3-MeO-PCP/Cannabis-Experienced-A Molecular Virgil Guides Me Through Heaven and Hell
I've been cutting back on dissociative use recently but last night I indulged in some pretty high dose 3-MeO-PCP (35 mg IR in three doses over two hours and two small bowls of cannabis*). The consequences of that choice involved a bipolar whiplash spanning waking life and dreams, hurling me between Heaven and Hell, and it's left me reeling.
It led off with a manic music-induce euphoric episode (Radiohead's "Climbing up the Walls," an old favorite of mine) that had me writhing around in bliss with a grin so wide I wondered if the corners of my mouth would split. Every note, every word of it, seemed to have waited a lifetime to enter my ears. Afterwards I was absolutely parched and gulped down a couple glassfuls of water. It was as if I had been bathing in a pool in Eden and every cell was literally washed out, purified by the surges of ecstasy. I stumbled to bed stoned as if in the thrall of a great new romantic infatuation, still very dissociated, and plunged into sleep at a level of resting satisfaction without peer in my experience. I sunk into it too deeply though, past Hell apparently, requiring that I go back through it on my return to waking life, but this time paying the proper toll.
In the latest hours of my sleep, as if a debt in suffering was owed for the heights of ecstasy I'd graced, a monstrous nightmare came tearing through the night, seeking me out for reparation. I found myself running across a boggy lawn during a late cold and overcast afternoon, desperately needing to be somewhere but unable to discern where it was I sought. This was a world bathed in a sickly yellow-green light, almost certainly a reflection of Louisiana bayou scenery from an episode of "True Detective" I'd watched earlier during the evening. I heard the echoing shriek of a boy who I knew but could not name screaming at me to stop as I rounded an outgrowth of trees and dashed through a swarm of buzzing flies. But it was too late.
I had ensnared myself in an invisible patch of what felt like electrified briars. The vines were twisting and squeezing my flesh, popping thorns through its surface while surges of high voltage pulsed into me in bloody, skin-scorching bursts. Then they ripped me ragged as they unspooled themselves, my blood flowing into the voracious undergrowth below. I realized in terror that the boy who had yelled at me was a ghost of my former self, somehow calling in warning from a past flowing parallel to this limbo. Or perhaps we never really cast off our younger selves, but instead grow over their bodies, leaving our inchoate minds imprisoned in the environs of our dreams.
A deluge of vomit sprayed out of me with a pressure so intense it pushed through the interstices of my teeth, heaved up though my throat in impossible volumes as if bursting from an abyss of cold oil and rot. The force of it was unbearable and snapped my spine into pieces of jagged shrapnel. I levitated into the air paralyzed, my feet lifted cruelly from their purchase and any hope of escape. I couldn't scream because I was drowning in the cataract of black bile.
I was shocked awake at the highest pitch of this horror and found my mouth filled with saliva. I had expected to find myself covered in vomit, but discovered that the neck of my undershirt and part of my pillow was instead soaked in cold drool. It made me feel sick. I then witnessed the field of my vision distort in vertiginous ripples like I had splashed back into reality on return from that forsaken oblivion.
It was then that I caught the gaze of my girlfriend's black cat from the end of the bed. Its pale yellow-green eyes seemed to flare with the spectral light of the nightmare world, as if the terrible life of it were bouncing around within those optic prisms, seeking a way from them back into me as it was sucked down into her pupils, a different abyss from the one in me it first emerged from that cosmic law dictates it must return to. This interpretation is a psychological projection of mine of course, but it was no less haunting for it in the moment.
Fuck. Me. What was that?!
I've never experienced anything like it, and I've experienced more than my share of weird intense shit with this little psychedelic vocation of mine, and recently too. Such experiences seem to travel together, like swarms of flies. I also thought it unique and worthy of mention because so much of the trip expressed itself in my sleep. The overflow of saliva was also truly odd and unprecedented in my experience. It was like my body was literally acting out my drowning through the most accurate physiological means available. I appreciate the commitment to realism from my subconscious but, yeah, no more dissociatives for a while. Message received. Christ. Or hell, and I hope not, but maybe that was the dream's best shot at killing me while I slept. I've gotta laugh in any case, though. That was one serious psychological gauntlet I went through in my sleep.
This is a shorter trip report than usual for me, and I don't usually write them this fast. But I honestly just want to cleanse myself of it, to stream it out electronically through global networks of wires, satellite transmissions and cables, and spread its potency thin within the separated depths of others' minds. Perhaps that way I can ensure it never finds its way back to me.
*T+~15 minutes: I begin to feel the onset of 20 mg 3-MeO-PCP administered rectally.
T+~45 minutes: 7mg administered IR.
T+~2 hours: 8mg administered IR.
I've been cutting back on dissociative use recently but last night I indulged in some pretty high dose 3-MeO-PCP (35 mg IR in three doses over two hours and two small bowls of cannabis*). The consequences of that choice involved a bipolar whiplash spanning waking life and dreams, hurling me between Heaven and Hell, and it's left me reeling.
It led off with a manic music-induce euphoric episode (Radiohead's "Climbing up the Walls," an old favorite of mine) that had me writhing around in bliss with a grin so wide I wondered if the corners of my mouth would split. Every note, every word of it, seemed to have waited a lifetime to enter my ears. Afterwards I was absolutely parched and gulped down a couple glassfuls of water. It was as if I had been bathing in a pool in Eden and every cell was literally washed out, purified by the surges of ecstasy. I stumbled to bed stoned as if in the thrall of a great new romantic infatuation, still very dissociated, and plunged into sleep at a level of resting satisfaction without peer in my experience. I sunk into it too deeply though, past Hell apparently, requiring that I go back through it on my return to waking life, but this time paying the proper toll.
In the latest hours of my sleep, as if a debt in suffering was owed for the heights of ecstasy I'd graced, a monstrous nightmare came tearing through the night, seeking me out for reparation. I found myself running across a boggy lawn during a late cold and overcast afternoon, desperately needing to be somewhere but unable to discern where it was I sought. This was a world bathed in a sickly yellow-green light, almost certainly a reflection of Louisiana bayou scenery from an episode of "True Detective" I'd watched earlier during the evening. I heard the echoing shriek of a boy who I knew but could not name screaming at me to stop as I rounded an outgrowth of trees and dashed through a swarm of buzzing flies. But it was too late.
I had ensnared myself in an invisible patch of what felt like electrified briars. The vines were twisting and squeezing my flesh, popping thorns through its surface while surges of high voltage pulsed into me in bloody, skin-scorching bursts. Then they ripped me ragged as they unspooled themselves, my blood flowing into the voracious undergrowth below. I realized in terror that the boy who had yelled at me was a ghost of my former self, somehow calling in warning from a past flowing parallel to this limbo. Or perhaps we never really cast off our younger selves, but instead grow over their bodies, leaving our inchoate minds imprisoned in the environs of our dreams.
A deluge of vomit sprayed out of me with a pressure so intense it pushed through the interstices of my teeth, heaved up though my throat in impossible volumes as if bursting from an abyss of cold oil and rot. The force of it was unbearable and snapped my spine into pieces of jagged shrapnel. I levitated into the air paralyzed, my feet lifted cruelly from their purchase and any hope of escape. I couldn't scream because I was drowning in the cataract of black bile.
I was shocked awake at the highest pitch of this horror and found my mouth filled with saliva. I had expected to find myself covered in vomit, but discovered that the neck of my undershirt and part of my pillow was instead soaked in cold drool. It made me feel sick. I then witnessed the field of my vision distort in vertiginous ripples like I had splashed back into reality on return from that forsaken oblivion.
It was then that I caught the gaze of my girlfriend's black cat from the end of the bed. Its pale yellow-green eyes seemed to flare with the spectral light of the nightmare world, as if the terrible life of it were bouncing around within those optic prisms, seeking a way from them back into me as it was sucked down into her pupils, a different abyss from the one in me it first emerged from that cosmic law dictates it must return to. This interpretation is a psychological projection of mine of course, but it was no less haunting for it in the moment.
Fuck. Me. What was that?!
I've never experienced anything like it, and I've experienced more than my share of weird intense shit with this little psychedelic vocation of mine, and recently too. Such experiences seem to travel together, like swarms of flies. I also thought it unique and worthy of mention because so much of the trip expressed itself in my sleep. The overflow of saliva was also truly odd and unprecedented in my experience. It was like my body was literally acting out my drowning through the most accurate physiological means available. I appreciate the commitment to realism from my subconscious but, yeah, no more dissociatives for a while. Message received. Christ. Or hell, and I hope not, but maybe that was the dream's best shot at killing me while I slept. I've gotta laugh in any case, though. That was one serious psychological gauntlet I went through in my sleep.
This is a shorter trip report than usual for me, and I don't usually write them this fast. But I honestly just want to cleanse myself of it, to stream it out electronically through global networks of wires, satellite transmissions and cables, and spread its potency thin within the separated depths of others' minds. Perhaps that way I can ensure it never finds its way back to me.
*T+~15 minutes: I begin to feel the onset of 20 mg 3-MeO-PCP administered rectally.
T+~45 minutes: 7mg administered IR.
T+~2 hours: 8mg administered IR.
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