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When I was growing up, my father used to describe his phobia of that other world, linking it to scenes out of the single sixties Maharishi Mahesh Yogi meeting he snuck into at MIT, describing it as the provenance of overweight women with very long hair and colorful skirts.
Early on I was far too fascinated by American consumerism and eighties materialism to go there; I loved pop, punk, metal, hip-hop, and everything in between; I’ve always loved things black and torn and weird.
By October I had become convinced I was incurable and my life was over.
And by November I dreamed of suicide, plotting to buy heroin and do a onetime overdose.
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“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked ••• angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connectionto the starry dynamo in the machinery of night …” —Allen Ginsberg, “Howl,” 1955–1956 As long as I have known myself, I’ve been affiliated with the New Age.“And even when the disaster strikes, and you are in a world of sirens and chaos—let’s embrace the possibility of it happening—imagine that your mind and thoughts can reverse it.” I heard sighs, unclear of what. Only we, those in this room, can reverse Y2K.” At the end of the otherwise-normal hatha-yoga class, as we all filed out, she called, “Please remember to pray for us all just before midnight! ” Many worlds later, in the summer of 2006, I came down with a mysterious illness. It was a hot July and I had been experiencing anxiety attacks. I went from sleeping eight hours a night, no problem, to one to two if I was lucky, as if my entire system had been hijacked and reprogrammed. By that point, I had a million aches and pains and little mind left. He gave me a sample size with warnings printed on the bottle—he said he felt obligated to tell me that the first time I took it there was the slightest chance I could go into cardiac arrest but that it was more than highly unlikely. one who charged several hundred dollars a visit and sent me home with several bottles of supplements and a big jar of clarified butter (ghee) for another several hundred.I had a book deal, a boyfriend, some money, and a ticket back to L. I decided to sign up for cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), which felt like buying an electric toothbrush—sound and stable, something everyone should do—and I went through the motions and congratulated myself on attending. I blamed the neighbors, approached them, and then they quieted down; I blamed the heat and then we got an AC for my room; I blamed the mattress and then I got a new Tempur-Pedic mattress pad. My days were spent on the internet researching illnesses and causes of acute terminal insomnia. And that was when I exited the world of Western medicine. I went the yoga route that I knew, and I fled to the healers of the yogic realms, the ayurvedic doctors. He said it was my “bird energy,” that my was out of balance and I had to focus on grounding. So I turned to friends and talked to a psychic who told me my anxiety had done this, not given me a nervous breakdown, but rather shattered an orb of glass around me. I talked to a holistic-medicine woman who spent five hours with me on the phone taking notes and sent me little white pellets, in tiny brown jars, that I was supposed to put under my tongue.Told me to take a deep breath and cracked my spine like you’d do knuckles.He asked me about car accidents, lost loves, career failures, 9/11.You are in a burning airplane, imagine the burning airplane. And that went on for some weeks, four to five hours of sleep. The CBT teacher taught me all sorts of “sleep hygiene” practices, and nothing worked, and I began to become a regular at ERs—bonus points for ERs operating as drug dispensers—and suddenly my array of sleep meds broadened and on my desk at home there was my army of chemical bedfellows: Ativan, Klonopin, Trazodone, Restoril, Remeron—you name it.Tags: Adult Dating, affair dating, sex dating