Could This Be the Cure?

For decades, a New York writer struggled to understand why she couldn't find happiness. Years of therapy, lifestyle changes-nothing worked. Then she tried MDMA.

- BY SERENA TURNER

"It's one of the most horrifying things I have ever heard," Lily" repeated as I washed down the first of two ivory pills with cucumber-mint water. "And I've heard it all."

As I stared out the bay windows of the prewar apartment, waiting for the drugs to kick in, Lily and I chatted casually-about our dogs, (her sweet Cavapoo was nestled in my lap), mutual friends, and what happened to me all those years ago in that classroom. The very reason I was sitting on Lily's couch.

About 30 minutes later, my body started to tingle. "I think I feel something," I told her. Gliding across the wood-paneled room in a white flowy dress, with the calm of someone who's done this many times before, Lily dimmed the lights and flipped on the soothing classical music that would become the soundtrack for the next seven hours. As I slipped on the eye mask and stretched out on the couch, I took deep breaths, ready for wherever this ride would take me. But just like those nerve-racking moments before the roller coaster drops, my inner voice screamed, Oh, no. This is scary! What have I done?

Thankfully, the dread was fleeting, and soon, there'd be nothing to be afraid of anymore. But first, I'd have to go back to that classroom.

I turned 40 this year, so the details are foggy, but here's what I remember: I was standing at a white board with a handful of other 9-year-olds. My assignment was to spell out a list of words, including "does," and I mistakenly inverted the O and the E. It was an error that my teacher, Mr. C.-a sturdy, white-haired bear of a man in his early sos, who favored short-sleeved oxfords and wire-rimmed eyeglasses-caught right away.

"In that instant, what few boundaries I had as a child turned to ash, and in their place sparked an instinct to light myself on fire so others could keep warm."