This happened about two years ago. After this trip, I was sure that my days with the mushroom were over; that the mushroom was done with me. Now, I'm not so sure any more and find my thoughts returning to the mushroom and all its magical ways. I long to go back and walk the way of the psilocybe cubensis again. Do I dare?
At the time of this trip, I was determined to have an experience beyond all others. I ate 6.5 dried grams of B+ shrooms, and the effect was shattering, but not in a way that you might expect. I always invite my little brother over to enjoy the shrooms with me if I run across them, and he was with me as well. He took a smaller dose of 4.5-5 dry grams.
The first thing that I noticed was that my pupils dialated very quickly. It had only been seconds, it seemed since ingestion, yet my pupils were as big as saucers when I looked in the bathroom mirror. I felt that this was indeed going to be my level 5 trip.
Little bro and me went outside, and the grass was doing some weird super-green wavy thing. I got on the trampoline out back, and my little brother said I didn't look so good. I didn't feel so good, either, I said and all of a sudden I didn't know where I wanted to be. Inside, outside, hell I didn't know. All I knew was that I felt really bad and my chest was tight and it was hard to breathe. It was pure hell. I had never experienced this on shrooms before, but I have had trips where there was a distinct nausea, where my whole stomach became a tumbling bubbling bag of sickness, but this is beyond words. I felt horrible, and it wasn't stomach sickness. I remember laying in the floor, telling my wife that I felt really bad. She said, "You did it to yourself!" and left the room. That really pissed me off, but I was so sick I couldn't say anything. I just lay in the floor, moaning; and I was sure I was also, dying.
Eventually I decided I needed air, because the air in the piece of shit trailer we lived in at the time was choking me. It was terrible. I opened the door and got half way out. I stopped, half-in and half out of the trailer, moaning and trying to hurl. My wife finally made me come in, saying that the neighbors were going to call the cops. I kept trying to tell myself that I was fine, that the shrooms were just having their way with me and it would soon be over, but this impending sense of sick doom hung over me like a wet sheet. I couldn't shake it.
I don't know what my poor little bro was thinking through all of this, because I assure you, the shrooms had reduced me to someone I didn't even know. Spmeone I don't think I want to know. I felt small and weak, and I apoligized to him and said I had to go lay down.
I went to my bedoom and lay there for what felt like hours, thinking my last thoughts before I checked out for good, feeling really quite ill. I wasn't really having any visual distortions as I have had before. I have had beautiful trips where I've seen totem poles in trees and the sky has been a piece of the most beautiful purple velvet, dotted with glittering jewels. I've had very good trips always. This was nothing like that. Not a very visual trip at all, it was all physical and mental.
Eventually, I was ready to accept it. I had killed myself with these damned shrooms. I prepared to die. Then the funniest thing happened. I chuckled a little, and I heard my little brother in the living room open the door and go outside. All of a sudden the doom lifted, I was able to breathe again, and I was so grateful and happy that I got up, grinning like a man on smilex. I couldn't stop grinning.
I got up and went outside, we sat and talked, and admired the 3-D viewmaster look of the world, and we talked about death. Apparently, this was the topic the shrooms had me on that night. The weirdest thing happend next. We went back in to watch TV. Saturday night live was on, only it was a very old one from the 70's. The skit that was on as soon as I flipped on the TV was the dead symphony. It was a symphony of corpses. They did nothing but slump over their instruments. They were dead, I was not. This struck me as awfully ironic. Then all of a sudden Billy Crystal was all grinning and asking if I could dig it. He knew that I could, and I did dig it. I dug the shit out if it.
In the end, I decided that the trip, as bad as it had been at first, worked out pretty good in the end. However, it was so intense that instead of taking another trip the following fall, (I usually do it once per year in the fall) I skipped a year. I felt like the shrooms had warned me not to come back, that I had passed the age. Now I'm not so sure. Maybe it's time to visit the world of the mushroom again. I think I could use it.