendship groups widened, so did my drug use. I never really questioned its effect on me until I started becoming anxious, hyper-analytical and unable to process my thoughts, or clearly share myself with the world. So I stopped smoking pot. That was an easy call. It made me anxious, vague and boring.

At this point I thought I had it under control. No pot. I was still going out and getting sideways, but being good to myself during the weeks. Even though I’d stopped smoking pot, the variation of other drugs I was doing increased. I don’t know if it was the crew I was partying with, or my own personal interest in the experiment, but at this stage, I’m sure I’d convinced myself it was all about the experience, if I’d even considered it at all.

So as the biggest shenanigan of the calendar year summounted, my brain was already having a dopamine downpour in anticipation.

All my friends from across the world were there on that dusty plain, erecting camps, costumes and ready to have the time of our lives (again). For some reason though, I found myself on a solo mission. I vacuumed my way from camp to camp, dancefloor to dancefloor, camel pak of gin on back, for 4 days solid.  A lucid concoction of all matter of plant and synthetic psychedelic halluciogens, a swirl of amphetemines, dissociatives and ‘research chemicals’ sent me more than sideways this time.

At the closing set of the festival, I was holding on to my party persona by one loose neuron. I had become animalistic. My Raphael face paint had cracked off and my Spiderman costume was now one ripped stocking, so I looked more like a gremlin, vacant as a highway motel, without a scrap of dignity left. Found by my best friend at the moment I collapsed, vomited (for the second time), face down in the dirt, passed out, carried back to camp, unconscious for two hours while my friends, nurses and doctors tried to revive me.
I don’t remember much of the festival.

It wasn’t the time of my life.

I was damaged goods for at least two months.

What I called ‘pushing the boundaries’ was an excuse to be selfish and unconscious (literally).

 I am lucky to be here.

I was stupid to think that drugs wouldn’t hurt me.

That was in January (2009). I’ve partied a bit here and there, and it’s been fun. Going to parties and being fully stimulated by the environment and music juices me. I’ve stepped into new realities and out of the sub-cultural succubus. It’s a nice view from here. At least now I can make conscious decisions when and what drugs I want to use, rather than the animalistic auto-vacuum that I was.

My brain has opened up some faculties that were dusty for a long time and while the resurgence has been intense and sometimes jarring, I like it! I’m bending my brain and body in new ways and am surprised by how easy life is.

When people say they need to push their boundaries with drugs to the unknown to discover themselves or love or life or whatever, I understand why. Humans are curious. But knowing whether it’s conscious exploration or getting sideways for the sake of it is difficult if you’re inside the drug taking vortex. Isn't it?