My son wrestled with Schizophrenia and died from it last year. I’m an alcoholic 18+ years sober via regular 12 step (for purposes of helping others I choose at this writing to forfeit anonymity, however this note is altogether about principals not personality). My son was 19 years old when I got sober. Prodigious use of alcohol (in my experience it’s a nasty mortal drug) most of my adult life meant I did not know myself, let alone my son.

Between my stunted awkward journey and his bouts with psychosis all our efforts to connect and get to know each other in adulthood fell short. His provision of Psilocybin mushrooms to me provided a bridge for me to explore and open up to him. He learned some of who his father was before he died, he said he took comfort in his. I realize the following statement creates vulnerability to dismissive critics but I have been taught to pursue rigorous honesty: I got to know my son as a warm, creative, affectionate human thru objectification and compartmentalizing of Schizophrenia separate from the person. I also got to listen second hand to the Schizophrenic experience in ways seldom shared by the paranoid psychotic. The mental illness we call Schizophrenia is torturous to the sufferer, it snuffs out much of the awareness of how frustrating it is to family, friends and the medical community. In this aspect it is much like alcoholism or any disease.

The healing and bonding provided was otherwise inaccessible. Period, truth. All I can convey is my experience, strength and hope.