Fist Fight With a Mirror
Why I cry everytime I’m on shrooms
Article by Anonymous, art by Ben Hoyle
Content Warning: Substance abuse
The last time I did shrooms I was at Trump’s golf course. I guess I wasn’t on the actual course—we parked in his lot then hiked down to a beach—but it was a pretty whack way to start any day, let alone one on drugs. The ocean fog made everything in front of us virtually invisible; we had driven an hour out of LA to drink tea on a beautiful shore away from Venice’s crowded sands and, instead, we were greeted by utter greyness.
Given that the last time I had done shrooms was on the grass outside of the library in the middle of campus surrounded by sober people, I’d take anything this time, even this gloomy day. Once we found our little spot, we layed out our towels, set up our umbrella, and drank our tea.
I stretched out with my eyes closed and let my hands fall into the sand, waiting for the usual 30-minute come-up. I could hear whatever music was playing, as well as someone’s departure from our spot, but I kept my eyes closed. I wondered what this trip would be like and wondered if I should set intentions. I’ve never really been much of a nature tripper, I rarely see fractals or feel the wind in a euphoric way—I am more of a high cryer. I can’t think of a time I haven’t sobbed on shrooms. I always feel grabbed by my throat until anything lodged in there is spat out in rhythmic weeps. I wondered if this time would be different, if this time I wouldn’t start thinking about my family or my childhood—times that make me feel so small and fragile and free and helpless and hopeful that I can’t control any emotions. Maybe this time, I’d look at rocks or run my hands through water and feel like I was being reborn. Maybe this time, I could detach myself from my neverending repressed internal monologue and just feel what was around me.
It was at this point that I started to feel my body sink into the sand. It had hardly been five minutes; I couldn’t be coming up yet, could I? I sat up and the whole day had changed: the sun was soaring high, all of the fog had cleared, and the waves roared. Every sensation was amplified and I felt myself smiling. I looked around the group and so was everyone else.
I walked to the shore and felt the waves wash against my feet. I looked around, tracking everyone I was with. It was a weird summer—we had all just finished two months of Covid isolation after being kicked off campus—and here I was on a foreign beach, surrounded by three of my closest college friends and my best friend from home, in a new city, tripping on shrooms. My best friend from college made her way to me and we began talking. The conversation slowly moved into the bad, the moments at school that made us feel itchy and insecure. I started to feel irritated by the sand as we spoke, each speckle felt like a bug crawling up my skin. I didn’t want to feel this way, I didn’t want to talk about the things that made us sad, but I couldn’t find the words to express this to her. Luckily, my best friend from home made her way over, and interrupted our conversation with an old Vine reference. The three of us began talking about childhood stories, each of us melting into each other’s, until every experience was universal. Until each of us were on that Blackberry Bridge.
I sat with my knees to my chest, crying lightly between two people from separate spheres of my life, both of whom I love dearly. I felt so soft and tender in that moment, like I could connect with anyone, like I could share anything I was feeling. Tears streamed down my face and my eyesight was fragmented by the wet glitter on my cheeks, causing the sun to sparkle in the most particular way. Talk about parents began, my best friend from home reflecting on vague memories of her mother in rehab when she was a child. I listened to her intently, and began thinking about my own parents.
I wanted to call them; I knew I was tripping. I knew my speech wasn’t the most coherent, but I could hardly fight the urge. I felt like I could tell my parents anything in that moment, and that, amidst my sobs, they would understand me better than they ever had before. I’ve always had issues with telling my parents how I feel, particularly about them and my childhood. When I share things with my mum, she usually pulls the whole, “oh well I am so sorry for being such a horrible mother” card. And my dad usually just gaslights me, telling me my memories are wrong. Or he just gets really angry. He tells me I’m full of shit, or that I’ve been brainwashed by my mum. The whole thing just feels like this endless cycle, them never settling shit with their own parents, then putting the blame back on us, then me fearing that one day I’ll do the same to my own kids because I’m not brave/smart/strong enough to settle things with them.
But sometimes, like when I was tripping on that beach, I feel like I can connect all the dots of my familial trauma. Sometimes, I am in touch with emotions and memories that I’ve shut myself off from for years of waking life and I think I could just call them. On that beach, I turned to my two friends and told them I was going to call my dad, and they nodded to me. I walked back to our little camp, picked up my phone, and instantly became terrified when I saw my own reflection on the black screen.
I saw my current self, glitter streaming down my cheeks, Hawaiian shirt-clad, eyes puffy. I got a glance at my past self: a little girl with long hair and innocent eyes, as well as a look at my future self: drooping skin and crow’s feet. How was I, at any iteration of myself, prepared to speak to my dad? Prepared to ask him questions I’ve never uttered to myself?
When I was a kid, people always told me I looked just like him. As I grew older, people told me I acted just like him. They said I had inherited his sense of warmth and ease, that I could make anyone feel welcomed and comfortable, just as he does. I always held this close to my heart, I saw the way people spoke about and looked at him, with admiration and respect, with love and warmth, and that’s how I wanted people to think of me.
I love my dad. We haven’t spoken in months and the last time we did, he told me I was full of shit and needed to fuck off, but I still love him. That love is what kept me in a place of willful ignorance throughout the past 22 years. My parents were married until I was seven; I always favored him. Mum was pretty temperamental, especially while we were kids. If I had an accident at night, I was sure to tiptoe into their room and wake up my dad without disturbing her. As I got older and got in trouble for drinking or drugs, I would speak honestly with my dad, because he was empathetic and understanding, not just upset with me. I once thought of this understanding camecoming from care, and now I realize it came from guilt.
My dad was always there for me in ways that other people weren’t. He talked to me about school and my passions and my life with a genuine interest, which felt so good. He maintained a good relationship with my friends and the people I loved, always wanting to take people out to dinner and have them over for parties. As I got older, I started to feel our relationship shift toward a friendship. He once texted me that he was so lucky to have a daughter with whom he could share so much with and see as a friend, and I almost missed my flight because I was sobbing so hard in the airport bathroom.
This isn’t to say our relationship leading up to this past July was perfect. Not at all. The first time I saw my dad intoxicated, I didn’t have a word to match the behavior. I was eight, spending the weekend at his house with my brothers. I heard my two-year-old brother crying in his room. When I walked in, my brother was on the floor, playing with wires; my dad was dead asleep. I tried to shake him awake, but he kept shushing me. I went and got my 11-year-old brother and we woke him up together. As soon as he started speaking, his words were slurred. He got up to walk to the bathroom and almost fell over. I was crying so hard, telling him I was scared. He told us he had a glass of wine, forgetting he wasn’t supposed to drink on his medication, and assured us he would be fine in the morning. And he was. I stopped thinking about that night. But, now, after more experiences of molasses-mouthed words and unsteady footsteps, those memories are clear as day to me. There’s no way that one glass of wine on one medication could have that effect.
As time went on, these states became more frequent. They were never too consistent, but they would always find their way back into my life. By the time I was twelve 12, I had coined this state of my dad’s as his “night mode.” At that point, I knew about addiction, probably even knew about high-functioning addicts, but was still too proud to ever think it possible that my dad was one. He rarely drank, and drugs? No way. He just got tired. As I got older that tiredness also began to encompass his stress, which usually manifested itself through irritability and anger. My brother and I would be on our phones at dinner, or disagree with him politically, and all of a sudden we would be the scene of a restaurant: a father screaming at his teenage kids, us looking back at him like deer in headlights. God forbid a waiter come by and ask us about the meal, because then there would be one more person to yell at. We got used to being told to “just get out” at dinners every once in a while, where we would then trudge back to our apartment alone, hear him stumble in a few hours later, and pretend like nothing happened the next day.
I can’t tell you why I couldn’t just call him out then. I was in my late teens, I knew he was an addict. I had seen him in his night mode far too many times to plead ignorance at that point; had too many dinners with him repeating stories to my friends, received too many slurred-speech accusatory late night calls, and had grown accustomed to him going out to run “errands” and coming back a different person. Even if I wasn’t able to confront him about it, I don’t know why I couldn’t tell anyone else. Not even my mum, who I kept on getting closer with as I grew older. Perhaps I didn't want her to hold it over me, to have that I told you so moment after I’ve spent my whole life defending him.
I remember one time in high school, my friend broke down to me and said her dad was in rehab. I looked at her and told her my dad was also an alcoholic. It was my first time admitting that to anyone, including myself.
The first time I ever confronted my dad was May 2020. He had spent months away from my special needs, nonverbal younger brother. He was turning fifteen15 at the time, and the two of them were finally reunited for a weekend. I knew how hard the separation was for both of them. My younger brother’s life depends on structure, he doesn’t understand the world the same way many of us are privileged to. His life rested on consistency of school, meals, playtime, and the split custody between my parents.He lost all of that during the pandemic and given he can’t communicate or comprehend the way other people can, he grew quite angry. My dad, on the other hand, grew sadder and sadder. I was so excited for the two of them to be back together, and when he called me late one night, I was looking forward to hearing about their weekend.
When I answered the phone, the liquor was bouncing off of his voice. It was that same slur of disjointed facts, unrelated ideas endlessly drifting through his intoxicated mind. I was angry. By this point, I had accepted his addiction (even if I was never brave enough to bring it up), but I somehow thought his love for my incredibly special brother would surpass whatever made him take substances. What the fuck was he doing? How was he fucked up while taking care of a child who can’t even speak for himself? I gave a couple unenthused, half answers on the phone and we hung up. Directly afterwards he texted me:
“Have I done something to make you upset? Or are you just in a bad mood?”
I texted back: “I just don’t like hearing that you’re drunk when you’re with my brother.”
My phone started ringing immediately after hitting send, and my ears were flooded with a symphony of yelling and frustrated laughter. Oh, so your mom has finally convinced you I’m the devil now? Oh so you think I would take care of my son drunk? I was virtually silent the whole call, and that’s when he launched into his mental health. He told me that when I was younger, he tried to commit suicide, and went to a treatment center for a week. He said the only time in his life he’s ever taken Xanax was for my high school graduation, because I stressed him out so much. I sobbed and apologized, my anger turning to guilt turning to shame.
I found out, definitively, that all of this was bullshit this past July. I was visiting him for a couple weeks after spending most of the year abroad. During this time, I felt immense guilt that I had spent more months with my mum than him, so I was happy to be there. I had started driving again, my first time after an accident two years prior, and he would help me practice every day. We decided it was time for me to buy a car so I didn’t lose the skill again and could be more independent back at school. We went to the Subaru dealership, settled on a car, and agreed to meet back there at 9 a.m. the next morning to complete the transaction.
He showed up four hours late and fucked up. He was instantly irritable, mumbling that it was bullshit we had to wait for the salesman to finish a meeting before talking with him. We sat at a table in the middle of the store, completely visible to those around us, and he kept on falling asleep and jolting awake in front of me. His hands were shaking. I asked him what was going on and he said he didn’t sleep well the night before. I asked him if he was okay and he repeated, this is bullshit, before getting up and bursting into the salesman’s office and demanding that he be paid attention to right away.
When we sat down with the salesman, my dad continued to verbally abuse him; calling him incompeotent. At one point, before he slipped out to the bathroom in his usual fashion, my dad turned to me and said, this is how people get stuck in jobs like this, because they’re idiots. As soon as he left the room I began apologizing profusely to the man and he said he dealt with it all the time. When my dad returned, more intoxicated than he was before, the salesman asked him about payment. In his typical tone, my dad muttered, fuck, and began calling people: his girlfriend, his managers, my grandma. The conversations were hard to follow with his slurred words, but most of them ended with, no it’s FINE, I’ll handle it myself, like I have to do with everything else!
He had forgotten a check. He handed me his keys to drive back to my grandma’s and get one from her. We both Ubered here. Your car isn’t here, I reminded him. He burst into another series of swears. Eventually, my saint of a salesman volunteered to drive us to my grandmother’s and collect the check. My dad insisted I drive the car. He passed out in the backseat within moments. I stayed silent and tried to make myself invisible to the car salesman, the man who witnessed the worst day of my life and the deepest embarrassment I’ve ever felt.
I had been texting my aunt (who was also staying at my grandmother’s with my uncle and two little cousins) throughout the whole affair. When I pulled up to the house, I was instantly met by my uncle (my father’s younger brother) asking me what was going on.
“He seems really fucked up. I don’t want to be in the car alone with him.”
I was still quite new to driving and needed someone telling me what to do. He was not capable of this in his state. I was his kid and I needed him and he could not provide the help I needed due to his own illness.
My uncle told me he was going to send my dad home and we would pick up the car tomorrow. Suddenly, my dad was at the door, telling me to get back in the car. My uncle stood between us, saying that my dad should just go home and we would handle everything tomorrow. My dad forced his way into the house and tried to force me to go with him, but my uncle refused to let him get by. One thing led to another and my dad tried to shove my uncle, the chaos causing my little cousins to run upstairs to call the police. My dad left, keeping the Subaru salesman an accidental hostage.
The next few days felt like a blur. There were hardly any tears, only tools of survival. Somehow my dad had managed to purchase the car that day, and between leaving the dealership and arriving back at his house, where he hit two cars in the driveway, he had consumeddruank three quarters of a bottle of Jim Bean and stopped at a bar for three martinis. The next day, I spoke to his girlfriend on the phone and she told me about her hellish night with him, and said that he was drunk at the time I was calling as well. I decided I was not safe to go there and retrieve my things alone, so I was escorted by the police into his home. He never came down to see me. As I was fleeing, I just heard his yells from upstairs.
I flew to Colorado the next morning. My uncle and aunt had rebooked my flight and organized a way to get me to the airport. Three of my best friends picked me up. On the way back to the Springs, we ate In-N-Out and listened to the Arctic Monkeys. Florida felt so far, but I knew this event would reverberate throughout time. The next morning, I called my mum and told her everything. She was horrified, as someone who lived through my dad’s intoxicated rage more than anyone else, she was terrified of what could have happened to me. I told her she could not give my dad custody of my little brother, something they had previously agreed on, and she agreed.
I spoke to my dad for the first time since the incident a few weeks later, after extensive planning with my therapist. He started the call off by apologizing for putting me in that situation, and I started to describe how terrible every point of that day made me feel. He stopped me quickly: Hon, I can’t change the past, all I can do is make sure it will never happen again in the future. In hindsight, I should have known he wasn’t actually dedicated to getting better, even if that meant losing my brother. Towards the end of the call, his voice started to break, and he talked about how sad it made him that I came to his house with the police. I understand I must have made you feel really scared to think that was necessary, but, couldn’t you remember the good things? Couldn’t you remember the good person, the good dad I am?
Truthfully, I couldn’t remember. This past July clarified every part of my life and every aspect of my relationship with my father. It has felt indescribably icky. Suddenly, endless memories with him have been tainted. Was he drunk that night we had a weird dinner? Was that trip he took me on out of guilt? Was I safe with him as a child? Has my brother ever been safe with him? I started to feel crazy, not having access to any of these answers and not having any trust in whatever he would tell me. We continued talking once a week for a month or so—he would tell me about his AA and NA meetings, I’d ask him about rehab, he’d tell me he was busy.
We had a really shitty phone call back in September and I haven’t talked to him on the phone since. Afterwards, I walked into my backyard and sobbed to my housemates, knowing that this issue is never going to leave my life, that his addiction is leaving bloody fingerprints on all of my memories, self image, and interactions with other people. I told him a week later I would not be coming home for Thanksgiving.
I hate how guilty I feel writing all of this… feeling all of this. I hate that I feel like I have betrayed my dad by taking care of myself, and I hate that people in his life are thinking of me as a villain, as a mini version of my mother. A couple of weeks ago my grandmother called me and said I need to just forgive him, said he has taken care of me my whole life and I am being ungrateful for needing distance. I know addiction is a disease, and conceptually I feel so much sympathy for those who are struggling, but it is so hard to extend that sympathy to someone who is causing me so much pain in my own life. I still love him so much, and the fact that I don’t know when/if we will ever be okay again breaks my heart. I have nightmares of him dying from his disease, or killing himself and blaming it on me, and I just don’t know what to do. I can’t talk to him before he gets better, but what if not talking to him causes him to get worse? I am constantly being pulled in different directions with it, my grandmother and his girlfriend’s family constantly telling me to be a part of his life, my mum and uncle telling me he has no place in mine. It all feels so hard and never- ending, a constant space of dread and anxiety, a situation that will never simply resolve itself.
As scary as it all feels, I am here, and I am okay. I live in a house with people I love dearly, in a place that always feels bright and beautiful. I take classes in subjects I love and I cook for the people I care about. I am about to spend a month with the person I love the most in the world, and I am so blessed in so many ways. Even if I can’t talk to my dad, even if, right now, I can’t remember the good with him, I have California beaches, Blackberry Bridges, and Colorado Bluebird Skies on my side all of the time. I have a life that is full of love, and, I hope, one day that love can extend back to a man who taught me what it was.