A Really Good Day: How Microdosing Made a Mega Difference in My Mood, My Marriage, and My Life

by Ayelet Waldman

I don’t know where my father’s pain comes from, but I wish it could dissipate like Laszlo’s did. However, my father isn’t about to trek off to Peru and puke in a bucket in a shaman’s hut. He’s not even going to experiment with microdoses of LSD. That’s just not who he is. It’s a truism to say we can’t change anyone, not even the ones we love. You can find that sentiment on a thousand coffee mugs and inspirational Facebook photos. Just as I can’t force my father to drop a tab of acid, neither can I force him to confide in me. I cannot plumb the depths of his soul by listening to his psychotherapy tapes or plying him with questions. I cannot demand that he express love in a way that’s meaningful to me. Though the desire to do so might be understandable, it isn’t fair. In my relationship with my father I am always grasping, always needing. But aching for the ideal gets in the way of the actual. I have resented my father because he wasn’t affectionate like Shimon, empathetic like Fadiman, willing to take risks for the sake of self-knowledge like Laszlo. What’s the point of all this resentment? What good has it done me? It certainly hasn’t made either me or my dad any more content. There is a mutually satisfying relationship to be had with my father; just not the one I have been craving for so long. Got any pressing questions about the Gulag? Curious about the casualty rate at the Battle of Shiloh? Let me know; I’ll ask my dad.

My father's pain