Page 217 - Flaunt 170 - The Phoenix Issue - Bosworth

HERE’S A DRUG STORY ABOUT REBIRTH Whatever you do, look in that mirror! Written by Hannah Jackson Isla Vista, California is the physical amalgamation of Claude Monet’s “Impression, Sunrise” and William Golding’s Lord of the Flies. A town with a population of over 27,000 and a median age of 20.6 crammed into two-square-miles, I.V. is no doubt the rowdy scion of its southern neighbor, Santa Barbara. However, unlike its WASPy resort town counterpart, the notorious college enclave comes with an insidious nature—a foil to its idyllic utopian appearance. I.V.’s episodic history of horrific violence, brutality, and pseudo-apocalyptic environmental disaster has tarnished the reputation of this peaceful collegiate paradise. In spite of its wicked history, it is but a lawless Eden—the tight quarters and homogenous age demographic have bound resi- dents together into an impenetrable community—which often shines brightest during the town’s darkest hours. I.V. is, simply put, a stereotypical college town that coincidental- ly happens to reside on the edge of the American Riviera. The line between Adderall-powered grinding and drunken debauch- ery is drawn by striking neon sunsets, which lure occupants to the edge of the world like clockwork. By night, residents fuel themselves with drugs and alcohol to shrug off the day, mean- dering parallel to the ocean. But where can you escape to when you’re already in paradise? *** Isla Vistans are, by nature, a higher risk for drug and alcohol abuse. 18-to-24-year olds are already a vulnerable demographic for addiction, and those enrolled in college full-time are twice as likely to abuse drugs and alcohol. Can I let you in on a secret, dear reader? Perhaps it’s my profoundly Type-A personality that demands some semblance of control in every situation, or maybe it’s the fact that I’ve seen all too many cautionary tales play out in real time, but drugs generally never appealed to me. Maybe it was the fear of losing my ironclad grip on my self con- trol, or the fear of the unknown that existed in the shroomiverse, but I was decidedly quite fine living my life not knowing what it was like to see shapes and colors emerge from places they never even belonged in the first place. But, like many-a-college senior standing on the brink of post- grad pandemonium, I realized that my days in paradise were numbered. With the long, drawn-out afternoons of summer coming to a close, no work to do (potentially for the last time for the foreseeable future), and well-balanced regimen of antide- pressants pumping through my bloodstream, it seemed like the universe was practically begging for me to give in to the magic mushrooms. *** A sea of young, tan bodies clump together in our partially-fur- nished living room, standing with our backs to the ocean, preparing to step into another world. I stare into my palm at the shriveled caps and stems that laid before me. This is going to make me trip balls? I ask myself, incredulously. A quick bottoms up and it’s all out of my hands now. What feels like a lifetime later, as the rumblings of Do you feel it yet? have subsided, I begin to laugh. What’s so funny? Nothing! The laughter carries on. Interspersed with fleeting moments of silent ponderings, I cannot contain myself from the absurdity of my hysterical non-thoughts. An ant crawls on the sand in front of me, trudging around with a monumental load of crumbs on its back. I watch it for hours, with a mixed appreciation and sadness for its exemplary work ethic. Private beaches owned by public entities are a recipe for over- crowding, but nobody seems to be out—an anomaly for Isla Vista on a 75-degree day. I break off from my group and slip into the placid Pacific. The tide is high, and I plant myself on a rock. It’s just the sea and me, and with every wave, I am vanquished by an overwhelm- ing sense of tranquility. In those moments of solitude, not a single thing matters. I am reborn. After a short eternity of letting the waves wash over me with the flirtatious spirit of water nymphs, I return from my psychedelic baptism. As I make my way back to shore, I pass my housemate who wades through the tide for his own self-reckoning. We lock eyes and laugh. What did you say to each other for you to laugh so hard? Nothing. *** I’ve heard many horror stories of people looking in the mirror while on shrooms to find all of their facial orifices filled with smaller versions of their mug, or terrifyingly vivid colors, or— perhaps worst of all—realize that they are just plain ugly. But when we return from a full day of lying under the sun, none of the stories matter. I gaze into the mirror before me and am taken aback by the person who stares back at me. Holy shit. Have I always been this hot? I am probably quite far from peak attractiveness. But after a long day of being battered by sun and sea, I am a piece of seaglass returned to the shores of this strange utopian paradise—re- entering the world with a renewed sense of purpose. My only function is that of beauty. Like many people, I have my fair share of self-esteem issues. I’ve been fairly lucky in the fact that my own warped self-percep- tions and delusions haven’t poisoned my mind to the point of consumption. Nevertheless, societal beauty standards still creep into my brain like a toxic Wisteria vine. But in my psilocybin haze, the voices are shut out. I am Narcis- sus, staring back at myself—just the two of us. I can’t forget this feeling. Like any good Gen Z-er, I commemorate this revolutionary moment of self love with a selfie. But more than that, it is a des- perate latch onto a fleeting moment of radical detachment from everything I’ve ever hated about myself. I look back at it with a warm fondness for my crooked nose, my unruly beach hair, and my rosy, sunburnt skin. As I stand in the shower, washing off the salt and euphoria, I look down at my body with a new appreciation. If this is my home, I may as well treasure it for the paradise that it is. 211