Daily-Dose

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From New Yorker

From Vox

Allison Feduccia is the CEO of Psychedelic Support, which advocates for the integration of plant-based psychoactive medication into American health care practices. Feduccia, who has a PhD in neuropharmacology, believes that America’s rejuvenated interest in the healing potential of street drugs can be traced to the mounting evidence that psychedelics and amphetamines may be an important salve in a clinician’s toolbox.

The amphetamine MDMA is being used as a buffer in high-intensity therapy sessions — a way for patients to explore their grief without being overwhelmed by it. A study published by the National Academy of Sciences found evidence that psychedelic use could lead to long-term mood benefits. (They came to this conclusion, naturally, by surveying 1,200 people who were tripping at music festivals.) Johns Hopkins has also published research showing that magic mushrooms were an effective countermeasure against major depression symptoms.

The root of all this analysis points to Feduccia’s second, and more important, point. Americans’ use of antidepressants has been climbing steadily. Psychedelics provide a different path; if mood-altering substances such as benzodiazepines are among our most-prescribed medications, is it that much of a reach to try marijuana or psilocybin?

“Mental health treatment hasn’t had a great breakthrough in many decades,” says Feduccia. “Lots of people have been convinced to take a lot of antidepressant medications … to help deal with stress, trauma, depression, and anxiety. But these substances have side effects, and they don’t always work out for people over time.”

“People are asking, ‘What else is there that can help?’” she says. “And with our isolation, those feelings have only escalated.”

The science surrounding microdosing specifically — which is to say, ingesting small amounts of a drug — is thin. Christopher Nicholas, a professor at the University of Wisconsin who studies psychedelics, tells me that research conducted on microdosing has revealed no indication of quality-of-life improvements, save for the noise created by placebo feedback, though Nicholas says more work needs to be done on the subject to come to a firm conclusion. (Because many drugs, including LSD and marijuana, were classified as, and remain, illicit Schedule I drugs in the eyes of the federal government, studies into their effectiveness as therapeutics largely halted in the 1970s.)

Katharine Neill Harris, who analyzes drug policy at Rice University’s Baker Institute for Public Policy, argues that much of the microdosing craze can be chalked up to an ascendant class of Bay Area tech barons who’ve claimed that a daily fragment of LSD has made them more efficient and creative while on the job. When successful people endorse a habit, she says, society is going to take notice regardless of what the data implies.

“You have this Silicon Valley enthusiasm for psychedelics, and I think that’s been popularized and it dovetailed with the other wellness trends,” says Harris. “We already have a craze over CBD products, and I think going from there into [the mainstreaming] of microdosing psychedelics isn’t that big of a jump.”

This theory bears out in mainstream consumer demand. You can purchase psilocybin-infused chocolate bars off the internet, or suit up in workout gear infused with CBD. Need to freshen up before a big meeting? Try a mint containing a teensy 2.5 milligrams of cannabis. At long last, America’s disastrous war on drugs is being chipped away by the indomitable forces of tasteful advertising and stately packaging.

Professionals who spoke to Vox all described mounting evidence that psychedelics and other drugs — at least in doses strong enough to affect brain chemistry — can be a balm for contemporary life. In 2020, 10 percent of US residents said they had smoked marijuana in the past month, compared with 4 percent in 2002, and Americans now overwhelmingly agree that the substance should be legalized for recreational, or at least medical, use. Data around psychedelics is harder to track, but Scientific American reported a distinct uptick in LSD usage at the height of the pandemic.

We’ve all noticed the rise of cannabis boutiques — some sheathed in an artisanal, crystal-strewn aesthetic, others as slick as Apple Stores — as prohibition in the country recedes from its paramount place in the culture war. Shoppers in those stores are opting for products that contain a minuscule amount of THC, far below the paralyzing load in the average weed brownie. BDSA, a market research firm for cannabinoid products, found that the sales of low-dose cannabis items in California far outpaced everything else on dispensary shelves. It all points to a foreclosure on our archaic understanding of drug use; perhaps being sober-ish and a microdosing enthusiast are one and the same.

“I think the exceptionalism that has been carved out around cannabis has been extended to psychedelics. Although the people who’ve used them for decades have always felt that way because they don’t have the dependence-inducing qualities of other drugs,” says Harris. “But there’s still plenty of stigma. Something like meth use is still stigmatized in a way that isn’t starting to change.”

There are plenty of caveats with that conclusion. Harris notes that this recharacterization of drug use leaves out those who are most frequently victimized by America’s punitive drug policies. They can be most easily legally obtained through formal clinical treatment, which leaves aside recreational users, who may still be accosted by the police.

“Access will come first to people with money. Insurance companies aren’t going to cover [psychedelic treatment] right away, so if you can pay $1,200 a month to get [psychedelics] in the mail, then okay,” Harris says. “Decriminalization is still very, very critical. Whether or not people should be using them for their health is a separate question from whether or not they should get in legal trouble for it.”

Harris is explaining a paradox that has existed throughout the nation’s entire history. It’s well established that minority Americans are far more likely to be jailed for drug offenses than their white counterparts. In 2020, the ACLU reported that Black people were almost four times more likely to be arrested for marijuana offenses than their white counterparts — despite the historic period of narcotic liberalization we’re living through. This injustice is hard to ignore whenever we spot a sumptuous package of THC-infused organic gummies that can be delivered to our doors; the drug renaissance only makes the partitional biases of the law more apparent.

Still, after decades of living in an environment dominated solely by destructive, addictive substances like alcohol and nicotine, it’s no wonder Americans are considering their alternatives. (Psilocybin, for example, is not considered addictive.) Amy Donohue, 51, a Phoenix resident, insists that magic mushrooms saved her life. She resolved to quit drinking after her father died 20 years ago because she had already seen too many of her family members succumb to alcohol. A small dose of psilocybin, says Donohue, eliminated her anxiety about being around drinking at social functions. Previously, even the smell of liquor on someone’s breath used to trigger her. Not anymore.

“[Microdosing] makes me comfortable in situations where there is alcohol. I don’t always fear I’m going to relapse, but it’s hard to go to an event where nobody is drinking,” says Donohue. “It helps soften the blow of having to be around it in this society.”

The science maintains that a tiny spot of psilocybin is not going to shake up anyone’s worldview. Yes, as a species, we’re all on a neverending hunt to discover the magic bullet that will finally unlock the tranquil life we ought to be living, which is far more elusive than it probably should be. But Feduccia offered a clue when she pointed out one fascinating trend: As it turns out, clinical trials involving psychedelics had a knack for summoning an outsized placebo effect in control groups. For whatever reason, the mere thought of a mind-altering substance flowing through our bloodstreams is enough for us to be more at peace.

“The placebo effect has been shown to have a real biological basis. The body can actually release endorphins, you can see real changes when you give someone a placebo,” says Feduccia. “That’s one of the most intriguing things about psychedelics. If you can consistently induce a placebo response, then that’s probably the greatest finding in medicine of all time.”

It cuts to the ancestral appeal of recreational psychedelics — this idea that they help us transcend our mind and body so that we may become more in touch with our spirit. If you feel happier, then it must be working. Don’t ask any more questions because everything else is irrelevant. Who wants to harsh the high?

Luke Winkie is a reporter from San Diego. In addition to Vox, he has written for Rolling Stone, GQ, the Washington Post, and the New York Times.

On social media, Mexicans have mimicked the caption with mocking images and videos of Mexico City’s supposed magic: a subway stop during rush hour, a random street fight, a rental listing for a $1,800 bathroom-turned-condo, a collapsed subway overpass, and a homeless encampment in front of a Zara store. The meme neatly illustrated the gulf between foreigners’ entitled expectations and the scrappy reality of Mexican locals, reflected in the wealth disparity between the two populations.

Social media tends to flatten this uneasy dynamic, wherein privileged, often white foreigners are villainized for the financial plight of native residents. To some, the sheer visibility of gringo tourists in once-affordable neighborhoods renders them culpable. But driving away remote workers and tourists isn’t a viable solution to Mexico City’s housing crisis, nor is it feasible. Longstanding policy decisions by the local and state governments have enabled this wave of short- and long-term visitors, creating a cycle of economic interdependence.

About 17 percent of Mexico’s GDP is generated by tourism, which is, according to the Washington Post, a higher percentage than that of all developing countries except Thailand. It was the third-most- visited country in the world in 2020, and is expected to bring in $35 billion from tourism in 2022. Due to this economic reliance, the Mexican government instituted relatively few Covid-19 travel restrictions over the past two years, lifting its national lockdown in June 2020.

The US-Mexico land border remained closed until last November, but travelers could still easily fly into Mexico without any proof of negative tests or vaccination. Since March, travelers to Mexico no longer have to fill out a health form or show any Covid- related documentation. (American residents, however, still need a negative PCR test to reenter the US.)

The country’s lax treatment of tourists has turned pre-pandemic expat hubs like Mexico City and Cancún into travel hotspots. Meanwhile, private companies and landlords have capitalized on foreign interest to develop higher-priced properties and drive up rents. Tourism, as a result, becomes a gentrifying force, despite its stated benefit to the Mexican economy. Even the most well-intentioned tourists can become inadvertent contributors to these gradual urban changes.

“The responsibility isn’t directly on American or European tourists, but there is a colonial logic behind it,” Carlos Acuña, a freelance journalist in Mexico City, told Vox over email. “Many of the companies that capitalize on tourism aren’t Mexican either; those who come to Mexico to work remotely do not pay the taxes that a resident pays and their income is also in a much higher currency than those who live here.”

The direct responsibility, Acuña said, lies with Mexican legislators, who have failed to protect citizens’ housing rights and are not strictly regulating short-term rental companies. In 2019, Acuña was displaced from his apartment in Mexico City’s Centro Histórico neighborhood, an area that has become increasingly gentrified and “touristified.” His landlord sold the building in 2018 so that it could be converted into a hotel. This was not a surprise to Acuña and his fellow tenants; they had expected this turn of events since Alameda Central, the downtown park, was remodeled in 2012.

“Every time a street or a space gets renovated, people fear it’s a sign that evictions are coming,” Acuña said. “Public works, despite being paid for with citizen taxes, usually precede the evictions and displacements of the local population.”

According to 2021 survey data of Mexico City residents, cited in a Washington Post op-ed on housing gentrification, 55 percent of responders were struggling to pay their rent or mortgage. Nearly a third moved homes during the pandemic, and 60 percent did so because they couldn’t afford their rent. It’s not that there aren’t enough central housing units for residents, either. One 2020 study found that the vacancy rates of newly built developments were “alarmingly high.”

Acuña believes that the housing prices in sought-after neighborhoods are being artificially inflated: “The financialization of housing has turned a human right into a global economic asset. Many of the buildings that offer rooms on Airbnb were once residential condos where families, elderly people, and indigenous people lived.” Today, his apartment in the same neighborhood is triple the price of his 2019 rent.

“It’s becoming very unaffordable, and prices are geared toward foreigners,” said Carmen Artigas, a Mexican citizen who lives and works in Mexico City and New York. “There’s an apartment down the street from me that’s being listed for $1,500 a month. That, to me, is a Brooklyn price.”

The general minimum wage of a Mexican worker (at least those in the formal economy) is roughly $8 a day, or 172.87 pesos. Workers who service these trendy tourist neighborhoods are increasingly living farther and farther away, and spend hours commuting to work. “A lot of workers I know in [expensive] neighborhoods like Condesa and Roma commute an average of two to three hours just to get to their jobs,” Artigas said.

This is not an exception, but the norm. Mexico City is a sprawling metropolis “that surrounds a mono-centric job market,” according to urban policy writer Scott Beyer. “Four central districts contain 53 percent of the jobs but 19 percent of the population,” and drivers spend an average of 218 hours a year in traffic.

However, Artigas is hesitant to proclaim the tourism- affected gentrification as a negative overall. She points to how certain neighborhoods have become safer to live in, the thriving art scene, and the benefit to local businesses. Still, the post-pandemic travel boom seems unsustainable. “I think there’s going to be a big backlash against neo-colonization,” Artigas said. “There’s a lot of tension, especially now that more displacement is expanding into outer neighborhoods.”

These are systemic issues that require legislative solutions, but this fact alone should not exonerate travelers. The least any traveler can do, whether they’re there for a week or for four months, is to read the room, Arcigas said. “If everybody who’s serving you, who’s Mexican, is wearing a mask, wear your damn mask.”

Many residents acknowledge that it’s unproductive to blame foreigners for structural issues like housing, but they often have no other outlet for their frustration. As one Mexican blogger put it, “I feel like I can’t do anything directly against the housing bubble, but at least I can get some sort of satisfaction out of taking it out on what I’ve appointed as one of its representatives.” Hence, the backlash that’s often directed toward foreigners who publicly romanticize living in Mexico.

“Remote work has changed the dynamic between tourists and locals, especially now that there are so many of us. You can’t be on vacation mode and expect locals to play along with your fantasy, not if you’re going to be here for months at a time,” said Jessica, an American tech worker from San Antonio, Texas. She has spent the past six months in Mexico City to improve her conversational Spanish. (Vox is withholding Jessica’s last name to protect her privacy.)

Jessica struggles with the implication of her temporary presence in the city, even as she tries to be a “good” expat and community member. “I try to have conversations in Spanish with workers, and I rent directly from owners, not Airbnb,” she said. “But I don’t want to self-aware my way out of accountability. I know that my well-being here depends on this underclass of workers that earn very little money.”

The ethics of the situation are hard to parse, especially when the Mexican government is welcoming long-term visitors with open arms. It would be xenophobic and wrong, according to Acuña, to tell foreigners they can’t come or stay in Mexico. But so far, the exchange hasn’t felt equal. “Whoever travels to Mexico City must understand that their presence has weight,” Acuña said. “I hope tourists will recognize their class and racial privileges and not deepen these existing problems.”

These circumstances are not specific to Mexico City, although the colonial undertones of the expat-local dynamic are quite explicit. The viability of remote work can have lasting impacts on the cost of housing just in America, according to economists. How this geographical reshuffling unfolds and the severity of its consequences depends on local and state officials. From a policy perspective, reducing displacement and increasing investments in affordable housing would be the truly magical solution.

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