What Drugs Taught Me About Complex Trauma

It was 2014, and I was visiting Stockholm for the first time. That trip to the North brought with it another first, which would radically shift my perspective on trauma. It involved a quirky gay couple, an unexpected all-night rave inside the building where Nobel Prize winners were celebrated, and my first time taking drugs.

A Long, Beautiful, White Night

By some stroke of serendipity, that weekend happened to be when the ‘White Night’ festival took place in Stockholm. The nocturnal White Night occurs in many major cities, where landmarks and important locations remain open throughout the night and early morning offering a plethora of fun activities.

2014 was also the time before Airbnb had morphed from an authentic way to stay at a local’s house, to the hotel-killing apartment-rental monolith it has become today. A few weeks earlier, I had booked two nights at a Swedish man’s house on the island of Gamla Stan, which would allow me a relaxed weekend exploring the centre of Stockholm on foot.

That plan was dead on my arrival at Aksel’s place.

Aksel and his boyfriend, Bo, were artists and hippies; their bohemian home filled with blistering colour, various musical instruments and a vast collection of paintings.

Aksel was a serene, deep soul who embodied a feeling of home comfort in his gentle smile, whereas Bo was a restless adventurer with an insatiable curiosity and hunger for novelty.

Within a quarter of an hour, we had become acquainted, and Bo had convinced me to join them at a White Night rave inside the Stockholm City Hall; the architectural masterpiece where the Nobel Prize banquet is hosted after the prize ceremony is complete. I got changed, and off we went.

Inside, the ceremonial hall was full of wide-eyed, plain-clothed partygoers meandering through the mammoth palace fit for royalty. Flashing lights, electronic music and sweaty bodies consumed my senses as I fought to absorb my rapidly-escalating weekend away.

Aksel introduced me to a handful of his lovely friends, who were boisterous and warm in their acceptance of me; the stranger from Berlin. Bo had his unique way of enhancing my evening. He opened his hand and offered me a bright-blue pill. Having never taken drugs in my life, my eyebrows lifted as I asked him what it was.

Ecstasy, he said as I instinctively accepted the pill.

The next half hour was a blur. Panicked thoughts swarmed my mind, screaming at me that I was going to end up in the hospital. My family, my friends, an entire society was unequivocal in their damnation: You never take drugs. Ever. Always say no.

And yet, I had accepted the pill. The anxiety of this reality coursed through my veins, collecting between my thumb and index finger as I secretly ground the pill to half its original size while dancing.

There, I thought. Now I’ll only be half as dead.

Finally, I swallowed it.

Some decisions come from stupidity or corrupted thinking. Others come from a deeper place, from which wisdom emanates beyond our comprehension. To this day, I still have no idea which it was. Regardless of what informed my actions, there was no going back. I partied on in a nervous stupor, before the pill gradually took effect.

First, I was overcome by a gradually-building melting feeling. My cheeks, my eyes, my jaw, my shoulders, my thighs; the tension in my body began to leave me.

Wait, I thought. What tension? I don’t have tension.

Yeah, you do, my body told me. You’ve always had it.

Soon, my every muscle was relaxed, brought on by what I later learned was a flood of serotonin unleashed by the drugs.

There was little time to process. The journey from Berlin, to Stockholm, to Stockholm City Hall, to meeting these strange yet wonderful people; it all paled in comparison to the rapid transformation taking place within me. My senses had brightened immensely, as the grandeur of the building came into focus. It was as though a dark veil had been lifted, and I was seeing the world in 4K Ultra HD. The people around me even gained new beauty. I could now appreciate their every mannerism, could sense their energy, could feel the warmth of their souls radiating outwards. It was love. I was feeling pure love for everything around me. I was in a total state of surrender, my defences and rigidity having melted away.

I know what love is, I reassured myself. I’m not rigid or defended from the world.

Again, my weary soul scoffed at me. Later, as our group sat talking outside, the rising sun brought with it the dawn of understanding of my hidden reality. I had spent my life tensed against feeling, my heart and soul shut tight from the world.

And as I bathed in the feeling of serenity and surrender, able to truly enjoy my body for the first time, an immense sadness came over me. Without being able to label it at the time, I knew exactly what I had been suffering from my whole life.

What Remains When The Ice Melts

People often told me how impressed they were with my apparent calmness and confidence.

Nothing seems to affect you, an old colleague once told me.

I recalled that moment while I sat there without the armour of my aloofness. Aksel, who was seated next to me, smiled warmly at me and rubbed my shoulder, seeming to understand what I was going through. I was very much being affected by the moment, by his warmth and love, and it felt wonderful. Bo, for his part, was already planning the afterparty. Suddenly, I lost my appetite for novelty and adventure. I bid the group goodbye. I wanted to go home. To the place I had been alienated from for a lifetime.

I decided to walk back, so I could enjoy the nature and the breeze of the city. Stockholm was incredibly green, and the air was as fresh as it got. On the way, as I took a deep breath, my ego blurted something interesting: I wonder if I can feel this way forever. Then a wiser voice inside me responded: You’re on drugs. Life is not about feeling this way all the time.

Eventually, I was back in my room. The sun outside was shining bright, and I was consumed by the beauty of my own hand, enjoying the sight of it through my heightened vision. I didn’t sleep that day, opting to go out again and partake in my original plan. I enjoyed Stockholm on foot, taking it in through my ecstasy-laced senses. The effects gradually diminished over a week, as I flew back to Berlin, and back to my normal life.

Obviously, I did not feel that way forever. Yet I did not die from an overdose either. I did not end up a drug addict, homeless and destitute. Instead, what stuck with me from that experience was a desire to feel. To accept that tension, resistance and anxiety were not normal. The drugs made me feel safe for the first time in my life. What a wild realisation to have: That you never felt safe. Like a fish in water, I was so accustomed to a state of anxiety, stress and hyper-arousal, it eventually became normal.

The tension, anxiety and shame of complex trauma had reduced me to a sponge left to dry in the summer sun. My soul was cracked and desolate; the price I paid to not feel my complex trauma.

The Courage To Feel

MDMA, the active component in a pill of ecstasy, is illegal in most countries. Recently, exceptions have been made for therapists wishing to test the effects of MDMA on trauma. Army veterans, survivors of childhood abuse and others who struggle with trauma are discovering a level of healing unimaginable through talk therapy alone. The beautiful state of surrender and safety induced by MDMA allows people to revisit their original wounds and access their trauma, releasing and renegotiating their relationship with it in the process.

For me, I have experimented with MDMA once in a while, gaining more healing and progressive insights. The drug has been a revelation. For those on a healing journey, perhaps MDMA could help, especially if its therapeutic use is legalised. I won’t speak for or against it here. Those who feel called to it will decide for themselves and do their own research.

Instead, what I wish to focus on is the elusive feeling of safety that people with complex trauma seem to lack. Through tensing up our bodies, numbing our emotions, and dissociating from our felt sense, we achieve a certain level of balance and pain relief. But at what cost?

Recently, I have introduced a new form of meditation into my morning routine called NSDR (No Sleep Deep Rest). Yoga Nidra uses this method, as well as chakra meditations. Guided by someone who possesses a calm, soothing voice, these meditations direct your focus towards your various body parts (Yoga Nidra), or towards your seven chakras. Meanwhile, special background music is utilised to put you into a surrendered alpha state, where you progressively feel more rested and safe.

Making a practice of these meditations is gradually allowing me to trust my body more. Before 2014, I had a 0% feeling of safety. After, it was perhaps 30%. As I practice NSDR and self-care, having warm baths and getting constant massages, as well as doing consistent breathwork, I can safely say (pun intended) that I pendulate between a 60% and 80% feeling of safety now.

What began as an impulsive decision turned into a beautiful awakening, allowing me to finally see the anxiety-riddled, shame-filled ocean I had been swimming in my entire life. For those of you who struggle with complex trauma, I encourage you to test the waters of your soul using any modalities you feel called towards. As someone deeply thankful to have even a fraction of a sense of safety, I wish you all the serenity, security and love in the world. I hope you find a way to allow yourself all of this and more.

You deserve it.