Remaking?

I took the dose at 1 PM. The mountains were quiet—just snowmelt dripping, the scent of pine. We were tucked inside, soft flannel blankets, sun pouring in.

By the peak, the world inside me exploded outward. Time disappeared. I was everything and nothing—my body, a set of shifting equations. Then the flood came. Grief, rage, disappointment, all surfacing in waves. I couldn’t hold them all. The trip showed me parts of myself I didn’t want anymore, and it felt like I was peeling them away, one layer at a time.

It got physical. I writhed. I sobbed. My friend rubbed my back gently, wordless. I saw the parts I’d been ashamed of—my jealousy, my people-pleasing, my fear of abandonment. They emerged as sticky resin on my skin.

I could feel myself stripping away all the stuff that didn’t belong, like cleaning out a closet full, taking all the junk out. For hours I emptied that closet—old beliefs, narratives, voices that weren’t mine.

When I finally opened my eyes, the snow outside was glowing. Something was gone. Not stolen. Chosen to be left behind.