Today in the confessional, we were talking 'bad trips'. As I'm still trying to distract myself from real life shit, I got out the pile of notes and wrote this with the original notes in hand. This is the most scared I've ever been in this life, and well, I've done a fair lot of things that scared the piss out of me. For actual, real life physical reasons. This was scarier. It was also very cathartic, but only after a few weeks had passed.
The most difficult trip (yet)
Unknown amount of Ps cyan pins with P harmala, 2017
Grew my first Ps cyan in 2016, but didn't sample it until a year later (as I was very much absorbed with azurescens and tampanensis at the time). Two grams dried was a dream of a trip, a very gentle but strong experience. For some fluke reason I had another window for tripping only four days later (normally that would've been at the very least a month). Decided to go with it. It was the end of September and I realized there might even be fresh shrooms available.
Went to the beds and only one was pinning. I harvested a lot of pins, but guessed it was a good fraction short of twenty grams. The scale had been accidentally danced to pieces the trip before...
Tolerance was probably sky high. Would've been a waste to cull half a flush for a mediocre trip. So, just to be on the safe side, I ground up a small handful of P harmala seeds, boiled them with some vinegar, filtered and chugged. By that time I hadn't used harmala for many years and was taken aback by how gross it was.
From my notes: "Almost threw up the harmala the moment it went down. It couldn't have been worse on the second pass, but I managed not to find out. So there's your reason for the long break. Holy fuck that's gross."
Did the usual things, sacrifices, music, special lights. Then I started eating the pins. Started tripping hard before I downed the lot, but kept eating and finished what was in the tupperware container. Things immediately took a turn. My heart started racing and panic ran rampant through my system. Crept under a blanket, thinking it would be a rough come-up, but nothing more. Music sounded like shit, so I closed the laptop. The colors of the lights were hellish, poisonous, radioactive, so I turned them off. Then darkness came.
From my notes:
"I have always feared, somewhere on the edge of consciousness, there'd be a time when I would meet something that would mince me, that this pack of notes and drawings would abrubtly end. This is that moment.
This is impossible... Mycelium shouldn't be able to produce this. I've created a monster... A monster from the forest. A dumb hippie crushed by an evil little mushroom from the forest. Gone hippie. Dissolved. Stretched to breaking point - weighed and judged too light. Bam. Eaten alive. So much fun, eating mushrooms. I am so afraid that it physically hurts, I cry and cry but don't dare make a sound - they'll get me. I want to apologize but don't know to whom. The fear is crushing me, the shaking, I want to go downstairs to [my ex-wife], but if I look away from this paper, they'll get me. The Monster from the Forest.
Tried to wank, but my dick wants to hide too. Thought about smoking weed, but I don't dare to open the window."
I had to piss, but couldn't leave my blanket. By the time I almost pissed my pants, I ran downstairs. Did the thing and looked in the mirror. The guy in the mirror looked so bad, so totally consumed by fear, that I couldn't confront his look. Ran out and jumped into bed.
"Hey, are you done already? I wasn't expecting you yet... Churp? You OK?" Tried to speak to my wife, but my mouth was glued together. It dawned on me that I was revisiting a childhood nightmare, where I ran from hideous monsters and made it to my parents' bedroom. But my speech failed me. And they'd bring me back to bed and my mouth wouldn't open to call for help. Patterns of eyes and teeth circled around my head, trying to find an entrance. I kept my eyes closed and started convulsing real hard. My wife tried to hear me out, tried to comfort me, but I was shaking really hard, in fetal position with my hands around my head.
This lasted for some time. A black hole opened and started to suck me in. It took all of my effort to keep my flesh attached to my bones.
"Hey, I really want to help you, but if you don't speak I don't know what to do. You should really try to stop shaking like that, and clawing at your face like that. Really. You're going to regret that tomorrow"
When I finally got myself together a bit, I tried to explain. The words fell out of my mouth without adhering to things like structure, syntax or logic. Decided to go back to the attic, so as not to keep my wife awake all night. So I kind of fell out of bed and crawled up the stairs. Halfway up the stairs everything turned to molasses and I could hear the wind howling beneath me. That was no regular old wind. It came from inside the earth and carried voices, tormented voices. The molasses dissolved and I jumped to the attic, writhing frantically on the ground.
I saw my beds in the forest, saw them produce a black liquid that oozed out of the ground. The liquid sent out rhizomorphs in pure black, and everything they touched died. Opened my eyes. No! Think of something else! Howling winds from cracks in the earth. The winds change direction and are sucked into the earth. No! Not that! Wrote down a lot of gibberish until I crushed my pen. Bathing in sweat. Trembling uncontrollably. I thought of tumors with hair and teeth, and blinking eyes.
There was a hole in the world and it was sucking me in. What to do? Where to go? I heard the terrified voices of small animals in the forest. They knew what the black tar crawling out of the earth was. Something that feeds on souls. And I had brought it there. Something that survived a PC cycle, and now it wanted revenge. I promised that if I made it to the next day, I'd call my boss and coworkers and apologize for running my mouth and behaving like a dick. I promised to find the hole in the world and fix it, if that was within my abilities. I promised whatever, to whomever, to fill the void that pulled at me.
In the end, writing really helped. If only because it required a lot of focus and effort, energy that didn't drift off into sick fantasies. Reading back some of my paranoid gibberish ("Moving black stuff that eats souls - and I ingested that shit!! On purpose!!!") made me chuckle a bit. The ramblings of a lunatic on drugs. When the worst was over, I hung from the attic window and smoked some weed. Heatbeat went down significantly. When I finally returned to bed, my wife held me until I fell asleep.
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