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Offlinedanvl24
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Registered: 08/09/22
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Last seen: 1 year, 3 months
First Trip: Before, During and After // Psilocybin, dry / 3g
    #27903139 - 08/14/22 12:40 PM (1 year, 5 months ago)

I wrote this as an essay the day after my first trip. It's a personal account of my preparation and experience of my first experience with psilocybin. I hope you all enjoy.
=====


"Lines"


August 11, 2022 —

I remember the day before. Feeling anxious, nervous, apprehensive as I read about other people’s journeys. I remember wondering what the correct amount for me should be. While I trusted that I was no novice to introspection—meditation and looking inward have been common practice lately—this was a new substance; something I had no experience with, and something I knew commanded respect if I sought to use it as a transformative tool.

That day before, nailing down my intention didn’t come as naturally as I’d hoped, but I trusted that when the time came, clarity would come. ‘Set and setting,’ everyone says. Make sure your mind is in the right place, make sure your body is physically safe, and make sure that you trust your surroundings to stay predictable and comfortable.

Setting, I wasn’t so concerned with. My sister-in-law, Lily, had offered to be my trip sitter. She’d experienced psilocybin before, though not in the way I was intending. Her experiences were had out in public, with others. I wanted an inward journey. But her familiarity gave me confidence that she’d be able to spot any moments that may send me into a negative head-space.

Having Lily be my trip sitter was a decision I must admit gave me some concern. I have known her to be judgmental in the past, and there are definitely things about my relationship with my husband that she does not know, things I’m not ready to share with her (again, due to my fear of her judgment). However, in recent times, I’ve opened up to Lily about my concern that she holds me at a distance, and in return, she’s shared her vulnerabilities and fears about holding close relationships with me. We’ve taken many steps toward becoming closer in our relationship with each other.

Her offering to trip sit me was a sincere display of that trust. It was an honest effort to be there for me, and I had the opportunity to trust her and share my vulnerability in return. If I was going to let her care for me, I was going to have to do so without judging her. And that’s what I chose to do.

Vincent, my husband, would be around too. He hurt his ankle recently, so he’s been working from home more often than usual. I was apprehensive of him being around as well. He tends to broadcast his stress to me; something I’ve come to understand as a sign of trust, though a habit I’ve often had to define boundaries around. But, if I was going to be home, I was going to have to accept that he is home as well. And if I couldn’t trust him to care for me at home, what was I saying about my trust in him at all? In order for me to go comfortably into this experience, I would have to trust my husband. I would have to trust that I have sharpened my tools adequately to listen to others without internalizing their problems; that I have built the strength I need to listen, support, and validate his feelings without absorbing them myself. I love him, and I know he loves me, and that was enough for me to trust that he is a person I find complete comfort in and around.

Lily helped me source my mushrooms—an ordeal that came down to the last minute. She found me exactly the amount I hoped for—3.5 grams. I figured this amount would be the right one to start with, though, the more I read, the more nervous I became. ‘If this is your first time with psychedelics,’—it was—‘stick to 1-2 grams. Don’t dare near 3.’

I reached out to my best friend, an experienced psychedelic journeyman, Neil. His advice: If you’re feeling nervous, stick to 2. I don’t know why this felt like a failure to me. I wasn’t looking for a topical, superficial experience; I sought change. But I didn’t want to disrespect the substance or approach it with ego. I agreed that I’d keep this question top of mind as I went about the night.

Set—as in mindset—was more difficult to nail down. Was I ready for this? Has the work I’ve been doing for the past several months brought me to the right place and given me the appropriate tools to calm my mind, focus on my intention, and accept this experience without anxiety or judgment of myself? I felt confidence, though I felt caution. Night came and I still couldn’t honestly say I knew how much I wanted to take.

Nonetheless, I slept well that night. Calm, collected, comfortable.

I awoke early the next day and, as usual, prepared Huck for our morning walk. Different from other mornings, however, I took my headphones with me and listened to a short guided meditation on mindful walking. Mindful walking with a playful pup is difficult, but it reminded me of the nature of my own mind. While meditating, my thoughts often pop in and pull me one way or the other. Like Huck, darting towards a bush or popping himself down to do his business, it was up to me to bring myself back to my breath, remain calm, acknowledge my companion, and move on.

The short mindful walking meditation ended with a mantra the speaker had me repeat to myself several times: I appreciate this life that I am blessed with.

I appreciate this life that I am blessed with.

I repeated this to myself often on our walk and kept it with me throughout my morning.

Our walk went well, with Huck gradually mirroring my calmness as the walk progressed. Passing a single growing mushroom in a patch of grass gave me a serendipitous burst of universal acceptance that gave me comfort. While I know it was only coincidence, I accepted it as a welcome sign that I was glad to pause for and enjoy. Today was the right day.

When we got home, I ate a small bowl of cereal—I’d read that nausea is common for experiences with mushrooms, so I fully intended to keep my stomach light.

I began to prepare my setting.

I swept the floors, put things in their places, organized my desk, went outside and swept the mulch off the paths. Inside, I cleared off the countertops and wiped them down. I organized my surroundings, leveling picture frames, washing the dishes, wiping down the sink. Anything I felt could possibly stress me out, or look disordered, I fixed.

This struck me as curious. Not more than a month ago, my therapist had me complete an assessment of my values. On my list of anti-values—values defined as those I definitely do not care for—was “Order.” What I was doing now, in preparation for this new experience for myself, was not indicative of someone who does not value order. Realizing this made me chuckle. Perhaps there’s something about order I do in fact value. There’s comfort in an orderly setting. I can’t deny that. (“Comfort,” ironically, was another one of my anti-values.)

A second moment of curiosity came as I was wiping things down. I was doing all this preparation for no one but myself. This was completely for me. I’ve cleaned before for guests, when we’re about to host people, or even when someone’s just going to pop by to pick something up. But this was all for me. Giving myself this attention and focus was something I’d not remembered doing for myself in a really long time. I acknowledged and appreciated, if nothing else, that I was doing this for me.

With the house clean, I began to focus on myself. I decided to hold my own spa morning. I took a shower, used a fancy body scrub with mint that enlivened my skin and gave me a cool chill standing in the shower.

As I lathered myself up with the magical purple body scrub that tingled my entire body, I thought more and more about my intention. I knew I wanted to focus on myself as a child. For a while now, there’s been a disconnect between who I was and who I have become. There’s an image of myself as a young boy, no more than 3 years old, playing in the dirt curiously, perfectly calm and content, happy. This image moves me, often to sadness, because it’s one of the earliest, most innocent pictures of myself that I have. It’s of a boy I wish I knew, and one who I often reflect upon. Would he be proud of who I have grown up to be? Would he be disappointed? Was he the last time I was good?



With this thought came my intention — Let’s reconnect. 



At that time, I settled on 3— 3-year-old me. My journey would be 3 grams.

I scrubbed my face and washed my hair, then stepped out of the shower to put on a chunky green face mask. The directions asked that I keep it on for 15 minutes, so with that time, I went out to the kitchen and prepared my snacks. First, a cucumber, apple, and mint jug of water—surely I would get thirsty. Next, I chopped up a watermelon and a cantaloupe. I put the chunks in glass bowls, covered them up and put them in the fridge. Melon makes me feel like a kid in the heart of summer; I could only imagine it would taste delicious with my senses heightened.

I took the rinds out to the chickens. They should enjoy this treat too.

15 minutes were up and I stepped back into the shower to rinse my face off. I dried myself, dressed myself in comfortable clothes, toned and moisturized my face, took a long look at myself in the mirror—took a deep breath. Then, I went out into the house to begin to prepare my mind.

It was around 10:45am. I’d initially intended to eat my chunky peanut butter and jelly sandwich at 11am—PB&J being the vehicle for consuming the mushrooms that came highly recommended from both Neil and the online psychonaut community. With the time getting closer to 11 and still more to do, I began to feel a sense of urgency. I paused and quickly squashed the feeling. I was on my own timeline and there was absolutely no need to rush. 11, 11:15 or 11:30—any time would be the right time.

I began to gather materials: A sketchbook, colored pencils, a journal and pens. I didn’t know what I might be compelled to engage in, but I wanted to be ready in case inspiration struck. I sat down with my journal.

The journal was one my mother had given me for my birthday, wrapped in an orange-dyed leather sleeve, with colored pencils nestled inside, and a pencil sharpener hanging off the leather strap used to wrap it shut.

I opened the journal, and in black sharpie on the entirety of the first page, I wrote “I appreciate this life that I am blessed with.”

It was nearing 11am; Lily would be arriving soon. I told Vincent I was going upstairs to meditate. I sat on a padded footstool by the bed and found a guided meditation for setting an intention. The meditation helped me center myself, gave me solid ground, and drove my intention deeper. 



Let's reconnect.

And added: I am good. I am enough.

Let's reconnect. I am good. I am enough.

With a deep breath, I sealed my meditation, went downstairs and waited for Lily to arrive.

Upon arriving, she unpacked the bag she’d brought. In it was a fidget spinner, a beautiful stringy cellophane toy that dances in infinite shapes and colors when you spin it, coloring books, and more colored pencils.

I weighed out my mushrooms—3 grams—and prepared my sandwich: First, a heavy slathering of chunky peanut butter which I then topped with roughly chopped mushrooms. The amount was visually exciting as they mounded up, if not a bit intimidating. Finally, I closed the sandwich up with a second slice of bread covered in a lovely purple smattering of concord grape jelly.

The time had just passed 11:25am.

Lily sat in the armchair across from me, I sat on the couch, and Huck lay beside me. As soon as my phone read 11:30am, I ate my sandwich.

Despite the many mentions, I didn’t taste the mushrooms at all. I could feel the texture here and there, but the internet community was right: the crunchy peanut butter masked the texture, and the jelly gave me the perfect amount of sweetness.

I finished my sandwich at 11:35am and jotted the times in my journal.

I laid down on the couch with a pillow resting on my Huck. He didn’t seem to mind.

As I laid back, Lily and I talked. We talked about my experiences with therapy, my experiences with my family and about the way we each process certain feelings. This wasn’t an uncommon conversation for me to engage in with her, or with other people for that matter. It’s often what comes naturally.

At around 11:47, my right ear popped. I journaled the sensation but chalked it up to shower water from earlier.

We kept talking about everything and nothing. As incense filled the air with the loveliest aroma, Lily put on a music playlist she’d curated for me. The instruments and foreign singing set a scene that I was very comfortable with.

At around 12:08, I began to smile seemingly subconsciously, giggly and happy.

At 12:13, objects began to emit subtle waves, almost the way heat lifts off the road. But rather than heat’s aggressive movement, these were like breaths coming off of objects, energy emanating from Lily’s head. Huck remained a sweet and faithful pillow.

Nearing an hour later, I got up to pee. I disregarded warnings of looking at myself in the mirror; this wasn’t something I wanted to be afraid of, so I chose not to be and I looked. There I was, calm, comfortable, collected. I was safe.

Coming back out to the living room, what I did notice were the colors. Greens, yellows, oranges, and reds became incredibly vibrant, as though alive and bursting forward to make their presence known. The plants that we’ve surrounded ourselves with in our home danced in their new found colors. Whites were bright and beautiful.

12:39pm, entering my second hour, I began to play with the toys Lily brought. The cellophane toy, dancing and spinning, taking on any and every shape, blew my mind most of all. I felt like a kid, curious and fascinated, spinning it in my palms; the sunlight creating patterns on the walls that danced in vibrant, golden flashes. I didn’t feel removed at all from my environment. As a matter of fact, I felt very present, very content. I felt joy.

At around the top of the hour, I began to notice a feeling of mild tension. Not one to elicit anxiety, more so preparedness. I felt like I was getting ready for something to happen, so I laid back on the couch, on my restful companion, and pulled my favorite blanket over me.

I stared at the double-height wall of birch plywood encasing the stairs across from me. The wood grain patterns began to swirl and play, perfectly reminiscent of the psychedelic band posters of the 60's and 70’s that I was very familiar with. I remember exclaiming out loud “it all makes so much sense, I totally understand”—in reference to the graphic patterns, shapes, and movement of the images synonymous with the time.

I was truly taken aback by the visuals. The colors in the wood-grain came alive in the sweetest lavenders, pastel yellows, and soft whites. They swirled, alive, like thick smoke. The avocado tree on the stair landing melted into and out of the background, alive with its deep, majestic green richness. The visual experience thus far was truly beautiful.

By 2:00pm, I felt as though I had maintained a steady feeling—‘a plateau,’ the psychonauts call it. I felt very much in control of myself. Lily had gone outside to smoke. I sat up, ready to head outside myself, but paused to examine my hands.

I was struck by how large my hands were, how wrinkled and worn they were. What used to be familiar lines had multiplied by the dozens, like roots off of roots off of even more roots. I don’t mean this to sound critical, but rather curious, like reading a book, as though my hands were telling me a story. I held them in front of me, palms up, and examined them closely.

These hands have been through so much. They record so much of who I have been. They tell the stories of my talents, the stories of my hard work. They have touched clay, they have created music. They have touched others, they have caught my tears. They have danced in the air, they have broken many falls. They have drawn and written, they have dug into the rich soils of the earth.

My hands have lived with me my entire life and have connected me to everything around me, including myself. My eyes began to well up, emotions filling me, for a reason I couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Lily popped back inside, pulling me away from the moment, to have me look at a bug infestation on our fig tree. Venturing out into the garden, I sat on the ground and watched the small black bugs running about the young tree. Dozens of them scurried around the tree, its tiny branches, its big leaves, seeming to have just hatched based on their sheer numbers. I didn’t find them scary; I’m very used to bugs in our garden, and I’ve long since accepted the role they play in our micro-environment. I watched them curiously. Then, I began to look around, to see the plants surrounding me and feel the warmth of the sun.

The experience was calming and lovely. I remember being able to see every leaf on our trees dancing, while also maintaining a clear awareness of the dozens of ants and bugs traveling on their bark. Flying insects, with their pockets full of golden pollen, darted around me constantly, leaving sparkling trails as they flew around. Nature is magical and I’m surrounded by it constantly. I felt and appreciated the moment of connectedness.

Nearing 3pm, Lily and I sat and ate some of the melon I’d prepared. The sweet snack hit exactly the right spot, washed down with the fragrant water I’d also prepared earlier. Lily let me know that she felt she was ready to go, and I felt confident that I was ready to be left alone. I hoped for a final moment by myself to take a nap. Surely the experience had peaked by this point and I didn’t have to worry about any surprises.

I went into the restroom again—the image in the mirror still calm, collected and confident—and as I sat, I held my palms in front of me again. Now, veins and lines were much more pronounced on my huge hands. They looked so large, like those of a man, and it looked as though my fingers were lengthening in front of me. Bending back towards me, my nails (finger teeth, I remember calling them) and fingers reminded me of sentient creatures, moving on their own. I remember looking at them like a plant and wanting to touch them. But when I’d touch them, I’d realize they were not separate creatures, but mine: My hands. The sensation of the sight was so curious, though I was never concerned nor afraid. My hands were telling me a story I couldn’t quite yet understand.

At 3:30pm, I laid down on the couch with a chunky pair of over-ear headphones and found myself a guided mediation. I didn’t feel I wanted a full nap anymore, just a moment to rest my eyes. I found something called a “Yogic Nap,” a 25-minute long meditation that promised to “soothe your nervous system and let the audio wake you up feeling refreshed and recharged.”

I got comfortable, pressed play and closed my eyes. The visuals I encountered behind my eyelids were like none I’d experienced before; like watching the sunlight bounce and play at the bottom of a pool on a summer day, though in reds, yellows, and oranges. 

The speaker began by having me relax, breathe and settle my body. He began taking me through each part of my body, beginning with my face. Every breath in asked awareness of that specific part of my body, and every exhale signaled the release of any stress, any sensation in it.

I remember being able to zero in with intense and clear focus on every single part of my body that the speaker called awareness to. Unlike other meditations, my distracted inner companion was nowhere to be found.

At one point, the speaker asked me to envision the sensation of the skin on my scalp resting on my skull. I could clearly feel the sensation of every single hair on my head, simultaneously, secured through my skin, vibrating and resting against my skull. With a deep exhale, every hair fell asleep and the vibrations calmed into rest.

We moved down to my shoulders and arms, and an interesting thing began to happen as we approached my hands.

With attention called to my hands, my mind began to flood with still images of my youth. An image of a frowning boy in a tiny sombrero, laying on a hammock, strumming a guitar. The same young boy in an oversized t-shirt playing on the furniture in his aunt’s room. A wide grinning face hidden among stuffed animals. A tiny boy carrying a pillow case filled with candy on the sidewalk of the house he grew up in. The curious boy in the front yard, on the ground, playing in the soil; the boy from my memories. This image began to move and called me in.

Let's reconnect.

The young boy invites me to kneel down and play in the dirt with him.

The speaker calls attention to each individual finger, and I can feel them come alive, simultaneously, in each hand.

The boy invites me to look at rocks, twigs, every new discovery digging through the soil. I can feel the dry, gritty sand. I can see the dust coating the boy’s fingers. I can hear his laugh. I can feel his awe.

The speaker invites me to focus on my palms. And I recall earlier moments, looking at my palms; the palms of a man, the hands that have felt, moved, and experienced so much. The palms holding the fingers that are alive.

The boy calls me back, takes my hands into his, and looks at me.

The speaker asks my to put my palm on my chest and find my heartbeat. And calmly, he says “you are who you have always been. Inside each of us is an energy, a deep innate love, that we all carry, that we have always carried.”

And with my hands against my heart, feeling my heartbeat, the boy’s hands disappear into my own and I am him.

I am good. I am enough.

I feel tears rolling down my cheeks, and I feel an energy like I have never felt before coming from deep within me.

The boy is so proud of me. So proud of who we have become. So glad that I finally found him, so grateful I have kept him safe. With a deep inhale, I feel the energy circling inside me and through me. From my heart through my chest, to my arms, palms, and fingers, and back through again, the energy fills me. And with a heavy exhale, I release everything and my body melts, relaxes completely. A feeling of fear is gone. Something has been found.

The speaker continues into my abdomen, pointing out my internal organs, each of which I become aware of. My core is a powerhouse. It is the factory of my body; that which keeps me alive; that which protects me, and that which I must protect.

He moves into my pelvis, into my thighs, my knees, my calves and my feet. The parts of me that keep me grounded. They keep me standing tall, and keep me moving forward. They are my connection to the earth, and they support me, strong and confident. I inhale their full sensation, and exhale them to rest.

As we move through the soles of my feet, and with one final heavy exhale, my whole body is in deep rest. The unique creativity born of my head, arms and hands, the love and power housed in my chest and abdomen, and the strength, confidence, and support of my legs—all at rest. All I can feel is my breath and my heartbeat. I feel rejuvenated and whole.

I am reconnected. I am good. I am enough.

I am loved.

I rest, breathing calmly.

No time—or all time—passes.

Wiggling my body back to life, my breath deepens, and my eyes blink awake, the speaker welcomes me back to the day.

Opening my eyes, the visuals from earlier are gone, though a newness and brightness remain. I’m in the same place, home, but I’m a new person. I feel whole, complete, and curious; grateful for the experience I’ve just had. I sit up in a calm and reflective stillness.

Vincent walks into the room and mouths “are you okay” to me from across the way.

I remove my headphones. I am incredible, I say.

I stand up, make my way to him, and give him a kiss. I notice a feeling of groundedness alongside lightness. I feel alive, yet relaxed. I feel ready.

I make my way upstairs, put on some new shoes I’ve been excited to wear, and prepare myself to go out into the world. Getting ready feels like presenting myself anew to the world. Excited, I feel eager to introduce this new me. I feel giddy and I can’t shake the soft smile from my face.

Walking out of the house, I feel the warmth of the air around me, and the calm of myself inside.

“What would the man I wish to become do?”



This question pops into my mind. It’s a question I’ve been presented with before, but one I haven’t feel adequately fit to answer.

But now, and from this moment forward, I feel the support of every growing version of myself. I am new and I am whole. I can finally look forward; ready to walk towards becoming the man I hope to become, together with the childlike love and curiosity that I have always had; ready to continue writing the story of a man written, and still being written everyday, in every line of the palms of my hands.


Edited by danvl24 (08/14/22 01:14 PM)


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OfflineShroomsandstuff
Stranger
Registered: 05/20/13
Posts: 158
Last seen: 13 days, 2 hours
Re: First Trip: Before, During and After // Psilocybin, dry / 3g [Re: danvl24]
    #28043677 - 11/10/22 12:38 PM (1 year, 2 months ago)

What a great write up! Very organized and beautifully described.

It sounds like you had a very nice trip. It would be cool to hear how/if you've been changed/affected by it now that some time has passed.


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