Overdosed methylphenidate adminstered transdermally as Daytrana® induced many spiritual experiences. The wall sent signals, my computer transmitted messages from eastern Europe when no applications were running, and one afternoon, invisible soundless angels told me it was okay to die. I told them I had things to do. Aware that I was close to dying from dehydration, I managed to save myself with a solution of sugar and salt in water, the poor person’s electrolyte solution. It was glorious to be that kind of crazy until the bad things that keep happening when you’re crazy and can’t prevent or fix them had accumulated to a degree they were bumming my unhinged high. When I was helped by a friend to realize I was psychotic and stopped using the drug, I entered dopamine agonist withdrawal syndrome (DAWS) and stayed in it for almost two years. If I’d known what it was I might have been able to exit it sooner. I was abandoned by two psychiatrists I’d been seeing and a neurologist who’d just diagnosed an off-label type of epilepsy after an EEG and a physical exam. (I couldn’t stand with my feet parallel and pressed together so the inner sides were in contact.) I had to fend for myself, armed only with bad luck and the belief that I deserved my life back no matter what I had to endure. New doctors said it was depression but it was not. One said he thought I enjoyed it. It was so bad it made depression a desirable alternative: depression is a human experience; it’s different from contentment but it’s made up of familiar feelings; DAWS is outside what our brains could ever know without the poisons that cause it. It’s not worse than depression on some continuum. It’s a hell that only a supernatural force of evil could conceive and inflict. The way to tolerate consciousness in DAWS, for me, also involved spirits, preferably 80 proof Cazadores Reposado.