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Could "microdoses" of LSD be used to help depression?

In A Really Good Day, Ayelet Waldman tells her story of self-medicating with LSD.


It’s possible you’re already familiar with microdosing – “the hot new business trip”, according to Rolling Stone, “the drug habit your boss is gonna love”, according to GQ, and the subject of enough neo-gonzo trend pieces to make writing about it almost a genre unto itself – but in case you aren’t, allow me to help you catch up.

The term refers to a regimen in which “sub-perceptual” doses of the psychedelic drug LSD – generally around ten micrograms, about a tenth of the dose consumed for recreational purposes – are ingested once every three days in a glass of water with breakfast, in the belief that this will improve cognition, reduce distraction, aid productivity and alleviate depression, without any of the more disruptive side effects associated with dropping acid.

Although Albert Hofmann, the Swiss chemist who first synthesised LSD in 1938, suggested that “very small doses” might one day be used as “a euphoriant or antidepressant”, the idea began to generate mainstream attention only after the publication of The Psychedelic Explorer’s Guide in 2011, a handbook by the American psychologist James Fadiman for those with an interest in “safe, therapeutic and sacred journeys”. It features a short chapter, close to the end, which asks: “Can sub-perceptual doses of psychedelics improve normal functioning?”

The answer appears to be yes. Fadiman’s book contains just a handful of accounts from users claiming that regular, low-level doses of acid or psilocybin (the “magic” compound in “magic mushrooms”) have improved their lives, but he has continued to solicit responses. He wrote and distributed a memo entitled “To a Potential Self-Study Psychedelic Researcher”, offering practical advice within the tricky scientific and legal framework. LSD has been illegal in the United States since 1970 and in the UK since 1971. Fadiman’s guide is prefaced by a disclaimer (“Nothing contained herein is intended to encourage or support illegal behaviour”) beside a dedication to “Ken Kesey, Tim Leary and Al Hubbard – destroyers of structures and complacency, who made it all both possible and impossible”.

Fadiman has now received hundreds of testimonies, the latest of which runs to more than 200 pages and comes from an unlikely source: “a good, Jewish, middle-class, upwardly mobile, anxiety-ridden mother”, the writer and former criminal lawyer Ayelet Waldman. A Really Good Day, Waldman’s new book, tracks changing laws and attitudes to mind- and mood-altering substances in the US. At the same time, it is an autobiographical account of how drugs have affected her life, both as a public defender representing those who have fallen foul of America’s staggeringly punitive drug laws and as a mentally ill woman, driven by desperation into trying something new.

In the prologue, Waldman makes a list of the prescription drugs that were given to her to treat what was first diagnosed as bipolar disorder but later rediagnosed as a form of PMDD (premenstrual dysphoric disorder). She also struggles with insomnia and a frozen shoulder, conditions for which fluoxetine (Prozac), amphetamine (Adderall), diazepam (Valium), zolpidem (Ambien) and THC (marijuana), to name but a few, have proven problematic or insufficient.

Noting the irony that Waldman, a nerdy mother-of-four who distrusts all things countercultural, can remain law-abiding and “drug-free” while consuming “a shit-tonne of drugs” is the first step to understanding the hypocrisy of the situation. ­Reflecting on this, she plucks up the courage to make contact with the mysterious “Lewis Carroll”, an ailing university professor introduced to her by a friend. He sends her a tiny “cobalt blue bottle” of “vintage” stuff through the mail.

Official research was largely halted in the early 1970s, and so much of how the drug actually works remains a mystery. We know that psychedelics stimulate the 5-HT2A serotonin receptors in the brain, which in turn increases the transmission of glutamate: a powerful neurotransmitter that supports memory, learning and adaptive thinking, as well as feelings of happiness and well-being. An experiment carried out at Imperial College London in 2016 (paid for in part by a grass-roots crowd-funding campaign and the Oxford-based Beckley Foundation) used fMRI machines to monitor the responses of healthy subjects to 75 microgram doses of LSD. Waldman describes what the scans revealed: “a kind of hyperconnectivity within the brain, allowing unrelated and usually discrete regions to communicate with one another”.

Although she experiences “a slight increase in insomnia and an occasional irritable mood on Microdose Day”, Waldman is mostly positive about her results. She has moments of joy that are “nearly, though not quite, euphoric”, gains a “heightened awareness” of the world around her and has fewer fights with her family. More straightforwardly, she looks back over a month of “really good days”, in particular where work is concerned, staving off procrastination and completing her daily tasks with “ease and pleasure” (though it is not possible to know if this was the result of the ­microdoses, or just a placebo effect).

At times, the chummy prose style (“Teenagers are really good liars,” a rather lame footnote reads, “especially to their parents”) seems at odds with the subject matter. Waldman was criticised heavily in 2005 after suggesting in an essay that she loved her husband, the novelist Michael Chabon, more than she loved her kids. Her frankness about family life is admirable. It’s just difficult at times to see how these revelations relate to LSD.

In the end, Waldman writes, it isn’t happiness that microdosing brings, but insight: “a little space to consider how to act in accordance with my values, not just react to external stimuli”. As for the future, she explains that her experiment has come to an end. Her rationale is simple: she is quitting not because microdosing doesn’t work, but because it is a crime. Despite a loosening of regulations that has enabled new research into the therapeutic possibilities of MDMA (Ecstasy) for veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder, or psilocybin in end-of-life care, the reality remains the same. In a country where “somewhere between 8 and 10 per cent of the population are on antidepressants alone”, Waldman writes, “the one drug I have found that actually helps me I am forbidden to take”.

A Really Good Day: How Microdosing Made a Mega Difference in My Mood, My Marriage and My Life by Ayelet Waldman is published by Corsair (231pp, £13.99)

Philip Maughan is a freelance writer in Berlin and a former Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 16 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times

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Netflix's Ozark is overstuffed – not to mention tonally weird

Could the channel use a hit? Every time my subscription leaves my bank account, I think again that it could.

The main reason why Ozark, the new Netflix series, feels so underpowered has to do with its star, Jason Bateman (who also directs): a good actor who badly wants for charisma, he simply can’t carry it alone. Watching the first few episodes, I kept thinking of Jon Hamm in Mad Men and (a better example here) Bryan Cranston in Breaking Bad, both of whom played, as does Bateman, characters around which the plots of their respective series turned. When they were on screen, which was often, it was all but impossible to tear your eyes from them; when they were off it, you felt like you were only biding your time until they returned. But when Bateman disappears from view, you hardly notice. In fact, it feels like a plus: at least now you might get to see a bit more of the deft and adorable Laura Linney.

In Ozark, Bateman is Marty, an outwardly square guy whose big secret is that he is a money launderer for the second biggest drugs cartel in Mexico. When the series opens, he and his wife Wendy (Linney) and their two children are living in Chicago, where he nominally works as a financial advisor.

By the end of the first episode, however, they’re on their way to the Lake of the Ozarks in rural Missouri. Marty’s partner, Bruce, has been on the fiddle, and the cartel, having summarily executed him, now wants Marty both to pay back the cash, and to establish a few new businesses in which future income may be cleaned far from the prying eyes of the law enforcement agencies. If this sounds derivative, it is. We’re in the realm of Breaking Bad, only where that show gave us out-of-control Bunsen burners and flesh-eating chemicals, this one is more preoccupied with percentages and margins.

Where’s the friction? Well, not only is the FBI on Marty’s tail, his wife has been cheating on him, with the result that their marriage is now just another of his business arrangements. The locals (think Trump supporters with beards as big as pine trees) have proved thus far to be on the unfriendly side, and having paid off their debts, the only house Marty can afford has a cliché – sorry, crotchety old guy – living in the basement. On paper, admittedly, this all sounds moderately promising. But hilarity does not ensue. As dull as the Lake of the Ozarks when the tourist season is over, not even Linney can make Bill Dubuque’s dialogue come alive. Her character should be traumatised: before they left Chicago, the cartel, for reasons I do not completely understand, pushed her podgy lover – splat! – off his balcony. Instead, she’s fussing about the crotchety old guy’s sexism.

Ozark is overstuffed and tonally weird, so I won’t be binge-watching this one. This completes rather a bad run for me and Netflix; after the lame new series of House of Cards and the egregious Gypsy, this is the third of its shows on the trot to bore me rigid. Could the channel use a hit? Every time my subscription leaves my bank account, I think again that it could.

And now to The Sweet Makers: A Tudor Treat (19 July, 8pm), in which we hear the sound of the “living history” barrel being scraped so loudly, those attending the meeting at which it was commissioned must surely have worn ear defenders. Basically, this is a series in which four confectioners “go back in time” to discover how their forebears used sugar (first, the Tudors; next week, the Georgians).

What it means in practice is lots of Generation Game-style faffing with candied roses and coriander comfits by people in long skirts and silly hats – a hey-nonny-nonny fiesta of pointlessness that is itself a sugar coating for those nasty things called facts (ie a bit of tokenism about slavery and our ancestors’ trouble with their teeth).

Resident expert, food historian Dr Annie Gray, strained to give the proceedings urgency, sternly reminding the confectioners that the sugar house they’d spent hours building did not yet have a roof. But who cared if it didn’t? Destined to be eaten by fake Tudor guests at a fake Tudor banquet, it wasn’t as if anyone was going to lose their head for it – not even, alas, at Broadcasting House. 

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder

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