Benadryl TikTok stunts, meditation techniques, and AI-curated highs collide, creating risky experiments, and one test spirals into pure chaos now…

In a recent episode of Uncanny Valley, host Michael Calore brought staff writer Boone Ashworth and senior culture editor Manisha Krishnan together to unpack a cluster of drug-related trends that are crossing over into the tech world. The conversation ranged from the revival of a dangerous TikTok stunt to long-standing meditation methods that promise out-of-body experiences, and it covered the ways startups and artificial-intelligence tools are reshaping how people seek altered states.

The episode opened with a look at a troubling comeback: young people taking large doses of Benadryl to induce hallucinations. Manisha called the story “sad,” and she explained the chemistry behind the phenomenon. The active ingredient in Benadryl, diphenhydramine, acts as a deliriant at high doses. Users report sensations unlike those produced by classic psychedelics. Instead of colorful synesthesia and introspective clarity, people describe numbness, unpleasant tactile feelings, and disturbing visual hallucinations. Staff accounts and forum posts frequently mention a shadowy figure that has been nicknamed the Hat Man. One commenter compared the effect to being trapped inside Silent Hill for a few hours.

Boone offered his own recollections and the blunt assessment that the experience is miserable. He described crawling sensations, vivid bugs on the skin, and persistent shadows at the edges of vision. Manisha linked the Hat Man to a pattern she recognizes from sleep paralysis, where a recurring demonlike presence appears for different people in similar ways. That cultural spread can create a feedback loop: once people read a shared description, they may be primed to see the same image when they take a large dose.

Public-health consequences followed the discussion. Michael noted that when the Benadryl challenge first erupted on TikTok in 2020, medical systems saw real harms. Three Texas teens were treated for overdoses that year. One of them, a 14-year-old who reportedly took 14 pills, recovered and returned home the next day. A separate case in Oklahoma involved a 15-year-old who died after a seizure. Emergency-room tallies paint a broader picture: cases tied to diphenhydramine misuse have climbed into the thousands annually.

Manisha framed the rise of this trend within broader social stresses affecting young people. Cheap accessibility makes diphenhydramine an attractive option for people with limited means. She pointed to wider feelings of loneliness, economic precarity, and a cultural current of nihilism that can make risky stunts seem meaningful or cathartic. The social-media format plays a part, too. Content that treats dangerous behavior as a challenge can strip away some of the danger for impressionable viewers, turning harmful acts into a form of attention-seeking or peer-bonding.

The trio touched on harm-reduction measures that can shift outcomes. Manisha argued for realistic, nonjudgmental information about substances. Misinformation that exaggerates fatal risks can backfire; people who feel lied to will look elsewhere for guidance. Community supports and constructive outlets for boredom or stress may curb the appeal of self-destructive stunts. Moderation by platforms matters as well, because viral framing normalizes risky acts. Boone stressed the value of parental awareness and of adults having frank conversations with teenagers about what they encounter online.

The show moved from that viral behavior to a different strain of altered-consciousness culture: long-form guided meditation and audio practices that promise to usher listeners into other states. Mattha Busby contributed reporting on The Monroe Institute, an organization that has peddled a set of guided meditations known as the Gateway Tapes since the 1970s. Robert Monroe, a radio executive who developed the method decades ago, promoted techniques intended to provoke out-of-body experiences. Today the institute stages in-person retreats, virtual programs, and even curated playlists on streaming services aimed at self-directed practice.

The method at the center of the Monroe practice uses binaural beats: two slightly different tones played to each ear that are supposed to produce a perceived third frequency inside the listener’s brain. A clip the show played introduced listeners to the institute’s lingo and a set of steps meant to orient users for what the instructor calls a lift-out. The instructor’s voice instructed listeners:

"The purpose of this exercise is to assist you in the lift-out procedure. The intent is not to travel far off but to remain in close proximity to the physical body in local one. First, your energy conversion box. Place any worries or concerns in this box, for they will only get in the way of this exercise. Second, resonant tuning, followed by your affirmation, I am more than my physical body. Then move to focus 10, and I will join you there."

The hosts admitted the tape’s jargon can be off-putting. Boone said the experience felt soothing to him if he’d had too much coffee; Manisha found the specialist vocabulary made listening more difficult. Despite those impressions, enrollment in Monroe Institute programs has grown since about 2022. Attendees now include military veterans, longtime meditators, and people who identify as psychonauts. The military connection goes back to the Cold War. In the early 1980s, amid fears that Soviet programs were exploring psychic methods, the U.S. intelligence community and the Department of Defense took interest in whether Monroe’s techniques could support remote viewing or other intelligence tasks.

The show cited a report by U.S. Army Lieutenant Colonel Wayne McDonnell, who tested the institute’s approach for possible defense uses. McDonnell wrote that the method had a “sound and rational basis” within certain frameworks of physical science and that consciousness might be framed as a factor that can influence reality if projected strongly enough. His full line ran: "Since our consciousness is the source of all reality, our thoughts have the power to influence the development of reality in time space, if those thoughts can be projected with adequate intensity." The hosts laughed at the memory of similar government eccentricities, and they referenced the better-known Men Who Stare at Goats episodes of the 2000s before returning to the present’s renewed appetite for concentrated spiritual practices.

Participants and wellness entrepreneurs describe the Monroe method as an example of how mainstream wellness culture now includes experiences that look spiritual, technological, and commodified at the same time. Manisha noted she has tried devices in retail settings that simulate subtle vibrations or tones meant to shortcut into meditative or mildly psychedelic sensations. Those products promise a scaled, less risky version of altered-states work. The audience for guided consciousness content overlaps with people searching for relief, novelty, or an experience they can fold into a busy schedule.

The line between genuine spiritual work and packaged experience becomes blurry when the products are sold with a price tag and a glossy commercial playbook. The Monroe Institute, which has operated for decades, now markets its materials to a new generation seeking quick frameworks for altered states. Some users treat the practice as a meditation aid. Others sign up looking for striking metaphysical moments. The hosts expressed skepticism about literal out-of-body claims, yet they acknowledged the value practitioners often find in the practices: a structured way to access introspection, to feel less trapped by a single, pressing problem, or to confront fears within a guided setting.

Next, the conversation shifted to how biotech and machine learning are remaking pharmaceuticals that aim to act like psychedelics without producing classic hallucinations. Michael pointed to a Silicon Valley startup backed by Y Combinator called Mindstate Design Labs. The company has described its lead candidate as "the least psychedelic psychedelic that is psychoactive." That phrase captures the firm’s core ambition: design molecules that deliver the neuroplastic effects associated with therapeutic benefits, but without the intense perceptual disruptions that make classic psychedelic sessions difficult for some patients.

The science behind that approach traces to how many psychedelics work chemically. Classic compounds interact with serotonin receptors, which can trigger cascades that boost neuroplasticity—the brain’s ability to form new synapses and reorganize networks. Some researchers argue the therapeutic value stems from that plasticity and from the psychological work that follows, rather than from the hallucinatory content of a trip. If a compound could stimulate plasticity directly, the idea goes, clinicians might be able to replicate the benefits without requiring patients to endure terrifying or destabilizing visions.

Emily Mullin reported earlier this year on Mindstate’s first compound, and her coverage described early signals that the molecule might prompt measurable biological effects consistent with neuroplasticity. The hosts debated what that could mean for the psychedelic field. Manisha said proponents who view “bad trips” as essential learning experiences might resist a trip-free model, yet there are patients who need therapeutic tools that avoid perceptual turmoil. Boone suggested festivalgoers and people with mental-health conditions that make intense hallucinogens risky could benefit from more tolerable options. The potential also raises ethical and regulatory questions about how such drugs are tested, marketed, and used in clinical practice.

The episode’s final major thread linked the rise of AI to the personal experience of being high. People have begun using chatbots such as ChatGPT and Claude as on-demand guides during psychedelic sessions. Some turn to these tools as inexpensive alternatives to trained sitters who can be costly or scarce. Manisha admitted she was curious to experiment with a chatbot’s capacity to provide comfort, reassurance, or grounding prompts during an intense experience. Boone urged caution: a chatbot lacks access to a user’s full medical background and cannot reliably advise on dosing or emergency-care decisions. For those reasons, he recommended keeping a human in the loop. If someone is going to use an AI to assist, they should have a sober friend present who can step in for physical support.

Comedy entered the chat in the form of a brief jab at xAI’s model name. Boone warned, half-seriously, "Don't use Grok. You'll come back racist." Manisha added, "Just won't stop making 420 jokes at you." The banter underscored a serious point beneath the humor: current large-language models often produce unpredictable content, and that unpredictability is the opposite of what people really need while they are disoriented or dealing with emergent anxiety. Chatbots can offer soothing scripts, breathing exercises, or conversation but they are a poor substitute for trained mental-health professionals or medically supervised settings.

Across the episode the hosts returned to a few recurring tensions: the trade-off between accessibility and safety, the cultural hunger for experiences that alter perspective, and the ways corporations and platforms shape what people try. The Benadryl challenge illustrated a cheap, dangerous shortcut available to many young people. The Monroe Institute example showed how older traditions find a new market among people who want a guided otherworldly experience without ingesting substances. Mindstate demonstrated how startups may try to extract therapeutic mechanisms while stripping out perceptual effects that frighten some patients. The use of chatbots as ad hoc sitters revealed how people will reach for new tech to fill gaps in care when trained professionals are unavailable.

The show closed with a short segment called WIRED and TIRED, which asked each panelist to name a modern favorite and a fading trend. Manisha offered a counterintuitive pair: she labeled the sanitization of psychedelic experiences—the idea that people should avoid any difficult or negative aspects—as TIRED, because she thinks the messy, challenging parts sometimes drive growth. Her WIRED pick was the less glamorous side of drug culture, the harm-reduction approaches, and sober structures that give people tools for safer use. Boone called out TikTok as TIRED and a subscription comedy platform, Dropout, as WIRED. He praised Dropout’s long-form improv and sketch work as a low-cost entertainment option that resists the infinite-scroll trap. Michael said waking up to a phone alarm is TIRED and recommended a sunrise-style alarm clock that simulates gradual light as WIRED for a gentler morning.

Before the episode wrapped, the hosts reminded listeners that psychedelics remain mostly illegal across the United States, with a few localized exceptions such as Oregon and Colorado. Licensed, supervised psychedelic therapy programs are emerging in certain states, but those services carry steep costs and limited availability. That scarcity partly explains why people improvise with cheaper sleep aids, unregulated supplements, or AI companions.

The conversation threaded a shared theme: cultural appetite for mind alteration is adapting to the tools and limits we live with. Some of the adaptations are dangerous. Others aim to lower harm or broaden access. Tech firms, health providers, platforms, families, and communities will all play roles in what follows. The hosts left the subject with a mix of skepticism and curiosity about whether new products and practices can offer safety without stripping away whatever personal meaning users expect from altered states.