Sensory Deprivation

Well, that was years ago, and I had been putting it off because it’s kind of expensive.  Also, you don’t want to do a sensory deprivation tank if you have any open wounds, because to get you floating properly, there’s a shit ton of Epsom salt that will burn a cut like a mother fucker.  And I tend to always have scrapped knees, or cut hands, or some sort of injury most of the time.  But, alas, I got a deal, and didn’t have a scratch on me (rare), so I finally went through with it.

I won’t name the place, but if you ask me, I will probably tell you.  I was anxious more than nervous.  Despite my research, I still didn’t quite know what to expect.  The waiting room was “zen” like, with calming music, and a TV screen with a palm tree and blue water.  Salt lamps.  Meditation books.  What you’d expect.  I read and signed the waiver, more worried about them spamming my inbox than what might actually happen in the tank.  The one man operation was run by a skinny dude with a man bun.  All pretty predictable at this point.  Man Bun showed me around, and it was clean, and he was super nice, and definitely your stereotypical hippie type who was so comfortable with himself, it made me kind of uncomfortable.

He went through the rules twice, and they were printed in the room as well:

Put in the ear plugs.

Take a thorough shower.

Do not dry yourself off.

Get into the float tank.

Relax.

When your time is up, music will play. Then, a filter will go off.

Take a shower when you get out.

He went through a spiel about how you can’t drown even if you fall asleep, as there’s only 11 inches of water.  Drowning in the tank was never a concern of mine.  I’m not afraid of water.  Don’t touch your face, Epsom salt will burn like hell if you get it in your eyeballs. Yada, yada, yada.  I knew this from my research.

Headphones. Shower. Get in the tank.  The light outside would stay on for ten minutes, and then everything would go black.  I closed the tank, and floating was easy, since, I’ve spent a lot of time floating in the ocean and/or bay, looking at the sky.  I felt for the handle, and reminded myself I wasn’t trapped.  I let my “final destination” fantasies fly, like getting trapped and freakishly electrocuted to death.  Or a gunman would come in, and tie up Man Bun (which would be easy) and then come in here and rape me.  I knew these thoughts would come, so I just let them play out in my head, and to be honest, I laughed at the absurdity of my own morose reveries.

By the time the lights went out (10 minutes), and it was completely dark, I thought “fuck, I have to do this for 90 minutes? This is going to feel like forever.”  Then, I became nauseous.  I thought for a while I would actually throw up, and I wondered if I quickly opened the tank, I could make it to the garbage, so to save myself the embarrassment of vomiting in the tank.  Of all the things I read about these tanks, no one threw up.  My nausea was the effect of combined causes: First, I was exhausted. For a week, maybe longer, I hadn’t gotten a full nights sleep, and when this happens, I feel dizzy all the time.  Two, my allergies were killing me that day.  Three, the air was humid and musty.  It wasn’t overwhelming, but the place had sort of a mildew scent.  If you’ve ever had a fish tank, you know this smell.  It wasn’t the water in the tank, it was just the place.  I wasn’t sure if it was just because it’s been so hot lately, or it’s always this way.  I tried not to think about it and I focused on my breathing.

In and out.

You’re not going to run out of air, Lori.  You’re being paranoid.  Relax.  Just relax.  Isn’t that the whole point of this stupid thing?  I almost bugged out.  I almost jumped out of the tank, wanting to run outside, in my birthday suit, and breath fresh air.  Even though it was one of those hot, humid days, where even the air outside didn’t feel fresh.  But I’m stubborn, and I said, “no, Lori, you stay in this fucking tank for 90 minutes, even if you’re bugging out the whole time.  You will not leave this tank.  You’re not dying.  You’re fine.”

In and out.

In and out.

I did stop bugging out.  I was able to do this, perhaps, because of my experimentation with drugs.  I do know people who have done psychedelic drugs in sensory deprivation tanks, and those people are either completely batshit insane, or one hundred percent comfortable with who they are, either way, that’s fucking bananas.

I had no problem floating, and didn’t get any water in my eyes.  It doesn’t bother me to put my head back to float.  Like I said, I’m not afraid of the water.  Quite the opposite.  The tank made me crave floating in the ocean.  I was waiting for my brain to stop.  Before the float, in the “post float” room, where there were lounge chairs, psychology books, sketch books, water, tea, and more salt lamps, I had read some of the journal entries.  Most of the former floaters wrote how their mind finally stopped, and they felt connected to the world.  You know, some really hippie stuff.  I waited for this.  I waited.  And waited.  How long has it been?

Alas, in the 90 minutes I floated in the tank, my mind never stopped going.  The sensory deprivation failed to combat my stubborn head.  But this doesn’t mean it didn’t affect me.

It is impossible for me to tell you whether or not I was conscious the entire time, as I’m not so sure myself.  I had been craving music the whole time I was in there.  Give me some Tame Impala, The Shins, or Bob Dylan.  But I guess that defeats the point?  When the music came on, I was just enjoying it, and I thought, “has it been 90 minutes?”  Especially since in the beginning when I was convinced I would vomit, I thought this was going to seem like forever.  It didn’t.  It went by really quick.

There is a hallucinatory element to it.  Just as if you close your eyes, and you see patterns form on the back of your eyelids, you see that with your eyes wide open.  More than once, I was convinced there was a light glowing from beneath me, from between my shoulder blades.  There was no such light.

I really hate to use the word “visions” here, because that’s not the correct word.  It’s more like a dream, and again, I might have been dreaming.  Most of the time, I thought about comedy, and projects I’m writing, and people I care for and miss.  Between thinking about my life, and chasing my irrelevant thoughts around the tank, I had multiple dream like visions I was a child, chasing a racoon, and then the racoon got hit by a car.  Another one, where I was chasing a rabbit, and then rabbit died.  There were three or four of these dream like scenario’s, very Alice like, if the rabbit died before reaching the hole, and Alice never made it to Wonderland at all.  Actually, in retrospect, I’m pretty sure I fell asleep.  While I wouldn’t exactly describe these “dream-visions” as relaxing, it was the closest my mind got to being quiet, and they tell a dark tale of my subconscious, that neither surprises me nor frightens me.

Would I do it again?  Sure.  Why not.  Anyone want to lend me $100 though?