~100g fresh Ecuadorian

I had grown a full batch of Ecuadorian mushrooms from a grow kit during my second year at uni, and after being out drinking pretty heavily for around 12 hours with two friends, I decided at around midnight to invite them both back to my parents' house where I was living at the time. We ate the entire first flush between the three of us. I wasn't responsible enough to think about dosage at the time, let alone weigh them, but I do remember that there were really huge, densely packed mushrooms so I would estimate the first flush to have yielded at least 300g of fresh shrooms. I weigh around 54 kg so even much less than this would constitute an epic dose for someone of my size.

We ate the shrooms in my parents' kitchen and then went out for a walk. The effects came on rapidly at such a massive dosage and everything began to look very distorted. As with previous strong trips, I was very aware of the trees being alive and could sense them breathing and dancing and communicating in a way that I can't articulate. The trip quickly took a bad turn as we walked past a man sitting on a bench and I remarked to my friends that he didn't have any arms, assuming that it was the the visual distortion from the shrooms and that he wasn't genuinely armless. And then with the sudden realisation that I didn't know what I was seeing, or what was real or what wasn't, and that I might have said that within earshot of a genuine amputee, I was engulfed by a sudden intense bout of shame and the trip spiralled badly from there.

I vaguely remember getting home, and then my two friends left, taking with them a box of eggs from my parents' kitchen and leaving an arrangement of flowers and rocks harvested from a neighbour's garden on the hall table. My next disjointed memory from the trip took place in bed. I don't remember getting there. My connection with reality was completely gone by this point. I had watched the Texas Chainsaw Massacre a few days earlier, and being completely unable to distinguish reality from fiction, I became convinced that the reason I was alone in my bedroom was not because it was the middle of the night my family members were alseep in their own beds, but because I was the murderer from the film and had killed them all. With no way of disproving this, it seemed the only possible version of reality. I had descended into a state of unadulterated terror by this point. My next memory is of my bedsheets coming to life and coiling around my body to strangle me. I tried frantically to extricate myself from them, but I was almost completely paralysed by this point. I remember trying to scream for help, but no sound coming out. I was certain that I was in hell. After I regained the ability to move, I left my room to go downstairs to the kitchen, but as I made my way downstairs, I realised that I had just descended the same staircase over and over, and I found myself caught in a time loop where it seemed that I would spend eternity repeating the journey down those stairs. And banisters always look so sinister on shrooms. 

My only memory beyond this is of throwing up, and then it was morning. I didn't trip for 15 years after this. I have recently returned to shrooms but I'm trying to use them in a more spiritual and healing way. This was a rather extreme benchmark for a bad trip and I certainly now appreciate the importance of set and setting (and dosage).