There’s a text message I saved on my mobile, six days ago now. It reads: “Universe conspiring to make things a success. Openness. Smiles from the heart. Dissolving the ice between people on their own. What normally happens in an Irish pub. People yearning to be reached. Especially in a friendly way. No attempt to control. Loving oneself. Hope for the world. World is rich. Humourous. Connected. You still got it. People cruise and compliment you. Happiness breeds happiness.”

I sent it to myself, on a bus, on my way from one club to another, in the middle of the night. Off my face. A postcard from a loved-up happy weekend, courtesy of a pill or two. Now I’m back in the real world, I can just about remember when I sent it to myself, but I have no current connection to the vivid euphoric rush that moved me to write those words. The sentimental shite about Irish pubs really deserves nothing but a public flogging. “Hope for the world”? I embarrass myself: I am the London Rose of Tralee.
I decided to give it a go, notwithstanding the comedown, because I had nothing “to do” that was weighing on my mind – it had been well over a year since I’d last indulged, and the surefire route to give myself a bad time after popping a pill is always a guilty conscience. Drugs are always a treacherous means of escape. I say “always” as if I’m an afficionado – but I’ve only ever taken E five or six times in my life, at the ripe old age of 42. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about MDMA is that, although it may be artificial, the feelings it produces are very real indeed, and in some way they feel truer to my nature than my everyday self. But like water, they ebb and flow like the tide, and they dry off in time, even if you take a high dive and make a spectacular splash. It’s all evaporated, now. I’m back on dry land, sober, and I’m doing fine. If a bit horny. Hankering for something ineffable. But when I was up, the whole time I didn’t feel horny at all – I didn’t want to engage on that level with anyone; it seemed crude, unsubtle, clumsy. A hand gesture was enough, a dance move, a smile. I snogged someone, because he asked me nicely, and he danced like a loony Madness fan, and it was pleasant, but then so was the music, so were the smiles on my friends’ faces, so were the shapes tattooed on someone’s shoulder – all were equally pleasing. He said to me: “You’re beautiful. Let’s spend the summer together”. I thought of it, and accepted: yes, that would be lovely. I was at a school disco again. It didn’t mean it was going to happen, for one second – it was good enough to think it could, the comfort of that, the romance of that, the novel in that. A door opens to infinite possibilities, like being young again, unburdened by disappointment. Cynicism is banished, because I know I will not judge him for not following through (as, of course, he didn’t) – his words were an expression of connectedness, of optimism, of generosity, and I recognised them as such, even then. I had no need of him, he was not there to fill my void, I was full to overflowing with the milk of human kindness exactly as I was, thank you very much. One can only be generous when one isn’t needy.
Those not on E – and of course it only becomes apparent how extremely popular it is in clubs when you shift dimensions, for the sullen ones stand out – the unfriendly, unconnected, mean and moody stance of those churlishly choosing to remain in the real world, seems repellent. Drunks seem clumsy, dumb, as if they’re going to stumble into you, the boors. They act as reminders of the emotional straitjacket one has to wear in everyday life.
The comedown – and there always is a comedown, kiddies, this is serious stuff – is a bit like Buffy in Once More, With Feeling – being dragged, unwilling, from Heaven. The E comedown is a lot like being born again. But not like the Christians. There is no redemption at the end, except for another pill – and that way lies the hell realm. Like being kicked out of the Garden of E-den. Paradise Lost. The universal human experience of having once enjoyed a Golden Age, a state of bliss, safety, union, and then being ejected, furious, screaming, to deal with the disjointed, disconnected, dissonant world, full of alien beings who do not “get” you, who do not put you first. You spend a lifetime trying to get that feeling again, hoping others can recreate it for you. Some try to find it in a bottle or a needle or a pill. But, as I read once in a bitchy blog railing against Doctor Who fans, addiction opens the door to thanatos, the deathwish. The search to escape life’s pains, if pursued, has only one, final, logical exit.
Once in a long while will do me fine, to remind me of the feelings I can feel, both good and bad. Any more often, and I’d start to believe those feelings are attainable on tap – but the hard lesson of E is that it’s just the same as any other experience that invokes that symbiotic feeling of numb comfy safety, be it through sex or Christ or Allah or having a boyfriend or being famous or listening to the blues. It passes. The emptiness has to be endured, other people are always jagged, it’s always difficult to be different, separate, individual. The thoughts I have about the world while high are very akin to spiritual values at the core of many esoteric faiths, and a little bit of them rubs off on me for a while, before I begin to feel the straitjackets chafing again.
If I could bring some of that attitude, that openness, that generosity, that warmth, to everyone I meet, I would.
But they’d probably just think I’m on drugs.