Bluelight

Thread: LSD / some experience / TMI psychosis

Results 1 to 15 of 15
  1. Collapse Details
    LSD / some experience / TMI psychosis 
    #1
    this is a DRAFT of dark, dark tale of a ‘bad trip’ made real. DON’T READ THIS if you’re looking for someone to tell you what to do or how to do it. This is a story of what NOT to do and my experience with getting it wrong. Plus it probably doesn’t even have complete sentences, yet.


    first off: this all happened years ago, I have made some art around this experience, and I’ll find a place to post that soon. I share these words here in the certain knowledge that, if not helpful in themselves, they lead me to create the work that WILL benefit all. apologies for the poor writing, this is my first attempt.


    i wasn’t comfortable, but I put my best face on and went anyway. That was a mistake, as it turned out. In hindsight, my inability to decide on which shoes to wear was a total sign, but at the time I did not see it. I was not ready.


    I was at a smallish music festival, which I thought was just so cool. I’m a small-town gal and I was living in a foreign city, rubbing shoulders with the big players in the local creative collective scene, and though I was in heaven!! Especially because (in my mind) all the hippest and coolest people from our city were going down on big coaches all together.


    I suffer from social anxiety and I was uncomfortable. Plus my ex-husband showed up there, and I was unprepared, having left him quite publicly the year before.


    I was sitting in a circle with 3 other women, on a hill just a little removed from the others, under the light-colored canopy of our shared, multi-room tent. One of the women I was with was my friend. The others I had not met before, but was known to me. Some people were already dressing up, and there were multicolored, fairy-winged sprites erecting tents and carrying crates of food, beer, LPs, everywhere.


    our mate the chemist came round with a vial from his freezer. i reached out my hand and he dropped the dark-colored liquid onto the skin between my thumb and forefinger. The tiny puddle was about the size of a fingernail. I did NOT bless my medicine, not did I have a question in mind, or even a consciously set intention.


    As we came up, I looked around the circle and I saw the others illuminated, shining brightly, and heard my friend’s voice as clear as anything say “hi, there”. but her mouth hadn’t moved, the words were spoken directly into my head.


    This horrified me, and I pulled back (DON’T resist it - go WITH the flow. we are all one, we share collective consciousness)
    and i somehow flew very far outside my body. Peaking, i was walking up a grassy hill and watched myself physically stumbling around, clumsy, ‘fucked up’. i felt like an amygdala on sticks. or a ballon on legs. clumsy footed-legs. This disturbed me greatly. I somehow felt broken, isolated, insensitive, unaware. None of these are comfortable feelings for a human being.


    over the course of 4 days, that fingernail-size dose was repeated twice, along with at least one balloon of nitrous and quite possibly some other substances too. Also, I was unable to sleep for 4 days. (MIND YOUR DOSE)
    Luckily, the people I was with were better organized, and way more together than I. They had brought food, and cooked, and shared. They looked after me the best they could, and continued for some time, for which I shall always be grateful. It wasn't easy for them, as I became extremely paranoid, convinced that everyone around me had been cruelly manipulating me for their own ends.


    I remember didn’t have my own tent, which became terribly important at one point. Not feeling safe / actually not being safe became a theme that recurred over some months afterward. Also - at some point I threw myself into the eye of a hurricane in a misguided urge to reground by putting my hands in the earth. I was afraid to give any of that awful abysmal energy to the plant, because it hurt so much and I didn't want it to hurt anyone else. 'Buy the ticket, take the ride', that was what I had already known. I knew better and I'd fucked up and it was all my fault and everybody knew it. It was my mistake, and nobody else should be made to suffer for it. Under any circumstances. This became a lasting delusion for a time. There was nowhere to hide.


    I was, quite obviously, ill. between depression, anxiety, and desperately wanting to BELONG, I had I had somehow backed myself into an impossible corner and couldn’t face it. I had forgotten how to play.I did not sleep for those 4 days, although I tried.


    In the following weeks, sleep became of great concern to me, and in my bed, in my bedroom became the place I felt safe. My bed and the bathtub. Until the night that I heard a rustling sound coming from the floor of my bedroom. The lights were off, and I was in bed. It was maybe 2 months after I had dosed. the sound grew louder and louder until it sounded as though there were a cat inside a plastic carrier bag that was on the floor. I was terrified, huddling in the bed hoping it would just go away, but finally, in a great act of courage I turned on the light. And when the light came on in the room, something that looked kind of like a naked-lunch-y scorpion, thing with a whip tail rushed out of the carrier bag and across the room, whooshed out the window and skittered straight down the side of the 2-story brick building.


    around that time, I decided that I was dead and horrible and possibly possessed by an evil alien entity and that I had to remove myself from the collective for the greater good. I got on a bus one day, and most of the people on the bus appeared to be dead. I was terrified, I had to remove myself from the planet for the sake of humanity and life as we know it. Also I had to protect my family from what had happened to me at all costs. dying would be better, i thought, than have to feel them faced with the broken wreck that their beloved daughter had made of herself. It was ALL MY FAULT. The state of the planet, humanity, international politics, religious fundamentalism were all my fault.

    One night, I took all the pills I had laying around, mostly just painkillers for menstrual cramps. I felt disappointed when I woke up. Then I thought of the bathtub. The next night, I was in the bathtub, with a razorblade in my hand, ready to go, almost looking forward to relief. But anguished because I could not see a way to accomplish what I thought was my goal without hurting anyone else. My family back home would wonder, forever be searching for answers. I couldn’t do that to them. Also my friends, with whom I lived, would have found my corpse and been traumatized, plus they would have been terribly inconvenienced by the mess. The next day was trash day, and I thought bitterly that I should take myself out with the trash. I got to the bus stop and it occurred to me that I could throw myself in front of a bus. but then the bus driver would have been traumatized by accidentally running over me.

    Another thing that happened: My ex husband was at the festival, and on day 2 or 3, I found myself in his tent, naked, with him - desperately trying to regain some sort of groundedness. Sex helped for a bit, even though i felt rough and dry and not right. but I could no longer expect him to babysit me, especially as I had been so public in my leaving him. I knew I'd hurt him, that he really loved me after all, and that I had not seen how hard I had been with him. I spun out again. He told me later that he had felt a strong 'hum' off my body on that day. On the last day of the festival, he gave me a small crystal ball. I showed it to my friend, who told me of her 'window crystal' that she'd lost. She said 'don't lose it', so I put it in my mouth. Reading her expression as I did so, I thought - 'why did I just do that, a pocket seems a much more sensible place to put this', so I removed it form my mouth and that's the last time I saw it.

    3 weeks later, my period was late and I panicked, thinking perhaps I'd conceived some sort of monster that would destroy the world. I couldn't let go of this notion, and wound up at the free women's clinic, where a very strange nurse inserted an IUD up into my uterus. This, I was assured, would prevent any monsters being born. But, she said, she had delivered plenty of babies with IUD's on their heads. The procedure was quite painful, and I bled and leaked a horrible brown pus for days afterward. I became convinced that the nurse thought I was a prostitute and was doing some sort of public health service by rendering me infertile.

    The psychosis was partly triggered by cannabis. I smoked a LOT of ganja, it was my thing and I loved it, but it was also an obsessive/compulsive kind of behavior. A spliff-rolling ritual, followed by the requisite cup of tea and smoking. aaaah. it soothed my nerves and had been my daily habit for years. except it changed, and became a trigger for psychosis somehow. I’d stumble somehow through a day, arrive at home on the back patio (we didn’t smoke indoors). And I kept doing it, even though it hurt. because something about it was an anchor for me somehow. Maybe it was the only thing I felt able to do.


    So I’d smoke, spin out and then go hide in my bed. I was terrified of other people, and interacting with the world of passports, money, etc etc. Paranoia in the extreme.

    One evening, I felt the combined forces of the islamic world directed at me. I had been invited to a Somali wedding, and had attended with my husband. It started in a lovely way but then there was dancing. I had been told by S. to 'keep dancing!', so I did. And I regretted it. I could feel unkind energies projected my way by some of the people there, who must have seen me performing and judged me now as a fraud, a fake, a cultural thief and immodest.

    Also, I became obsessed with somehow meeting some sort of heroic challenge, I was being called to fight FIGHT FIGHT! But each time I did make my lamest best effort to stand up, I fell flat. over and over again, until the shame of failure and what I perceived to be public ridicule made fighting impossible. that seemed to be the groove that was wearing into the LP that was recording my life. The LP became a black hole, and I was smeared along the black hole until I was lost. I actually emailed an astrophysicist friend of mine to make sure she figured out how to retrieve information from black holes.


    I walked away from my job one day, unable to maintain on any level. Quickly ran out of money, had to leave the shared house where i lived, my passport and visa both expired and my visa was not renewed, as I had actually left my husband a year before, but stayed living abroad in his hometown.


    I ordered a time machine from another friend. He is one of many people who supported me through what I can only describe as subsequent years of self-inflicted torture. 3 months and 3 suicide attempts after the day I dosed, I was on a plane back to my hometown. I remember speaking to my father on the phone shortly after arriving, and I heard him cry as I described the physical sensations in my body, the unbearable sensory blocks that I perceived were now in place made life unbearable. I told him “I can’t live like this, I don’t know how”. Partly the geography of my experience allowed my mind to separate it enough to cope, barely. My mother cried as I told her that I'd "killed my vagina", but could not sensibly explain myself beyond expressing my pain. It's excruciating for an empath such as myself to be around people who I have made unhappy. It was torture, and I put them through hell and I know it because I felt it.

    Contacting my parents was horrible. I was convinced I was doing something terribly wrong by making contact with either of them in the first place. In the second, I knew it was awful, anguishing for each of them to see their daughter so terribly broken. Returning to my hometown, my family, had become the sign of my ultimate failure in my mind. And I made it real. i had no choice. I was not made for the very rough levels of experience that I was witnessing more and more around me. In the end, I could not even pack my suitcase on my own. Deciding was such a complex process that I just couldn't do it. I left most of my belongings, including my library and my laptop, behind me. I still don't know why I decided to bring back some of the artifacts that I did, but among them are a notebook, a house key and a mobile phone. There is also a bellydance costume that I made, and have not worn since.

    There was a habit of avoidance in my mind, avoidance of confrontation. It was disguised as pride, but I hadn’t grown myself up very much at that point. I know now that pride is not the same as self-worth. I had very poor personal boundaries, which was made very clear to me very quickly. And it frightened me, I did not feel safe. I believed that I was a fraud somehow. What I was, and still am in an empath. I didn't know what that meant back then. As i child, I had simply developed the psychic survival strategy of making the people around me feel good, so that I felt good, too.
    Last edited by GrassIsGreener; 22-04-2017 at 23:44. Reason: added content
    Reply With Quote
     

  2. Collapse Details
     
    #2
    Moderator
    Psychedelic Drugs
    Trip Reports
    Philosophy and Spirituality
    Xorkoth's Avatar
    Join Date
    Feb 2006
    Location
    In the mountains
    Posts
    24,573
    Wow, quite a read, sounds traumatic. How are you now?
    Reply With Quote
     

  3. Collapse Details
     
    #3
    after years doing my work I'm quite well now, thank you!
    Last edited by GrassIsGreener; 21-04-2017 at 19:37. Reason: accuracy
    Reply With Quote
     

  4. Collapse Details
     
    #4
    quite amazing, actually! this past year, I had the good fortune to experience a relationship with a lover which was a blessedly orgasmic ecstatic counterpoint to my TMI trip. It seems that at least some of the circuitry in my body that had felt so deeply traumatized all those years ago has been stretched so that my capacity for joy is as deep.
    Last edited by GrassIsGreener; 21-04-2017 at 18:44.
    Reply With Quote
     

  5. Collapse Details
     
    #5
    this is a DRAFT of dark, dark tale of a ‘bad trip’ made real. DON’T READ THIS if you’re looking for someone to tell you what to do or how to do it. This is a story of what NOT to do and my experience with getting it wrong. Plus it probably doesn’t even have complete sentences, yet.




    first off: this all happened years ago, I have made some art around this experience, and I’ll find a place to post that soon. I share these words here in the certain knowledge that, if not helpful in themselves, they lead me to create the work that WILL benefit all. apologies for the poor writing, this is my first attempt.




    i wasn’t comfortable, but I put my best face on and went anyway. That was a mistake, as it turned out. In hindsight, my inability to decide on which shoes to wear was a total sign, but at the time I did not see it. I was not ready.




    I was at a smallish music festival, which I thought was just so cool. I’m a small-town gal and I was living in a foreign city, rubbing shoulders with the big players in the local creative collective scene, and though I was in heaven!! Especially because (in my mind) all the hippest and coolest people from our city were going down on big coaches all together.




    I suffer from social anxiety and I was uncomfortable. Plus my ex-husband showed up there, and I was unprepared, having left him quite publicly the year before.




    I was sitting in a circle with 3 other women, on a hill just a little removed from the others, under the light-colored canopy of our shared, multi-room tent. One of the women I was with was my friend. The others I had not met before, but was known to me. Some people were already dressing up, and there were multicolored, fairy-winged sprites erecting tents and carrying crates of food, beer, LPs, everywhere.




    our mate the chemist came round with a vial from his freezer. i reached out my hand and he dropped the dark-colored liquid onto the skin between my thumb and forefinger. The tiny puddle was about the size of a fingernail. I did NOT bless my medicine, not did I have a question in mind, or even a consciously set intention.




    As we came up, I looked around the circle and I saw the others illuminated, shining brightly, and heard my friend’s voice as clear as anything say “hi, there”. but her mouth hadn’t moved, the words were spoken directly into my head.




    This horrified me, and I pulled back (DON’T resist it - go WITH the flow. we are all one, we share collective consciousness)
    and i somehow flew very far outside my body. Peaking, i was walking up a grassy hill and watched myself physically stumbling around, clumsy, ‘fucked up’. i felt like an amygdala on sticks. or a ballon on legs. clumsy footed-legs. This disturbed me greatly. I somehow felt broken, isolated, insensitive, unaware. None of these are comfortable feelings for a human being.




    over the course of 4 days, that fingernail-size dose was repeated twice, along with at least one balloon of nitrous and quite possibly some other substances too. Also, I was unable to sleep for 4 days. (MIND YOUR DOSE)
    Luckily, the people I was with were better organized, and way more together than I. They had brought food, and cooked, and shared. They looked after me the best they could, and continued for some time, for which I shall always be grateful. It wasn't easy for them, as I became extremely paranoid, convinced that everyone around me had been cruelly manipulating me for their own ends.




    I remember didn’t have my own tent, which became terribly important at one point. Not feeling safe / actually not being safe became a theme that recurred over some months afterward. Also - at some point I threw myself into the eye of a hurricane in a misguided urge to reground by putting my hands in the earth. I was afraid to give any of that awful abysmal energy to the plant, because it hurt so much and I didn't want it to hurt anyone else. 'Buy the ticket, take the ride', that was what I had already known. I knew better and I'd fucked up and it was all my fault and everybody knew it. It was my mistake, and nobody else should be made to suffer for it. Under any circumstances. This became a lasting delusion for a time. There was nowhere to hide.




    I was, quite obviously, ill. between depression, anxiety, and desperately wanting to BELONG, I had I had somehow backed myself into an impossible corner and couldn’t face it. I had forgotten how to play.I did not sleep for those 4 days, although I tried.




    In the following weeks, sleep became of great concern to me, and in my bed, in my bedroom became the place I felt safe. My bed and the bathtub. Until the night that I heard a rustling sound coming from the floor of my bedroom. The lights were off, and I was in bed. It was maybe 2 months after I had dosed. the sound grew louder and louder until it sounded as though there were a cat inside a plastic carrier bag that was on the floor. I was terrified, huddling in the bed hoping it would just go away, but finally, in a great act of courage I turned on the light. And when the light came on in the room, something that looked kind of like a naked-lunch-y scorpion, thing with a whip tail rushed out of the carrier bag and across the room, whooshed out the window and skittered straight down the side of the 2-story brick building.




    around that time, I decided that I was dead and horrible and possibly possessed by an evil alien entity and that I had to remove myself from the collective for the greater good. I got on a bus one day, and most of the people on the bus appeared to be dead. I was terrified, I had to remove myself from the planet for the sake of humanity and life as we know it. Also I had to protect my family from what had happened to me at all costs. dying would be better, i thought, than have to feel them faced with the broken wreck that their beloved daughter had made of herself. It was ALL MY FAULT. The state of the planet, humanity, international politics, religious fundamentalism were all my fault.


    One night, I took all the pills I had laying around, mostly just painkillers for menstrual cramps. I felt disappointed when I woke up. Then I thought of the bathtub. The next night, I was in the bathtub, with a razorblade in my hand, ready to go, almost looking forward to relief. But anguished because I could not see a way to accomplish what I thought was my goal without hurting anyone else. My family back home would wonder, forever be searching for answers. I couldn’t do that to them. Also my friends, with whom I lived, would have found my corpse and been traumatized, plus they would have been terribly inconvenienced by the mess. The next day was trash day, and I thought bitterly that I should take myself out with the trash. I got to the bus stop and it occurred to me that I could throw myself in front of a bus. but then the bus driver would have been traumatized by accidentally running over me.


    Another thing that happened: My ex husband was at the festival, and on day 2 or 3, I found myself in his tent, naked, with him - desperately trying to regain some sort of groundedness. Sex helped for a bit, even though i felt rough and dry and not right. but I could no longer expect him to babysit me, especially as I had been so public in my leaving him. I knew I'd hurt him, that he really loved me after all, and that I had not seen how hard I had been with him. I spun out again. He told me later that he had felt a strong 'hum' off my body on that day. On the last day of the festival, he gave me a small crystal ball. I showed it to my friend, who told me of her 'window crystal' that she'd lost. She said 'don't lose it', so I put it in my mouth. Reading her expression as I did so, I thought - 'why did I just do that, a pocket seems a much more sensible place to put this', so I removed it form my mouth and that's the last time I saw it.


    3 weeks later, my period was late and I panicked, thinking perhaps I'd conceived some sort of monster that would destroy the world. I couldn't let go of this notion, and wound up at the free women's clinic, where a very strange nurse inserted an IUD up into my uterus. This, I was assured, would prevent any monsters being born. But, she said, she had delivered plenty of babies with IUD's on their heads. The procedure was quite painful, and I bled and leaked a horrible brown pus for days afterward. I became convinced that the nurse thought I was a prostitute and was doing some sort of public health service by rendering me infertile.


    The psychosis was partly triggered by cannabis. I smoked a LOT of ganja, it was my thing and I loved it, but it was also an obsessive/compulsive kind of behavior. A spliff-rolling ritual, followed by the requisite cup of tea and smoking. aaaah. it soothed my nerves and had been my daily habit for years. except it changed, and became a trigger for psychosis somehow. I’d stumble somehow through a day, arrive at home on the back patio (we didn’t smoke indoors). And I kept doing it, even though it hurt. because something about it was an anchor for me somehow. Maybe it was the only thing I felt able to do.




    So I’d smoke, spin out and then go hide in my bed. I was terrified of other people, and interacting with the world of passports, money, etc etc. Paranoia in the extreme.


    One evening, I felt the combined forces of the islamic world directed at me. I had been invited to a Somali wedding, and had attended with my husband. It started in a lovely way but then there was dancing. I had been told by S. to 'keep dancing!', so I did. And I regretted it. I could feel unkind energies projected my way by some of the people there, who must have seen me performing and judged me now as a fraud, a fake, a cultural thief and immodest.


    Also, I became obsessed with somehow meeting some sort of heroic challenge, I was being called to fight FIGHT FIGHT! But each time I did make my lamest best effort to stand up, I fell flat. over and over again, until the shame of failure and what I perceived to be public ridicule made fighting impossible. that seemed to be the groove that was wearing into the LP that was recording my life. The LP became a black hole, and I was smeared along the black hole until I was lost. I actually emailed an astrophysicist friend of mine to make sure she figured out how to retrieve information from black holes.




    I walked away from my job one day, unable to maintain on any level. Quickly ran out of money, had to leave the shared house where i lived, my passport and visa both expired and my visa was not renewed, as I had actually left my husband a year before, but stayed living abroad in his hometown.




    I ordered a time machine from another friend. He is one of many people who supported me through what I can only describe as subsequent years of self-inflicted torture. 3 months and 3 suicide attempts after the day I dosed, I was on a plane back to my hometown. I remember speaking to my father on the phone shortly after arriving, and I heard him cry as I described the physical sensations in my body, the unbearable sensory blocks that I perceived were now in place made life unbearable. I told him “I can’t live like this, I don’t know how”. Partly the geography of my experience allowed my mind to separate it enough to cope, barely. My mother cried as I told her that I'd "killed my vagina", but could not sensibly explain myself beyond expressing my pain. It's excruciating for an empath such as myself to be around people who I have made unhappy. It was torture, and I put them through hell and I know it because I felt it.


    Contacting my parents was horrible. I was convinced I was doing something terribly wrong by making contact with either of them in the first place. In the second, I knew it was awful, anguishing for each of them to see their daughter so terribly broken. Returning to my hometown, my family, had become the sign of my ultimate failure in my mind. And I made it real. i had no choice. I was not made for the very rough levels of experience that I was witnessing more and more around me. In the end, I could not even pack my suitcase on my own. Deciding was such a complex process that I just couldn't do it. I left most of my belongings, including my library and my laptop, behind me. I still don't know why I decided to bring back some of the artifacts that I did, but among them are a notebook, a house key and a mobile phone. There is also a bellydance costume that I made, and have not worn since.


    There was a habit of avoidance in my mind, avoidance of confrontation. It was disguised as pride, but I hadn’t grown myself up very much at that point. I know now that pride is not the same as self-worth. I had very poor personal boundaries, which was made very clear to me very quickly. And it frightened me, I did not feel safe. I believed that I was a fraud somehow. What I was, and still am in an empath. I didn't know what that meant back then. As i child, I had simply developed the psychic survival strategy of making the people around me feel good, so that I felt good, too.


    Putting the trip behind me was necessary for my survival at one time. I managed, medicated, with counseling to be fairly functional. But it was finally making the decision to allow the trip to have meaning, to turn towards it and then lean into it, which has made all the difference and allowed whatever degree of integration I’ve experienced thus far.


    almost immediately upon my arrival in my hometown, I met a man who had been a professional extreme skiier, but due to injury and his own demons, now sold cocaine. After a few wild parties which featured soup ladles of the stuff, we became lovers. I hadn't too much previous experience with cocaine, in the past it was around but I didn't partake as it didn't do too much for me, although I had enjoyed it combined with mescaline once. I remember thinking at the time that I preferred the gentler energy of mescaline. Now, the more aggressive and physical cocaine energy was actually quite helpful for a while, as the dysfunctional dramas I found myself sucked into provided a welcome distraction from my suicidal state. I called it 'party therapy'. Also, even though I wasn't able to enjoy sex very much, connection with another human being felt really good. I found comfort in our intimacy, dysfunctional as it was. He knew a little of what had happened when I was living abroad, and our connection provided a tie to this world for me. Still, I felt i had to hide him and my life from my family as much as possible, because it hurt them and scared them to see me living the way I was. And I was


    He ran drugs back and forth from another city on a weekly basis. At first, it was just cocaine. Then his big city connection turned us onto smoking 80mg oxycontin - only 80 mg or higher pills, he said, because at lower doses the pills have too many binders in them to be smokable. he put the reddish pill in his mouth for a bit, then rubbed off the exterior coating, which was like plastic, with a tissue. then he ground the (now white) pill up, laid out lines on tinfoil- shiny side up (i think) , and inhaled the smoke through a paper tube. When it was my turn, he held the foil and did the lighter for me, I leaned over and inhaled through the rolled-up-paper tube. The smoke immediately burned my lungs, and the guy was prepared. as I coughed sharply and reflexively, he yanked the foil back so that my cough wouldn't scatter the powder. It felt amazing, fuzzy and warm, I loved it. I remember wiggling my toes back and forth, I had bought each of us a pair o fuzzy socks, and we lay together, wiggling our feet in our fuzzy socks and loving it. I was in so much existential pain, and it felt so good to feel good. to use his words, we 'rocked it till the wheels came off’.


    Our mutual love affair with oxycontin gave way to mexican brown heroin. it was much cheaper and easier for his city connection to supply. This phase lasted all of 2 or three weeks, which was enough time for the wheels to come off. I found myself in yet another trashed hotel room, scrounging for old pieces of foil with any of the dark, sticky, distinctive-smelling unsmoked bits on them to medicate myself enough to function when I became aware that there was a commotion. He came bursting in a said 'we gotta go now!", and he meant it. We threw our belongings into bags and hustled to the car with them and drove away, whereupon he informed me that we had just bailed on our hotel bill, which included astronomical porn charges. We lived in hotel rooms at this point, having worn out our welcome with spare-bedroom-having friends - until they were ready to party again, and bailing on the bill turned out to be a tactical error with repercussions, because the bill (later paid) coupled with the roll of tin foil and box of baking soda we had left behind us (I did not know about these at the time, he smoked ‘foilies’, cocaine and baking soda smeared on a piece of tin foil - but I did not like the greasy feel of the smoke and preferred to smoke heroin and put my cocaine up my nose) had earned us a spot on some secret hotel blacklist. The next time I wanted to rent a room, years later, I was not allowed because of this and I felt ashamed. I stopped at a traffic light, calmly opened the car door, vomited onto the street, closed the door and drove on.


    This was finally it for me. we parted ways and I couch-surfed at a friend's place to detox. It was brutal. for 2 weeks I hurt. every cell, fiber in my body hurt. Also I was sick. It hadn't taken much for me to get really sick. And I had no meds. I would have loved benzos but all i had was advil and it's doesn't touch that level of pain. Torture. I knew that one little hit would make me feel so much better, yet also I knew that were I to take even one little hit, I'd be back where I started with even more sickness and pain in store for me. That's the only thing that got me through those unmedicated weeks, the sure and certain knowledge that once i had cleared my system and recovered, I never ever had to feel that way ever again. So that's how I got clean from heroin. stone cold turkey. I can't recommend it but it does work.


    Several years later, a friend forwarded my ex-lover's obituary to me on facebook. He was not the only fatality among my circle during those years.


    Several years ago, I finally found my team. I chose the players very carefully this time. They include a remarkable therapist who is quite familiar with psychedelic territory, a psychiatrist who was charmed to be given a grocery bag full of old meds I’d stopped taking over the years, and an amazing medicine woman / shamanic practitioner, who has one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever known. Lady ganja is on my team as well, as are MDMA and psilocybin.


    re-embracing psychedelics has been a huge game-changer in my experience. I know that a lot of people do't consider cannabis to be a psychedelic, and not all of it is, in my experience. But it is a medicine with a character. When legal medical cannabis came along, I hadn’t smoked pot in years. I was afraid of what it might do to me. But i was more afraid of remaining in PTSD pain So I found myself in the terrifying position; gifted with some cannabis by a dear friend. It was pleasant, not overwhelming at all, and the cannabis touched something in me that was so happy to be re-awoken! I am a plant-person, it’s part of my genetic heritage. The plants are my allies and we work together beautifully.


    Another angel delivered some MDA and some MDMA not long after. This was an answer to my call out for the medicine I had taken time to research quite thoroughly and come to believe would help me. A soul-call. I had read my Shulgins, and designed a self-therapy with MDMA protocol. The fact that Shulgin mentioned (in PIHKAL, I think) using MDMA to help a friend repair a difficult LSD experience with success was encouraging. I set up a ‘retreat’ weekend at a friend’s place in the country - off grid. Also, during this time, I experimented with psilocybin micro-dosing and found an ally there as well. My team knew what I was doing, and were very supportive.




    < protocol here >




    I wrote my direction very carefully, working with a mode of therapy called ‘Shadow-therapy’, or ‘shadow-work’, as discussed very very beautifully by Ann Shulgin in ‘PIKHAL’, specifically when she writes about her work as a lay therapist in the chapter titled ‘the intensive’.
    Last edited by GrassIsGreener; 24-04-2017 at 21:03. Reason: added more content
    Reply With Quote
     

  6. Collapse Details
     
    #6
    MOD assistance please - is there somewhere appropriate on this forum to upload jpgs of art?
    Reply With Quote
     

  7. Collapse Details
     
    #7
    ok I have copied all content so far and put it into one word document - editing posts is too weird.- I'm still writing and it feels SO GOOD to finally write these words down after so long...
    Reply With Quote
     

  8. Collapse Details
     
    #8
    i need to share I'm feeling vulnerable right now. It feels so good to finally tell this story but it's been many years and I am in a very different place in my life and oh yes nobody here knows where i live - still feeling vulnerable. I've never written this story down before, and nobody has ever heard it in its entirety... im not even sure what entirety would be, or where to stop.
    Reply With Quote
     

  9. Collapse Details
     
    #9
    It's an effective collection of writing and story making that puts your whole self out there. I will look for lady Shulgins shadow ideas.
    Reply With Quote
     

  10. Collapse Details
     
    #10
    http://www.matrixmasters.net/podcast...heShadow1.html
    a bit on the superstitious side but workable proxy magic.
    IMO too much unresolved stuff is thrown into the shadow bag, that's ok. Coming to terms with anything in that bag without freaking out is bonus.
    Reply With Quote
     

  11. Collapse Details
     
    #11
    Quote Originally Posted by pupnik View Post
    http://www.matrixmasters.net/podcast...heShadow1.html

    Coming to terms with anything in that bag without freaking out is bonus.
    Right?!?!

    Check out Connie Zweig- shulgin recommends her writing. Her book Romancing the shadow, specifically.
    Reply With Quote
     

  12. Collapse Details
     
    #12
    The proxy magic ideas combine pretty effectively with shamanic methods, ime
    Reply With Quote
     

  13. Collapse Details
     
    #13
    that's right, you don't have to understand everything to reach your goals.
    find them, face them, and proceed in the direction you are facing.
    basic proxy magic.
    Reply With Quote
     

  14. Collapse Details
     
    #14
    thank you. knowing that I don't have to understand everything is key for me. in fact, i'm more and more grateful that I don't understand everything.
    Reply With Quote
     

  15. Collapse Details
     
    #15
    this is a DRAFT of dark, dark tale of a ‘bad trip’ made real. DON’T READ THIS if you’re looking for someone to tell you what to do or how to do it. This is a story of what NOT to do and my experience with getting it wrong. Plus it probably doesn’t even have complete sentences, yet.




    first off: this all happened years ago, I have made some art around this experience, and I’ll find a place to post that soon. I share these words here in the certain knowledge that, if not helpful in themselves, they lead me to create the work that WILL benefit all. apologies for the poor writing, this is my first attempt.




    i wasn’t comfortable, but I put my best face on and went anyway. That was a mistake, as it turned out. In hindsight, my inability to decide on which shoes to wear was a total sign, but at the time I did not see it. I was not ready.




    I was at a smallish music festival, which I thought was just so cool. I’m a small-town gal and I was living in a foreign city, rubbing shoulders with the big players in the local creative collective scene, and though I was in heaven!! Especially because (in my mind) all the hippest and coolest people from our city were going down on big coaches all together.




    I suffer from social anxiety and I was uncomfortable. Plus my ex-husband showed up there, and I was unprepared, having left him quite publicly the year before. Passports, visas, specifically - how to stay in the country of my choice without a settlement visa. and I felt insecure in my job - which was with a big city firm - working alongside professionals from all sorts of different countries - most of whom, I believed, were far more qualified and better at their jobs than I was. I had been in a more comfortable situation but had switched employers because commuting had become a hassle. I ended up missing those carpool drives across the countryside very much indeed. I shared with an archaeologist who lived nearby, and we worked in the same town, and every day I’d meet him on the pavement and we’d drive through the countryside together chatting about all sorts of stuff. We got to know each other quite well, and I’m still quite fond of him.




    I was sitting in a circle with 3 other women, on a hill just a little removed from the others, under the light-colored canopy of our shared, multi-room tent. One of the women I was with was my friend. The others I had not met before, but was known to me. Some people were already dressing up, and there were multicolored, fairy-winged sprites erecting tents and carrying crates of food, beer, LPs, everywhere.




    our mate the chemist came round with a vial from his freezer. i reached out my hand and he dropped the dark-colored liquid onto the skin between my thumb and forefinger. The tiny puddle was about the size of a fingernail. I did NOT bless my medicine, not did I have a question in mind, or even a consciously set intention.




    As we came up, I looked around the circle and I saw the others illuminated, shining brightly, and heard my friend’s voice as clear as anything say “hi, there”. but her mouth hadn’t moved, the words were spoken directly into my head.
    all 3 of these women were mothers, and I was not, yet. Mother’s love is so fierce, in my experience. My own love for my child is what has grown me up these years, without doubt


    Instant telepathy horrified me, and I pulled back (DON’T resist it - go WITH the flow. we are all one, we share collective consciousness)
    and i somehow flew very far outside my body. Peaking, i was walking up a grassy hill and watched myself physically stumbling around, clumsy, ‘fucked up’. i felt like an amygdala on sticks. or a ballon on legs. clumsy footed-legs. This disturbed me greatly. I somehow felt broken, isolated, insensitive, unaware. None of these are comfortable feelings for a human being.




    over the course of 4 days, that fingernail-size dose was repeated twice, along with at least one balloon of nitrous and quite possibly some other substances too. Also, I was unable to sleep for 4 days. (MIND YOUR DOSE)
    Luckily, the people I was with were better organized, and way more together than I. They had brought food, and cooked, and shared. They looked after me the best they could, and continued for some time, for which I shall always be grateful. It wasn't easy for them, as I became extremely paranoid, convinced that everyone around me had been cruelly manipulating me for their own ends.




    I remember didn’t have my own tent, which became terribly important at one point. Not feeling safe / actually not being safe became a theme that recurred over some months afterward. Also - at some point I threw myself into the eye of a hurricane in a misguided urge to reground by putting my hands in the earth. I was afraid to give any of that awful abysmal energy to the plant, because it hurt so much and I didn't want it to hurt anyone else. 'Buy the ticket, take the ride', that was what I had already known. I knew better and I'd fucked up and it was all my fault and everybody knew it. It was my mistake, and nobody else should be made to suffer for it. Under any circumstances. This became a lasting delusion for a time. There was nowhere to hide.




    I was, quite obviously, ill. between depression, anxiety, and desperately wanting to BELONG, I had I had somehow backed myself into an impossible corner and couldn’t face it. I had forgotten how to play.I did not sleep for those 4 days, although I tried.




    In the following weeks, sleep became of great concern to me, and in my bed, in my bedroom became the place I felt safe. My bed and the bathtub. Until the night that I heard a rustling sound coming from the floor of my bedroom. The lights were off, and I was in bed. It was maybe 2 months after I had dosed. the sound grew louder and louder until it sounded as though there were a cat inside a plastic carrier bag that was on the floor. I was terrified, huddling in the bed hoping it would just go away, but finally, in a great act of courage I turned on the light. And when the light came on in the room, something that looked kind of like a naked-lunch-y scorpion, thing with a whip tail rushed out of the carrier bag and across the room, whooshed out the window and skittered straight down the side of the 2-story brick building.




    around that time, I decided that I was dead and horrible and possibly possessed by an evil alien entity and that I had to remove myself from the collective for the greater good. I got on a bus one day, and most of the people on the bus appeared to be dead. I was terrified, I had to remove myself from the planet for the sake of humanity and life as we know it. Also I had to protect my family from what had happened to me at all costs. dying would be better, i thought, than have to feel them faced with the broken wreck that their beloved daughter had made of herself. It was ALL MY FAULT. The state of the planet, humanity, international politics, religious fundamentalism were all my fault.


    One night, I took all the pills I had laying around, mostly just painkillers for menstrual cramps. I felt disappointed when I woke up. Then I thought of the bathtub. The next night, I was in the bathtub, with a razorblade in my hand, ready to go, almost looking forward to relief. But anguished because I could not see a way to accomplish what I thought was my goal without hurting anyone else. My family back home would wonder, forever be searching for answers. I couldn’t do that to them. Also my friends, with whom I lived, would have found my corpse and been traumatized, plus they would have been terribly inconvenienced by the mess. The next day was trash day, and I thought bitterly that I should take myself out with the trash. I got to the bus stop and it occurred to me that I could throw myself in front of a bus. but then the bus driver would have been traumatized by accidentally running over me.


    Another thing that happened: My ex husband was at the festival, and on day 2 or 3, I found myself in his tent, naked, with him - desperately trying to regain some sort of groundedness. Sex helped for a bit, even though i felt rough and dry and not right. but I could no longer expect him to babysit me, especially as I had been so public in my leaving him. I knew I'd hurt him, that he really loved me after all, and that I had not seen how hard I had been with him. I spun out again. He told me later that he had felt a strong 'hum' off my body on that day. On the last day of the festival, he gave me a small crystal ball. I showed it to my friend, who told me of her 'window crystal' that she'd lost. She said 'don't lose it', so I put it in my mouth. Reading her expression as I did so, I thought - 'why did I just do that, a pocket seems a much more sensible place to put this', so I removed it form my mouth and that's the last time I saw it.


    3 weeks later, my period was late and I panicked, thinking perhaps I'd conceived some sort of monster that would destroy the world. I couldn't let go of this notion, and wound up at the free women's clinic, where a very strange nurse inserted an IUD up into my uterus. This, I was assured, would prevent any monsters being born. But, she said, she had delivered plenty of babies with IUD's on their heads. The procedure was quite painful, and I bled and leaked a horrible brown pus for days afterward. I became convinced that the nurse thought I was a prostitute and was doing some sort of public health service by rendering me infertile.


    The psychosis was partly triggered by cannabis, i think. I smoked a LOT of ganja, all through college, 1/4 of high-grade bud / hash with regularity. it was my thing and I loved it, but it was also an obsessive/compulsive kind of behavior. A distraction, a social ritual (overseas anyway, skinning up a spliff - first the long long paper, then the fine layer of golden virginia tobacco preferably, next the crystal bud crumbled over top, then the hash - dark, occasionally with bits of plastic in the rock. roll a little roach - party flyers work well) followed by the requisite cup of tea and smoking. aaaah. it soothed my nerves and had been my daily habit for years. except it changed, and became a trigger for psychosis somehow. I’d stumble somehow through a day, arrive at home on the back patio (we didn’t smoke indoors) sit and smoke but then bad things happened. it opened me up to what i perceived as unkind energies - brutal in fact. but i also felt mostly powerless to change my behavior in this regard. And I kept doing it, even though it hurt. because something about it was an anchor for me somehow. Maybe it was the only thing I felt able to do.


    So I’d smoke, spin out and then go hide in my bed. I was terrified of other people, and interacting with the world of passports, money, etc etc. Paranoia in the extreme. I felt weird energies wrapping around my head, a cold, flying headband round the back of my head from ear to ear. I felt my energy body get up and leave me lying in the bed one night. I became convinced at one point that I’d become possessed by ‘the grey’ - I didn’t really know - still don’t but the knowledge was that this was NOT a good thing at all. Hated, in fact. So I wrote a short suicide note explaining that I would rather die than become such a dangerous, horrible thing in the world.


    One evening, I felt the combined forces of the islamic world directed at me. I had been invited to a Somali wedding, and had attended with my husband. It started in a lovely way but then there was dancing. I had been told by S. to 'keep dancing!', so I did. And I regretted it. I could feel unkind energies projected my way by some of the people there, who must have seen me performing and judged me now as a fraud, a fake, a cultural thief and immodest. again after smoking that evening, I experienced a huge crowd of angry muslim people (this was not long after the beginning of the Iraq War, and I had travelled quite peaceably in the middle east some years before) and my head was some weird horrible Kaaba that the whole crowd was throwing stones at. I got stoned.


    Also, I became obsessed with somehow meeting some sort of heroic challenge, I was being called to fight FIGHT FIGHT! But each time I did make my lamest best effort to stand up, I fell flat. over and over again, until the shame of failure and what I perceived to be public ridicule made fighting impossible. Because the fight now was at street level and that was NOT my skillset. that seemed to be the groove that was wearing into the LP that was recording my life. The LP became a black hole, and I was smeared along the black hole until I was lost. I actually emailed an astrophysicist friend of mine to make sure she figured out how to retrieve information from black holes. How wonderful that we now know they’re toruses (tori?) (tauri ?) (tore eye)




    I walked away from my job one day, unable to maintain on any level. Quickly ran out of money, had to leave the shared house where i lived, my passport and visa both expired and my visa was not renewed, as I had actually left my husband a year before, but stayed living abroad in his hometown.




    I ordered a time machine from another friend. He is one of many people who supported me through what I can only describe as subsequent years of self-inflicted torture. 3 months and 3 suicide attempts after the day I dosed, I was on a plane back to my hometown. I remember speaking to my father on the phone shortly after arriving, and I heard him cry as I described the physical sensations in my body, the unbearable sensory blocks that I perceived were now in place made life unbearable. I told him “I can’t live like this, I don’t know how”. Partly the geography of my experience allowed my mind to separate it enough to cope, barely. My mother cried as I told her that I'd "killed my vagina", but could not sensibly explain myself beyond expressing my pain. It's excruciating for an empath such as myself to be around people who I have made unhappy. It was torture, and I put them through hell and I know it because I felt it.


    Contacting my parents was horrible. I was convinced I was doing something terribly wrong by making contact with either of them in the first place. In the second, I knew it was awful, anguishing for each of them to see their daughter so terribly broken. Returning to my hometown, my family, had become the sign of my ultimate failure in my mind. And I made it real. i had no choice. I was not made for the very rough levels of experience that I was witnessing more and more around me. In the end, I could not even pack my suitcase on my own. Deciding was such a complex process that I just couldn't do it. I left most of my belongings, including my library and my laptop, behind me. I still don't know why I decided to bring back some of the artifacts that I did, but among them are a notebook, a house key and a mobile phone. There is also a bellydance costume that I made, and have not worn since.


    There was a habit of avoidance in my mind, avoidance of confrontation. It was disguised as pride, but I hadn’t grown myself up very much at that point. I know now that pride is not the same as self-worth. I had very poor personal boundaries, which was made very clear to me very quickly. And it frightened me, I did not feel safe. I believed that I was a fraud somehow. What I was, and still am in an empath. I didn't know what that meant back then. As i child, I had simply developed the psychic survival strategy of making the people around me feel good, so that I felt good, too.


    Putting the trip behind me was necessary for my survival at one time. I managed, medicated, with counseling to be fairly functional. But it was finally making the decision to allow the trip to have meaning, to turn towards it and then lean into it, which has made all the difference and allowed whatever degree of integration I’ve experienced thus far.


    almost immediately upon my arrival in my hometown, I met a man who had been a professional extreme skiier, but due to injury and his own demons, now sold cocaine. After a few wild parties which featured soup ladles of the stuff, we became lovers. I hadn't too much previous experience with cocaine, in the past it was around but I didn't partake as it didn't do too much for me, although I had enjoyed it combined with mescaline once. I remember thinking at the time that I preferred the gentler energy of mescaline. Now, the more aggressive and physical cocaine energy was actually quite helpful for a while, as the dysfunctional dramas I found myself sucked into provided a welcome distraction from my suicidal state. I called it 'party therapy'. Also, even though I wasn't able to enjoy sex very much, connection with another human being felt really good. I found comfort in our intimacy, dysfunctional as it was. He knew a little of what had happened when I was living abroad, and our connection provided a tie to this world for me. Still, I felt i had to hide him and my life from my family as much as possible, because it hurt them and scared them to see me living the way I was. And I was


    He ran drugs back and forth from another city on a weekly basis. At first, it was just cocaine. Then his big city connection turned us onto smoking 80mg oxycontin - only 80 mg or higher pills, he said, because at lower doses the pills have too many binders in them to be smokable. he put the reddish pill in his mouth for a bit, then rubbed off the exterior coating, which was like plastic, with a tissue. then he ground the (now white) pill up, laid out lines on tinfoil- shiny side up (i think) , and inhaled the smoke through a paper tube. When it was my turn, he held the foil and did the lighter for me, I leaned over and inhaled through the rolled-up-paper tube. The smoke immediately burned my lungs, and the guy was prepared. as I coughed sharply and reflexively, he yanked the foil back so that my cough wouldn't scatter the powder. It felt amazing, fuzzy and warm, I loved it. I remember wiggling my toes back and forth, I had bought each of us a pair o fuzzy socks, and we lay together, wiggling our feet in our fuzzy socks and loving it. I was in so much existential pain, and it felt so good to feel good. to use his words, we 'rocked it till the wheels came off’.


    Our mutual love affair with oxycontin gave way to mexican brown heroin. it was much cheaper and easier for his city connection to supply. This phase lasted all of 2 or three weeks, which was enough time for the wheels to come off. I found myself in yet another trashed hotel room, scrounging for old pieces of foil with any of the dark, sticky, distinctive-smelling unsmoked bits on them to medicate myself enough to function when I became aware that there was a commotion. He came bursting in a said 'we gotta go now!", and he meant it. We threw our belongings into bags and hustled to the car with them and drove away, whereupon he informed me that we had just bailed on our hotel bill, which included astronomical porn charges. We lived in hotel rooms at this point, having worn out our welcome with spare-bedroom-having friends - until they were ready to party again, and bailing on the bill turned out to be a tactical error with repercussions, because the bill (later paid) coupled with the roll of tin foil and box of baking soda we had left behind us (I did not know about these at the time, he smoked ‘foilies’, cocaine and baking soda smeared on a piece of tin foil - but I did not like the greasy feel of the smoke and preferred to smoke heroin and put my cocaine up my nose) had earned us a spot on some secret hotel blacklist. The next time I wanted to rent a room, years later, I was not allowed because of this and I felt ashamed. I stopped at a traffic light, calmly opened the car door, vomited onto the street, closed the door and drove on.


    This was finally it for me. we parted ways and I couch-surfed at a friend's place to detox. It was brutal. for 2 weeks I hurt. every cell, fiber in my body hurt. Also I was sick. It hadn't taken much for me to get really sick. And I had no meds. I would have loved benzos but all i had was advil and it's doesn't touch that level of pain. Torture. I knew that one little hit would make me feel so much better, yet also I knew that were I to take even one little hit, I'd be back where I started with even more sickness and pain in store for me. That's the only thing that got me through those unmedicated weeks, the sure and certain knowledge that once i had cleared my system and recovered, I never ever had to feel that way ever again. So that's how I got clean from heroin. stone cold turkey. I can't recommend it but it does work.


    Several years later, a friend forwarded my ex-lover's obituary to me on facebook. He was not the only fatality among my circle during those years.


    Several years ago, I finally found my team. I chose the players very carefully this time. They include a remarkable therapist who is quite familiar with psychedelic territory, a psychiatrist who was charmed to be given a grocery bag full of old meds I’d stopped taking over the years, and an amazing medicine woman / shamanic practitioner, who has one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever known. Lady ganja is on my team as well, as are MDMA and psilocybin.


    re-embracing psychedelics has been a huge game-changer in my experience. I know that a lot of people do't consider cannabis to be a psychedelic, and not all of it is, in my experience. But it is a medicine with a character. When legal medical cannabis came along, I hadn’t smoked pot in years. I was afraid of what it might do to me. But i was more afraid of remaining in PTSD pain So I found myself in the terrifying position; gifted with some cannabis by a dear friend. It was pleasant, not overwhelming at all, and the cannabis touched something in me that was so happy to be re-awoken! I am a plant-person, it’s part of my genetic heritage. The plants are my allies and we work together beautifully.


    Another angel delivered some MDA and some MDMA not long after. This was an answer to my call out for the medicine I had taken time to research quite thoroughly and come to believe would help me. A soul-call. I had read my Shulgins, and designed a self-therapy with MDMA protocol. The fact that Shulgin mentioned (in PIHKAL, I think) using MDMA to help a friend repair a difficult LSD experience with success was encouraging. I set up a ‘retreat’ weekend at a friend’s place in the country - off grid. Also, during this time, I experimented with psilocybin micro-dosing and found an ally there as well. My team knew what I was doing, and were very supportive.




    < protocol here >




    I wrote my direction very carefully, working with a mode of therapy called ‘Shadow-therapy’, or ‘shadow-work’, as discussed very very beautifully by Ann Shulgin in ‘PIKHAL’, specifically when she writes about her work as a lay therapist in the chapter titled ‘the intensive’.
    Reply With Quote
     

Posting Permissions

  • You may not post new threads
  • You may not post replies
  • You may not post attachments
  • You may not edit your posts
  •