Echoes of Ego Death

Last night was truly terrifying.

Since the beginning of this year, I’ve been making serious, determined efforts to combat the deep depression that has haunted me for many years. I finally overcame the hesitation and resistance that had kept me from seeking therapy and medication. But eventually, I had to admit that I needed real help. I wasn’t as strong as I thought or wanted to believe. I was tired of this endless struggle. I’m not even sure when this spiral of depression began, but it had undeniably made my life incredibly difficult: failing to get out of bed, feeling utterly drained of energy, unable to do anything, feeling profound misery and darkness whenever I looked at the world, having no desire to move, laugh, or speak, and constantly having thoughts of death. My head felt like it was on the verge of exploding from the thoughts that plagued me at night, and I had a frail, neglected body.

I decided it was time to put an end to all this, or at least try my hardest.

It started with a long and disappointing search for a therapist. From a psychiatrist who kept glancing at his watch to another who couldn’t grasp what I was saying—it was the same repeated questions, the same requests, the same shallow analysis methods. The American psychoanalysts felt completely disconnected from me, as if they were observing me from a distance, and my statements, my confessions, fell flat against their cultural ignorance and the world I came from. Even the therapists from my own region seemed out of touch with the reality of expatriation, uprooting, and the deep sense of disconnection I felt.

Is the problem with me? I was angry. I wanted to leap over the high wall of depression, to climb the mountain of sadness and cross it. I wanted to talk about other things, think about other things, write about different dreams.

Antidepressants helped a little, just barely, in reducing the frequency of panic attacks, but they turned me into a zombie. I felt like a walking dead man—going to work, coming home, losing my taste for food, unable to laugh at anything. Those small, frightening white pills seemed to have robbed me of my soul, burying it somewhere deep, so I’d think I was fine when, in reality, I had disappeared. I had become nothing more than a moving statue.

But the search continued. Despite my severe depression, there was something deep inside me that kept pushing me to keep fighting—a buried engine, a deep inner voice, the voice of a child tied with rough ropes to a tree, calling for help, begging for freedom.

Post-traumatic stress disorder, treatment-resistant depression, chronic anxiety, and difficulty breathing. All the psychiatrists’ clinics became a whirlpool of the same words, phrases, and diagnostic paragraphs. I had memorized their questions, what they would say, and the medications they would prescribe.

“Have you tried magic mushrooms?” Brad asked me one day as we sat in a park in Brooklyn.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t you know about magic mushrooms? Man, you’re missing out on a life-changing experience.”

I looked at what he was holding—a strange-looking mushroom, almost like a tiny explosion in his hand. What could this odd little fungus do?

I did a lot of research online. Psilocybin, the active compound in magic mushrooms, had shown extraordinary potential in treating depression, memory lapses, and PTSD. Most people reported overwhelmingly positive experiences with it, saying it had “changed their lives.”

Could it be true? Could it really be that powerful? Studies from Johns Hopkins, Yale, and Harvard were all saying the same thing.

Desperation or hope drove me to try these strange plants or fungi. It was a glimmer of hope, a chance to finally break free from depression—or maybe just the last resort of someone who had nothing left to lose and was willing to try anything to get back to who they once were.

The first time I tried magic mushrooms was incredible—truly indescribable. Everything around me shifted to a wondrous new level. I was in Prospect Park, and the massive trees began to dance. The grass seemed to look at me, move, breathe, and laugh. Colors intensified, becoming so vibrant they almost overwhelmed me—greens were truly green, reds became crimson, and the sky raced with swirling clouds. It felt like returning to early childhood, experiencing the joy of discovery again, the simple pleasure of touching the earth, watching an ant at work, laughing at everything, feeling the wonder of the wind on my face. I didn’t think my tired mind could recall such vivid sensations.

Was it memory? Or was it the psilocybin?

I read somewhere that psilocybin helps connect tree roots to the earth, improving their ability to absorb minerals. That’s what it felt like during my journey—I became part of the earth, part of nature, disappearing for a few hours into the soil, and it was wonderful.

I continued using small doses of magic mushrooms—never more than half a gram—to improve my mood and reduce negative thoughts. It worked, terrifyingly well. Had I finally overcome my depression?

But the magic mushrooms, and nature, had other plans.

“The hero’s dose.”

“The hero’s dose? What are you talking about?”

“You’re just using magic mushrooms to feel better, to get less depressed. But have you heard of the hero’s dose? When you take a large dose, you reset your brain completely. You go on a long, deep journey, and you come back as you were, pure, whole. It can heal you completely.”

The idea was tempting. I’ve always been one to take risks, to dive into the unknown. The hero’s dose? What does that mean? Do you become some kind of superhero? Do you see things beyond your normal consciousness, beyond the daily grind at home, in the office, in the store, in court?

I took five grams at once and went to Prospect Park.

The mushroom looked strange, almost as if it was speaking to me, whispering that it would save me if I consumed it. I couldn’t resist that call for long.

At first, nothing seemed different. I even felt a bit disappointed. But then, the colors started to shift, and the world began to change, just like in my previous experiences—the trees connected with me, the colors became more alive, and I felt a wave of intense relaxation and happiness.

I put on my headphones, listening to the haunting album Koyaanisqatsi, which I used to play during my existential crises. The music felt like it was carving into rock, into my soul, a mixture of terror and awe.

Suddenly, I noticed my legs—they were withering rapidly, turning a sickly green, then gray.

I looked at my arm—the same thing was happening. I was withering, dying.

My entire body turned pale green, then gray. The whole world darkened, and the sun disappeared. I tried to save myself by looking at my feet, but they had fused with the ground, transforming into a rigid tree trunk.

I stood up, and the entire park turned into a series of circles, people walking up and then back down. Everything around me became cylinders, reminding me of the final scene in Interstellar.

A big tree morphed into a large, terrifying elephant, inching closer to me.

I started running. I heard sounds from far away, whispers among the trees, terrifying noises—demonic laughter, screams, a woman wailing in the distance, a child sobbing, gunfire, explosions. What was happening?

I realized I was trapped in a swamp, unable to escape, maybe never able to leave. Was nature punishing me for underestimating it?

On my miserable journey back, I glanced at the trees—they were glaring at me, angry, very angry. What had I done to make them so furious?

I felt like the whole world was chasing me, that the trees were hunting me down, that the wild animals hidden in the forest had come out, looking for me.

I finally reached my apartment, sweating profusely, sweat pouring from every pore. My terror was at its peak. What was happening to me?

I tried to open the door, but a frightening, veiny old hand slipped from behind it, trying to grab me. I shook it off and stumbled inside.

You’re hallucinating, I told myself. You’ll wake up. This will all go away.

I tried in vain to reassure myself, but I failed miserably. The “me” I knew started to disappear, bit by bit, as these demonic thoughts took over my mind.

Was I going insane?

I looked at myself in the mirror and screamed in horror. My face was demonic—the Devil himself, with long horns, an erased nose, protruding fangs, and crimson skin.

I ran to the bedroom, hoping my cats would comfort me, as they always did when I was scared, but I couldn’t find them. They had turned into monsters.

My cat’s face was the most terrifying thing any human mind could possibly imagine.

I ran back to the door, bolted outside, and started running as fast as I could. I needed to get away, to go anywhere, as long as this nightmare would end.

Huge spiders, the size of cars, began emerging from the ground. Black, hairy spiders, creeping toward me. Worms started eating my arm and neck, crawling out of my mouth.

I stumbled into a store, panting, grabbed a bottle of water, but I couldn’t remember how to pay. The concept of payment had vanished from my mind. I didn’t know what to do until the store owner waved me off, like I was just another disturbed person wandering into his store in the middle of the night.

I kept running. People avoided me, walking on the far side of the street, away from me. Was I really that terrifying?

I vomited the water I had drunk, but it was bright red blood. Oh my God.

I had reached a state of true madness, and it terrified me. I had forgotten who I was, where I came from, what I was doing, and what was happening. I forgot my profession, my language. I even forgot where my apartment was, the name of this country, the neighborhood I lived in. My terror doubled—was I going to stay like this forever? Was this what it felt like to be insane, homeless, wandering the streets forever? What kind of horrifying prison was this? I even forgot how to urinate, what it meant. I felt like something inside me was trying to escape, but I didn’t know how to let it out.

I kept walking. Everything was terrifying. Every face I looked at turned into a devil’s, so I ran. I narrowly survived two fatal traffic accidents as I sprinted into the middle of the street. I felt like everyone was chasing me, staring at me, wanting to stab or kill me.

I still don’t know how I got back home, how I ended up in the bathroom, with the shower pouring water over me. I stripped off my clothes, and the water falling from the shower felt like rain.

I was back in our house in Sidi Bouzid. I saw my mother; she took my hand and said, “It’s okay, my son. This will all pass.”

I burst into tears. When I looked back, I saw the same huge spiders, but strangely, they weren’t terrifying anymore. They looked at me with deep pity. Their shiny eyes seemed to ask, “What happened? What made these monsters live inside you? Psilocybin isn’t the cause. Psilocybin doesn’t make you hallucinate; it shows you the truth, what you need to see.”

You carry fierce monsters, demons, deep darkness. All that happened was that you saw them clearly.

The spiders left peacefully. I watched them go, crawling down from the bathroom window, returning to the garden in Brooklyn, never to return.

I ran for a long time toward Wadi Al-Fakka, about half an hour from our house, and I swam. I swam with great skill, though I had never learned how.

The world began to return to normal, the sounds began to fade, and the screams receded into deep calm.

I lay in bed. My cat came and lay beside me. He was still the same peaceful cat, looking at me with love.

I touched my very wet head—it was still in place. I looked at my leg—it was no longer withered and dead. I looked at my fingers—the worms were gone.

A sudden, real happiness washed over me: How beautiful it is to be alive, to be yourself, to be okay. How could I have forgotten that so easily?

Painting: Salvador Dali - The Face of War