Just to give you guys little background on my mindset going in, over the past few years, I've tried to get my hands on psychedelics many times. Unfortunately, each time I did get my hands on them, I would feel little to nothing and either resorted to taking a very large dose to feel a little buzz or just giving up altogether. By the time I finally got my hands on shrooms again, I was questioning whether or not I had a higher than average tolerance. My friends and I figured either a) all of those attempts were just freak accidents or b) that I have an extremely high tolerance. We went with option b. Luckily, I didn't decide to go straight to 7 grams; unfortunately, I did go straight to 3.5, which, though not outrageous, is still a hefty dose for anyone that hadn't really experienced a genuine trip.
On top of that, I suffer from what everyone else says is chronic depression. Looking back, I should have known that I was too unstable to mess around with this shit, but I let the excitement cloud me.
I was in college back then, but it was winter break, so my group was back together again. One of my friends goes to NYU, so we decided to trip at his place. We set out early in the afternoon with an ounce of shrooms on us. The group consisted of me, a very unhappy person whose mother may suffer from bipolar disorder, S, who is one of my best friends, B, who used to be one of my best friends, C who I was really just starting to get to know after almost a decade of friendship, and T, who was supposed to be our sitter. So, we touch down at S's place and drop our stuff off. We then walk to St. Mark's to pick up some cheap pizza and a cheap scale. We get back and start measuring our doses out. S, B, and C take 2.5 grams, and I took 3.5. However, we made a horrible decision by trusting a 10 dollar scale. Going back and looking at how much I measured out, it had to have been 6 or 7 grams. Some of them noticed, but instead of us thinking "maybe he has too much," we thought "maybe they have too little." B and C later go back and take an extra .75 each.
After we all ate our shrooms, we decided to clean up a bit. I take a look around and say that we should clean up some glasses that were laying around. I was eying some drinking glasses in a cubby on the floor, but instead they just put away everything on the table. I thought to myself that I should speak up and say something about the glasses, but instead, I decided that I was just being paranoid. It might be this sort of meta-paranoia (paranoia about my paranoia) that would cause me to do some of the things that I did. It's also at this point that T got a call, told us that something important came up, and promptly left us on our own. Now we were sitting in his bedroom hanging out and laughing, not knowing how bad things were going to get.
Cut forward fifteen minutes, and we're all coming up when B decided to smoke some hookah. B has a habit of being over-expressive with his emotions, and when he couldn't set up the hookah, he started cursing and screaming loudly. Eventually, it got to be to much for me and freaked me out, so I just rushed out of the room and started listening to one of my favorite albums of all time, In the Aeroplane over the Sea. Soon, S sat down by me, and we just calmed down. Back then, I had really long hair, and the last thing that I said before bugging out was "S, do you have a pair of scissors? I need to cut my hair." After that, I have to piece everything together. I believe it started out with me convincing myself that I should kill myself. At that time, I came to the temporary realization that I should kill myself. It slowly devolved into everything focusing on death.
Eventually, I look track of time, and by this I mean time ceased to exist. In my mind, I knew that I could easily be insane, sitting in a mental ward for years without any real idea. It was true insanity at some points. Without a sitter though, no one could pull me out, and I could only pull people in. The next part of the trip confuses me and everyone that knows me. I was convinced that I killed everyone I loved. The friends with me, my parents, my sibling, everyone. I was convinced that I killed them all. At one point, I found myself on the floor, right next to those glasses I was eying. Next thing I knew, I had one of the glasses in my hand, flailing it around inside the cubby screaming "I'm going to kill you." However, don't get me wrong, I never actually turned violent towards anyone. When my friends would piece themselves together and see me doing this, they would come to my side, and I would just stop and calm down. I never once tried to hurt them, yet, somehow, I convinced myself that I had killed them.
While flailing the glass around, I broke it in my hand, causing it to shatter and cut up my hand and arm. So, I was "covered in blood," still flailing around the glass. My friends decided to drag me away from that area to keep me safe. I felt the dragging, but in my head I interpreted it as me feeling what I did to their bodies after I killed them. At around this time, C started saying "just be happy" over and over again. It felt like some sort of cruel joke being played on me by the drugs. I thought that it was some sort of message, hoping, deep down, that if I could master that message, I could finally be happy. When I finally did convince myself that I could be happy, my mind flicked a switch and told me that it had been lying to me to give me a final feeling of contentment.
It then showed me what "really" happened. The shrooms were fake, and all of this was in my head. Instead, what happened was that at the very beginning, I tilted my chair back, fell, and cracked my head against the wall, dying some time after. It then took me to a brief snippet of my funeral, where I saw my mother crying.
After that, I seem to have snapped back into being alive. At this point, the drugs explained that I'm an old man now. I was alone and without any loved ones. It showed me having a stroke and having to be taken to a hospital in a stretcher. I eventually awoke after the stroke and was convinced that I was stuck in some sort of prison in my mind.
I turns out, however, that one of my friends freaked out, got public safety, who then called an ambulance and possibly the cops. He claims that the cops came, but if they did, they must have been saints. Instead of jailing the less fucked up of us, they just took the rest of the shrooms and let the ambulance take care of us. So, the EMTs rolled me onto a stretcher and took me to a hospital.
*this is the light-hearted portion of this story*
Again, in my head, I was in a mind prison, and if there was anything I learned from myself over the years, it's that the only way out of my own prison is death. So, I secretly untied my restraints, jumped up, started hollering, and after getting the entire hospital floor's attention, I explained that I was trapped in my mind and needed them to kill me for me to wake up. This was when I got to know Tasha, my personal 350+ pound, 6+ foot, black woman. Luckily, Tasha was a sweetheart and explained that they can't actually kill me, but they could give me orange juice if I cooperated. Knowing that I'd need energy to plan a way to get myself out of my prison, I accepted. I then spent the next half hour hitting on Tasha because it struck me as the most entertaining thing to do. Over that half hour, though, the doctors managed to smuggle at least four syringes worth of sedatives into my body. I dozed off and woke up a little later with my brother and sister looking down at me.
There are just a couple more things which I couldn't fit into the narrative. I remember having these lucid moments of clarity where I would gather everyone around me telling them that I was freaking out, couldn't control it, and that they shouldn't call for help; however, I can't place these moments into my pieced together time-line. I also know that I experienced a second death where I was just standing in front of a sink filled with blood and that there was a moment when I was dead where I felt that all of our minds formed a collective consciousness in the room. That only lasted a few seconds, however. One other thing that interested me was that my mind had a very different way of telling me that I was bleeding. Instead of going through normal perceptions, it showed me certain memories, feelings, and vibes that I associated with blood. At one point, either when I was on the stretcher or in the hospital, I whipped out my cock and started peeing everywhere, but that's neither here nor there.
Looking back now, I think my mind was trying to find different ways to convince me to kill myself. I feel like it couldn't make me act out in ways that I wasn't capable of doing (no matter what happened, I never once hurt my friends with even the slightest pinch), so instead, it would manipulate me to try to get the outcome that it wanted. I have always said that I would be as good as dead without my friends and family, and I felt like that idea was being exploited throughout the trip.
This whole trip was over half a year ago, and we all have trouble talking about what happened. This basically sums up the entire experience, and it's my first successful attempt at putting it to paper.
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R.I.P. Clone High
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