He worked for the postal service in Sweden, which is how he managed to buy German acid blotter off the internet without getting busted by the cops. Getting it from there to India was a simple matter of slipping a page into a book. The ease of this makes me wonder about all the things we get away with. What do we do when no one who will punish us is watching?
Well, some of us smuggle drugs into India.
I met The Postman through my roommate at the time, in Arambol Beach, Goa. She’d been talking about him for weeks, and a few days before he arrived showed me a picture he’d sent: a gorgeous selfie where his face was swollen beyond recognition. A side effect of dosing with ibogaine.
You see, The Postman was something of a psychonaut, eager to push his mental and spiritual—and apparently physical—boundaries for the sake of self-exploration. This aspect of his life had my friend, who was otherwise head over heels for him, pretty pissed off. She thought it was dangerous, unnecessary, fruitless. Which is why, when he asked me if I wanted to go take acid in the jungle, I hesitated. Well, that and the fact that just the night before a close friend and his employer had been arrested for selling acid and hashish out of their beachfront cafe. But, I digress.
Rewind to the previous summer. I’d just gotten divorced, and went to my Very First Music Festival. I took mushrooms and acid, and the next morning found God. I wouldn’t even be in India without that experience. So when I hesitated, it wasn’t for very long. Sometimes fear saves your life. Sometimes, it only cripples it.
The next morning, we headed to the jungle. Now, when I say jungle, I don’t want you to imagine some remote, lush environment full of monkeys and fragrant blooms. This jungle was peopled with babas and hippies and seekers who’d eschewed more conventional digs for the comfort of their hammocks and the company of the birds.
And the tourists.
We hiked out past the mud deposit and through a couple encampments redolent of ganja and chapatti until we found a sweet little spot by the river. Someone had recently camped there and left behind a flat rectangular area carefully marked off by trails of stones. I spread out a tapestry, and we began to unpack. A Bluetooth speaker. Crystals and stones and brass murtis of Shiva, Ganesha. Water. Some fruit.
Anyone who has a fair amount of experience with psychedelics will have some preference for the set and setting they prefer to dose in. Some people, like The Postman, will have very strong preferences. Primary among these was silence. We would exist, side by side, separated not only in body but also in mind. And, I felt, in spirit. Not a dynamic I was used to working with, but I was up to try something new.
We started our journeys by meditating next to one another for about twenty minutes, at which point The Postman handed me a single piece of blotter paper. I prayed, offered myself up to the spirit of LSD, then took my dose. We continued to meditate for a while before The Postman broke the silence not by speaking to me, but by queuing up Mooji’s Reggae Satsang on the stereo.
Describing an acid trip is a bit like describing a dream; it can have pockets of intense meaning, and a whole lot of strange, possibly amusing imagery. But ultimately, it tends to only be really interesting to the person who experienced it. Suffice to say, I spent the afternoon certain that I was on a boat in the ocean, lazily meandering my way through the waves.
(An eery side note: that very evening, not long after we left, the jungle was raided and several babas were arrested, following the suicide of a local politician’s son. At least, this is what I heard the next day. I can’t find any corroborating evidence and Googling Arambol suicide is a nasty way to spend an afternoon.)
We packed up and headed back to the village as the sun began to set. I spent an awkward hour in The Postman’s room listening to a poorly recorded meditation on cleaning energies before making my way back to the comfort of the beachfront cafe I mentioned earlier.
Only to be intercepted by my friend before I got inside. Maybe it was my dining plate pupils, maybe my swoopy loopy smile, that prompted her to order me to find some other place—any other place—to hang out. Damn good advice, considering the general state of unease gripping everyone who worked there, who hung out there. Their patriarch was gone, in the grips of the law on some pretty nasty charges, and here I was merrily prancing through, still pretty damn high. Sometimes, we have asshole moments, and that was definitely one of mine.
Because Arambol is made of magic, only minutes later I was snuggled in next to two of the most amazing people I have the fortune of knowing, in the best memo shop in all of Arambol, listening to Jump by Kross Kross.
It was one of those moments, so surreal, so oddly perfect, that I knew I would remember it forever. The scene crystalized in my mind: I am surrounded by people I love, in India, coming down off German LSD, listening to questionable 90s hip-hop.
This is an article that I’ve been working up the courage to write for years. There are so many reasons not to write this, to instead just to shut my laptop, turn around and walk away, forgetting any motivation I had here to try and help someone step out of their comfort zone. First, there’s the issue of the online eating disorder community where you can constantly feel invalidated by people worse off than you. I was never hospitalised, my BMI was never dangerously low, and I ended up regaining my strength without too much outside help. To a lot of online anonymous accounts, this means I was never ill. Second, there always remains an ingrained fear of being open and honest about an illness which tries so hard to keep you for itself, not allowing you to share your problems and thoughts with anyone, let alone the whole world. Do I really want my family to read this? What about my friends? Co-workers?
However, several months back when the Making Her Escape team first decided to head into a mental health awareness direction, this was the first article I wanted to write. Now, sipping my condensed milk infused coffee in sunny Mexico, I finally feel like I’m on solid enough ground to be able to write this post, and not let it affect me for more than what it is worth. So here goes, wish me luck.
So, can you travel with an eating disorder?
Due to my own history, I find that the majority of friends I see frequently have dealt with the same issues, some to a lesser extent, many more to a much bigger extent. And whilst I know a couple of them who travel as frequently as I do, that is definitely a rarity amongst this part of the population. I know several people affected who dream of travelling. They want nothing more than to abandon their post and throw havoc to the wind, but the constant nagging of their Eating Disorder pulls them back, filling their heads with fears and doubts, silencing their desires and halting their pursuit of the unknown.
For a very, very, very good reason. When you travel under the grips of an eating disorder, what you are essentially doing is abandoning your support network, setting fire to your routine, and leaving behind all your creature comforts which before might have helped you get through the day. It can be a very dangerous game to play. I know this first hand. Although by this point my struggle had been going on for around five years it wasn’t until I moved to Rome aged nineteen that things got really bad for me. When I got there I realised that I knew no-one in the city, and that meant no-one knew my history. In turn, that meant I had no-one to answer to. No-one was going to be there noticing my weight loss, no-one was there to watch me eat my meals, and no-one was there to suggest maybe I take a break when I’d been hitting the gym for two hours every day for a week straight. I lost control, because the only person I was answering to was myself, and that same self was the one plotting my own downfall.
So this is the first issue. When you travel in a position like that, how are you going to keep it under control? If you were in therapy before you left, that therapist is gone. If you were living at home, that family support is gone. If you had close friends who watched your back, they can no longer be that rock. This is definitely a challenge, but it doesn’t have to be one you lose. The next time I went travelling, part of the way into a long process of recovery, I made sure I was more open about my difficulties to those I was with, and I committed to maintaining lines of contact with home, and with the people who loved me. I also turned to online services such as 7cupsoftea,b-eat, and mind.com for support. However, the most important thing that you can get out of this sudden change is the ability to answer to your other self, the self who still loves you and wants you to be healthy and happy. After a long couple of years full of ups and downs, I can now say with sincerity that I never want to be back in that place again, no matter what my worse half tries to tell me late at night, when it knows my defences are down.
A few weeks ago I was visiting my boyfriend in the Netherlands. He lives on the sixth floor of a building with no lift. On the second or third day of doing that several times a day, I stopped and realised something. ‘This would have been impossible for me when I was ill.’ In Rome I lived on the third floor, and although there was a lift, I usually chose to take the stairs instead. I would often have to stop several times on the way up, waiting to catch my breath and for my head to stop spinning. At the end, I’d have to wait until my vision came back and I regained some feeling in my limbs. I couldn’t walk up three flights on stairs without my body giving up on me, but it wasn’t until I was almost at the top of those six flights of stairs in the Netherlands that I realised how far I had come in the last 3 years.
Although it would be a fair argument to say that if I hadn’t left England and put myself in a completely isolated position, I would probably never have got so ill, I put down my successful recovery down to travel in so many ways. Through a long series of trial and error, I managed to get to a point where I could listen to my body and give it what it needed, rather than listening to my mind and doing as it said. I worked out through varied experiences and encounters with people very different to me, that although my mind will always be conspiring against me to some extent, and usually trying to sabotage my happiness at every step, it is definitely possible to maintain that fine line of balance, and allow yourself to live a full and happy life. These days, when I am desperate to go to the gym and work out my feelings on the treadmill or weights machines, I make a deal with myself that I can only go if I eat a healthy breakfast and commit to refueling after the gym. Similarly, if I’m really not in the mood to eat dinner that day, I compromise and eat a salad.
I don’t think that I ever would have become this independent with regard to my eating disorder if I hadn’t spent so long away from home. Breaking routine can be so scary for someone with an eating disorder, but sometimes we get so stuck into our routines that breaking it can be the only way to progress. Also, recovery becomes so much more essential when you’re committed to seeing the world. The moment I realised I needed to change was the scariest evening of my life. After an incredibly poor diet for the previous few days, and two hours at the gym that afternoon, I ended up bumping into my two closest friends in Rome. They persuaded me to come out drinking. Later that night I collapsed on a bus and a stranger had to pick me up and wait for me to regain consciousness. Although I had fainted a few times before, it had always been at home and surrounded by people who would do anything for me. The feeling the next day of ‘Damn. Anything could have happened last night’ was the worst and scariest feeling I had felt so far, and it was then that I realised if I wanted to devote my life to travel, I would need to be well. It’s just too dangerous not to be. This was the push that I needed to break the cycle, and I don’t think I would have reacted the same way if it had happened anywhere else.
Another thing about travel is that it can provide the exact distraction you needed to be able to get yourself out of your own head. You’ll find that once you’re racing around trying to get to the next viewpoint and spending your evenings socialising with people who come from backgrounds so different to your own, the time that remains to dwell upon your eating disorder is greatly diminished. You will discover that the daily battle against food is minimised in view of the other things you need to do that day. You’ll worry less about eating that extra banana when you know that if you don’t, you will not be able to reach the top of the mountain that afternoon. If you can manage to surround yourself by strangers, even if they don’t know your history, the social life will still be able to provide that little bit of support you need to get through the day.
Travelling to the third world can also change your perspective on these issues. Whilst eating disorders still occur in a third world setting, they are statistically a lot rarer, although again increasing as Western ideas and media are becoming more prevalent. Western society and media play a big part in the commonness of eating disorders, especially amongst easily influenced young teenagers. I don’t think it would be fair to blame them completely, but Western culture definitely has to accept some of the blame for the recent rise in eating disorders. To be able to travel to a country where stick thin models are not the norm, and where food and the enjoyment of it is a huge part of the culture, gives you a new view of your own relationship with food. If you go these countries and maintain your disordered stance against food, you will find yourself locked out of a culture with so much to offer. As a vegetarian, it’s already hard enough for me to enjoy the food culture of the countries I visit. Why should I add more restrictions than I need to? When you put yourself so far out of your comfort zone and into a place where meals are almost treated as a sacred rite, little by little, you will feel yourself open up to new tastes, new philosophies and new experiences. It is also hard to justify your purposeful self-destruction when you are walking past children on the street begging for just a bite to eat.
Although I still have my ups and downs, I can say with some confidence that this is the healthiest I’ve been in my life, and I have no desire for that to change. Travelling made me the person I am today, and that is true for every good and bad quality I have.
So yes. You CAN travel with an eating disorder. However if you do, you must be willing to make that agreement with yourself like I did. And you can do that. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But one day soon you will look in the mirror and realise that enough is enough. Recovery is a long and hard process with the first step often being the hardest, but can also be the most exciting. If you truly want to be well, then breaking that routine and letting the chips fall where they may could be an answer. That said, if you are not committed to the idea of eventual recovery, travelling alone can put you in a very dangerous position that you might not want to be in. At some point in your journey, it just becomes a choice you have to make.
Do you want to do this?
You can, because you are strong.
You can, because you are beautiful no matter what.
You can, because you want to.
And nothing else matters.
Written by Bethany Naylor
If you’re interested in reading other articles about how mental health can affect the way you travel, check out my previous post Dealing with Anxiety, and a wonderful post by Sarah Hirsch, Navigating Depression on the Road.
Here are some useful websites for those of you struggling away from your support networks.
My first couple weeks in India, I spent an inordinate amount of time in bed, door locked. Sometimes I had power, sometimes the fan would slowly revolve to a stop and the heat of the day would wrap itself around me like a thick, stifling blanket. I slept a lot. Went out only long enough to get food. Ignored well-meaning people knocking on my door.
When I got to Peru, a similar thing happened.
The same thing happened when I lived in Washington.
It wasn’t the travel that assaulted me, though being in a new place, with strange customs and a painful distance from friends and family, did contribute to my feelings. What is unchanged in all of these scenarios is me. Sometimes, the only viable option is to stay in bed, shades drawn, quietly pretending like I don’t exist. Not even to myself. Because the reality of existence weighs too much, and I’m not always strong.
It reminds me of physical exercise, in a way. Some days I work out hard, really pushing myself, for a few days stretch. By day four or five my arms are shaking, my legs feel like bruised rubber, and the thought of a push-up is enough to start the waterworks. Emotions are like that, too. Carry around that heavy stuff for too long, and fatigue sets in.
Except, it’s harder to put down emotions than a free weight, and, when travelling, taking that day (or three) to sit in the dark and recharge doesn’t seem like an option. There are places to go! Food to eat! Adventures to be had!
All of which can be loosely translated as: If I’m not out there DOING, I’m wasting my time, wasting my opportunities.
It’s a hard balance to strike. I knew I didn’t want to go home and say, yeah, I spent all my time looking at the ceiling. However, I knew that pushing myself too hard would just whip around and smack me in the face. So I figured out some things that helped, even a little, and started from there. Maybe they can help you, too. Whether you’re darting around SE Asia, or studying at university, or moving through daily life in your hometown, taking care of yourself is always a priority.
The single most important factor in feeling okay with the world has been music. When I was in Rishikesh, I could not stand walking through the bustling streets with all the people and the noise and the vendors shouting at me. I told myself I had to do it that way, or else I wasn’t really experiencing the city. Which, I had a point, but it was making it so I didn’t go out at all. Then, I plugged in my headphones. Instantly, the world became a whole lot easier to tackle. Find something that feeds your positive emotions. As tempting as a good Bright Eyes marathon might be, see if you can resonate with an artist who sings about beauty, truth, and love. Not just heartache.
Yoga has served as a major sustaining practice in my life. Through a divorce, being fired for the first time, losing one of my cats, and on and on, yoga has been a place I can turn to when the noise of the world gets too loud. It is a home that I can take everywhere with me. Developing some kind of mindful movement practice can help you settle more deeply into your body, and in this present moment. I’ve found that when I am truly focused on right now, the fact that I am alive and breathing and in no imminent danger, helps to make those clamouring sirens of oh-my-god-I-can’t-do-this fade away a bit.
Asking For Help
I’ve never been great at making friends, and keeping them has been challenging, too. At least, that’s what I’ve told myself. My first night in Delhi, I had a meltdown. When I took to Facebook and posted a plea for help, I was surprised at the response I got. Not my boyfriend, not my family, not the friends I thought I’d grown close to before I left. Almost immediately I received a message from a guy I’d met at a festival, weeks earlier. He became my lifeline that night, and many more times in the following months. Reach out. Keep reaching out, especially when it hurts. Love comes from directions you may never expect.
Take excellent care of yourselves. Be kind. Be soft. Be love.
Written by Sarah Hirsch
On the highest of mountains and the lowest of places