justsomeguy
Bluelight Crew
Experienced-1/8 shrooms, appx. 300 mg adderall (over the course of a three day binge)
6/28/05
This was originally posted in my journal, but i was prompted to post in trip reports. 1/8 oz. mushrooms, and appx. 300 mg adderall over the course of the weekend. appx. 900 mg adderall over the course of the previous week...
I must get this out...or attempt to efface some of my feelings onto this page...excuse the length and the self-absorbed tone of what you are about to read.
No one wishes to ride another's bad ego trip. The situation is made even more undesirable when the bad trip is induced by too many drugs taken upon one's own volition. I did not heed the warnings. "Are you sure you want to trip now?" My body and more importantly my mind–my spirit–was not prepared for the consequences. Such a self-grandizing position the ego-tripper places himself! Or, in my case, such a self-defeating position.
The days preceeding the bad trip were composed of excessive amounts of amphetamine use. Too much SPEED! I was slowly imbibing the evil that week prior, but I would not meet it head on until my body and mind were at a breaking point, and I went over the edge, splitting myself into a thousand tiny halves with the poisonous mushrooms. The thrill of speed is evil, in my own experience. It grinds on me. My teeth suffer. It pulls my whole being down as it pushes, forces me up, up up! One night awake, two nights, my own personal brink is reached at three nights with no sleep. I can be thankful I've never dabbled with methamphetamine. Adderall, while much milder, has taken me as far as I'd like to go. I'd like to keep going on the orange substance, through the night, through the racing, grandiose ideas, through the chattering, sweating, shivering existence, even when my body screams out "ENOUGH! STOP!"
Too much speed under too hot of sun. The first day of the road-trip was exciting; I was caught in my own personal world, visions of amphetamine induced grandiosity racing through my mind. My teeth grinded, but I had more drugs in the bottle. The mushrooms that evening were too much.
My body was beaten down, but I wanted to trip. Not acid, that was too clean, too electric-smiley rainbow flavored. I was after a seedier trip. A mushier trip. I was after a trip that would silence me, make me clam up, shut up and give into the aztec patterened electric-organic visuals. When I trip, I want to lose the ability to talk; that's when I know the drugs are strong enough.
My throat clammed up indeed. Too much amphetamine, too much dancing, too much pushing for that next exciting, unattainable moment of NOW the guru's preach about. I was not in a good mind-set. I did not heed the warnings. My throat couldn't swallow. The mushrooms, that peculiar spiritual poison, folded my thoughts onto my body. My bio-rhytms–swallowing, breathing, heart-beating–became the focus of my trip. I struggled to swallow, to capture my breath, to slow my heart down, and the visuals and thoughts followed suit. A gasping cough shuddered my whole being, as gooey, fractal drips shattered my vision. That is, the hacking cough became a visual, became an observable event in my mindscape and through my field of vision. The pain of seeing one's body grasp for air and respite through mushroom visuals was overwhelming. I pushed my body too far. But this is what I wanted, wasn't it? Its no coincidince that the reckless psychnaut, myself, was also a self-abuser. The cuts on my arm were commiserate with the psychic cutting I was exposing myself too. This ego trip bleed my brain, and all I wanted was the vain self-fulfillment of another being, another human being, to see that I was hurting my mind. This ritual self-abasement of the mind coincides with the ritual self-abasement of the body. Upon feeling as though I go about the world unnoticed or unrecognized (a truly self-piteous sentiment, admittedly), I efface my pain upon my body in tangible, observable cuts upon my arm. The evening in question, under a Kansas starscape and wild rock 'n' roll music, I forgoed the razor blade in favor of a serrated mind-knife --mushrooms. A friend of mine present said that I was transparent. She said it was obvious I was cutting my insides to pieces, and in doing was so seeking vain comfort or sympathy. Of course it was transparent. At this point I had given up on veiled gestures and ironic utterances towards my self-destruction. I was trying to scream outloud the feelings that were screaming inside me.
If my language here seems heady and dramatic, please excuse me. My mood at the time of writing this entry is prescribing the tone and voice. So much went unsaid that weekend, so much was trapped inside, choked out by too much speed and too much fungus. The physical choking I experienced, partly from dehydration and malnutrition, and partly from the drugs, matched my discursive choking. I could not speek. Today, I have a voice. My experience needs to be expunged, to be cast out. Perhaps the bad ego trip cannot be overcome by a monologue such as this, but I must try to reach some catharsis, I must attempt to free myself of the bad feelings, the self-destructive thought loops, and effacing this paper seems my only (fleeting) hope. If I seem to be wallowing, forgive me.
The evening progressed. It got worse. Moving was a painful experience. The sun rose, and I got into my car. I discovered the mirror in the car. The tracers were subsiding, and the mystical aztec fractal patterns and primordial hallucinations were dissapating. My face in the mirror was harrowed, strung out on amphetamines and mushrooms and the previous day's false good feelings. I looked like a drug addict. I percieved myself as a speed junkie; my face and eyeballs were yellowed, my sockets sunken and my tongue swollen, glazed. Here, in front of the mirror, my hallucinations turned inward. Every concievable negative and self-abasing emotion came out in the mirror. They ganged up on me. As my face morphed and blurred, my physical appearence latched onto my interior, ego-deflating emotions. The inward and outward distinction disintigrated. I was bleeding on the inside, and tears welled up. Earlier in the evening, upon dosing, I knew the negative energy would catch up with me. Knowing this, that I was setting myself up for existential nasuea, feeded the negativity. That is to say, knowing that I and I alone was responsible for my present self-destructive state fed my self-destructive hallucinations.
I sobbed. I waited for my companions to return to the campsite. My only wish then was for her to return, so I could suck some compassion and sympathy from her being into my own. She returned, witnessed my present condition, and hugged me. I muttered something about too much speed, and all hopes of sympathy stopped with those words. She was a firm believer in free will, and knew I freely took the drugs, that I alone was responsible for my mental and spirtual abasement. She immediatley recognized the manipulation I was attempting. I sobbed the rest of the day. No one wanted to ride my bad ego trip. I could not blame them, and instead fed my self-destructive thoughts with the notion that I was completely alone. Here, under the bright sky of the Wakarusa music fest, I felt in my very being the existential nasuea, the absolute isolation and alienation that hitherto I had only read about and weakly posited myself as always having. Still grandiose, I considered myself as manifesting the oroborus, that serpent sustaining itself by devouring its own tail. I was sustaining my self-pity by filling every moment of my being (or having every thought filled--here it is difficult to prescribe agency) with negative, self-piteous thoughts, emotions, and feelings. No one wanted to ride along with me. They helped with tough love and compassion, but would not give in to my manipulation. They refused to co-sign my bullshit. I understand today.
I must end this entry with positive sentiments. Today I focus on reconstruction--the difficult but necessary task of putting my mind, heart, and soul back together. I begin by writing this journal entry, as honestly and openly as possible. Some might find it as just another trope of my ego-trip. How many sentences began with "I"? I do not know how else to start. I can say, in my defence (if defence is even the correct choice of words), that today I can partly choose. The act of writing a story, of setting onself in a sequence of self-written events, that one takes strides to becoming one's own narrator. By effacing this monologue I choose, as much is as possible of a human being, to position myself into a narrative of my own choosing. This is the existential freedom Sartre' and Camus write about. To inscribe oneself in one's own narrative grants a particular type of freedom. It grants a freedom that is diametrically opposed to giving into contingent circumstances, to giving into someone or something else's narrative. Taking too many drugs, knowing I was giving into the drugs, I cast myself into a narrative not of my own choosing. Certainley I chose to take the drugs, but the particular consequences of those drugs were not of my own choosing. My narrative for that drug-induced week and evening was being "written," or at least played out, by the chemicals. I was being cast into a sequence of events, a story if you will, that I only partly chose to begin. Today I can say that I am taking one large step in writing my own story, inside and outside the text of this monologue. That, in my humble opinion, is profound and is the first step I can achieve in my recovery. The next step is reaching out to other human beings.
Thanks for reading.
6/28/05
This was originally posted in my journal, but i was prompted to post in trip reports. 1/8 oz. mushrooms, and appx. 300 mg adderall over the course of the weekend. appx. 900 mg adderall over the course of the previous week...
I must get this out...or attempt to efface some of my feelings onto this page...excuse the length and the self-absorbed tone of what you are about to read.
No one wishes to ride another's bad ego trip. The situation is made even more undesirable when the bad trip is induced by too many drugs taken upon one's own volition. I did not heed the warnings. "Are you sure you want to trip now?" My body and more importantly my mind–my spirit–was not prepared for the consequences. Such a self-grandizing position the ego-tripper places himself! Or, in my case, such a self-defeating position.
The days preceeding the bad trip were composed of excessive amounts of amphetamine use. Too much SPEED! I was slowly imbibing the evil that week prior, but I would not meet it head on until my body and mind were at a breaking point, and I went over the edge, splitting myself into a thousand tiny halves with the poisonous mushrooms. The thrill of speed is evil, in my own experience. It grinds on me. My teeth suffer. It pulls my whole being down as it pushes, forces me up, up up! One night awake, two nights, my own personal brink is reached at three nights with no sleep. I can be thankful I've never dabbled with methamphetamine. Adderall, while much milder, has taken me as far as I'd like to go. I'd like to keep going on the orange substance, through the night, through the racing, grandiose ideas, through the chattering, sweating, shivering existence, even when my body screams out "ENOUGH! STOP!"
Too much speed under too hot of sun. The first day of the road-trip was exciting; I was caught in my own personal world, visions of amphetamine induced grandiosity racing through my mind. My teeth grinded, but I had more drugs in the bottle. The mushrooms that evening were too much.
My body was beaten down, but I wanted to trip. Not acid, that was too clean, too electric-smiley rainbow flavored. I was after a seedier trip. A mushier trip. I was after a trip that would silence me, make me clam up, shut up and give into the aztec patterened electric-organic visuals. When I trip, I want to lose the ability to talk; that's when I know the drugs are strong enough.
My throat clammed up indeed. Too much amphetamine, too much dancing, too much pushing for that next exciting, unattainable moment of NOW the guru's preach about. I was not in a good mind-set. I did not heed the warnings. My throat couldn't swallow. The mushrooms, that peculiar spiritual poison, folded my thoughts onto my body. My bio-rhytms–swallowing, breathing, heart-beating–became the focus of my trip. I struggled to swallow, to capture my breath, to slow my heart down, and the visuals and thoughts followed suit. A gasping cough shuddered my whole being, as gooey, fractal drips shattered my vision. That is, the hacking cough became a visual, became an observable event in my mindscape and through my field of vision. The pain of seeing one's body grasp for air and respite through mushroom visuals was overwhelming. I pushed my body too far. But this is what I wanted, wasn't it? Its no coincidince that the reckless psychnaut, myself, was also a self-abuser. The cuts on my arm were commiserate with the psychic cutting I was exposing myself too. This ego trip bleed my brain, and all I wanted was the vain self-fulfillment of another being, another human being, to see that I was hurting my mind. This ritual self-abasement of the mind coincides with the ritual self-abasement of the body. Upon feeling as though I go about the world unnoticed or unrecognized (a truly self-piteous sentiment, admittedly), I efface my pain upon my body in tangible, observable cuts upon my arm. The evening in question, under a Kansas starscape and wild rock 'n' roll music, I forgoed the razor blade in favor of a serrated mind-knife --mushrooms. A friend of mine present said that I was transparent. She said it was obvious I was cutting my insides to pieces, and in doing was so seeking vain comfort or sympathy. Of course it was transparent. At this point I had given up on veiled gestures and ironic utterances towards my self-destruction. I was trying to scream outloud the feelings that were screaming inside me.
If my language here seems heady and dramatic, please excuse me. My mood at the time of writing this entry is prescribing the tone and voice. So much went unsaid that weekend, so much was trapped inside, choked out by too much speed and too much fungus. The physical choking I experienced, partly from dehydration and malnutrition, and partly from the drugs, matched my discursive choking. I could not speek. Today, I have a voice. My experience needs to be expunged, to be cast out. Perhaps the bad ego trip cannot be overcome by a monologue such as this, but I must try to reach some catharsis, I must attempt to free myself of the bad feelings, the self-destructive thought loops, and effacing this paper seems my only (fleeting) hope. If I seem to be wallowing, forgive me.
The evening progressed. It got worse. Moving was a painful experience. The sun rose, and I got into my car. I discovered the mirror in the car. The tracers were subsiding, and the mystical aztec fractal patterns and primordial hallucinations were dissapating. My face in the mirror was harrowed, strung out on amphetamines and mushrooms and the previous day's false good feelings. I looked like a drug addict. I percieved myself as a speed junkie; my face and eyeballs were yellowed, my sockets sunken and my tongue swollen, glazed. Here, in front of the mirror, my hallucinations turned inward. Every concievable negative and self-abasing emotion came out in the mirror. They ganged up on me. As my face morphed and blurred, my physical appearence latched onto my interior, ego-deflating emotions. The inward and outward distinction disintigrated. I was bleeding on the inside, and tears welled up. Earlier in the evening, upon dosing, I knew the negative energy would catch up with me. Knowing this, that I was setting myself up for existential nasuea, feeded the negativity. That is to say, knowing that I and I alone was responsible for my present self-destructive state fed my self-destructive hallucinations.
I sobbed. I waited for my companions to return to the campsite. My only wish then was for her to return, so I could suck some compassion and sympathy from her being into my own. She returned, witnessed my present condition, and hugged me. I muttered something about too much speed, and all hopes of sympathy stopped with those words. She was a firm believer in free will, and knew I freely took the drugs, that I alone was responsible for my mental and spirtual abasement. She immediatley recognized the manipulation I was attempting. I sobbed the rest of the day. No one wanted to ride my bad ego trip. I could not blame them, and instead fed my self-destructive thoughts with the notion that I was completely alone. Here, under the bright sky of the Wakarusa music fest, I felt in my very being the existential nasuea, the absolute isolation and alienation that hitherto I had only read about and weakly posited myself as always having. Still grandiose, I considered myself as manifesting the oroborus, that serpent sustaining itself by devouring its own tail. I was sustaining my self-pity by filling every moment of my being (or having every thought filled--here it is difficult to prescribe agency) with negative, self-piteous thoughts, emotions, and feelings. No one wanted to ride along with me. They helped with tough love and compassion, but would not give in to my manipulation. They refused to co-sign my bullshit. I understand today.
I must end this entry with positive sentiments. Today I focus on reconstruction--the difficult but necessary task of putting my mind, heart, and soul back together. I begin by writing this journal entry, as honestly and openly as possible. Some might find it as just another trope of my ego-trip. How many sentences began with "I"? I do not know how else to start. I can say, in my defence (if defence is even the correct choice of words), that today I can partly choose. The act of writing a story, of setting onself in a sequence of self-written events, that one takes strides to becoming one's own narrator. By effacing this monologue I choose, as much is as possible of a human being, to position myself into a narrative of my own choosing. This is the existential freedom Sartre' and Camus write about. To inscribe oneself in one's own narrative grants a particular type of freedom. It grants a freedom that is diametrically opposed to giving into contingent circumstances, to giving into someone or something else's narrative. Taking too many drugs, knowing I was giving into the drugs, I cast myself into a narrative not of my own choosing. Certainley I chose to take the drugs, but the particular consequences of those drugs were not of my own choosing. My narrative for that drug-induced week and evening was being "written," or at least played out, by the chemicals. I was being cast into a sequence of events, a story if you will, that I only partly chose to begin. Today I can say that I am taking one large step in writing my own story, inside and outside the text of this monologue. That, in my humble opinion, is profound and is the first step I can achieve in my recovery. The next step is reaching out to other human beings.
Thanks for reading.
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