ForEverAfter
Ex-Bluelighter
(00:00)
Against my better judgement, I take another tab of DOI. It is the middle of the night. I'm bored. Why not, I say. But, really, I know why not. I'm supposed to be getting clean. Straight and sober. Getting my life in order. I'm supposed to resist, but it's right there and I don't have anything better to do. I tell myself that the longer I leave it sitting there, the longer it will be until I achieve a sustained period of sobriety. It needs to be disposed of, for my own sake, and the only way that's going to happen is through my blood-stream; it's not like I'm going to throw it away.
The tab has a strong chemical taste. It sticks to the roof of my mouth, as if coated with some sort of adhesive. I have some trouble removing it with my tongue. My mouth is dry. I'm too stoned to think of drinking water. I rub the carboard across my sandpaper-like gums, coating the inside of my mouth with that horrible taste. After five minutes the tab breaks apart into little soggy pieces and I swallow. My brain is still telling me that it's a bad idea. I keep thinking about the comedown I experienced last time. It is too late to go back, though. What's done is done. There is no sense in worrying about something beyond my control. My brain accepts this and the warning bells stop.
(+00:20)
I've been having heart palpatations and nose bleeds all day, which I forgot about when I consumed the DOI. It's as hard for a hypochondriac to differentiate between unfounded fears and symptoms of a genuine illness as it is for a skizophrenic to differentiate between delusion and reality. I've been experiencing fairly intense paranoid delusions for the past week or so. I am convinced that someone is breaking in to my house at night and re-arranging things. Possibly even raping me. It's hard to say. I try to dismiss these fears as implausible. I tell myself that it's the drugs. But I don't believe it. If I wasn't constantly fucked up on one thing or another, then I wouldn't have the drugs to blame. There would be no reason for the paranoia, aside from perhaps insanity. And, I don't believe in insanity. Believing kind of defeats the purpose, though, I guess. If you know that you're insane, you're probably not. Either way, you're not as far as I'm concerned. Psychosis supposedly runs in my family. Bullshit, as far as I'm concerned. My skizophrenic cousin, he's faking. He can't be insane. Because if he is, I might be too.
My head is totally fucked up but that's because I'm always high. As long as I keep taking drugs, I never have to deal with the possibility that it's me that is fucked. It's a vicious cycle. The more fucked up I get, the less grounded I become; and the less grounded I am, the more fucked up I have to be. If somebody who was completely bat shit insane took bucket loads of psychedelic drugs practically every day of the year non-stop for their entire lives, nobody - not even the world's greatest psychiatrists - would be able to diagnose them.
I have been out of contact with sobriety for so long, I don't trust it anymore. There are no excuses in the sober world. You can't blame drugs for your problems. Nor can you pass of a mental breakdown for a year long binge. Alcoholics are violent because they have a disease. Sober people are violent because they are assholes. It's not true, of course. But it's socially acceptable. For the same reason that I trip to avoid realizing that I am insane, alcoholics continue to drink to avoid discovering they don't have a disease and are - in fact - assholes.
Junkies don't give a fuck about anything. That is one of the hardest things about getting sober. Caring is a frightening thing. Caring about yourself. Who you are. What your life has become. The longer it goes on, the more difficult it is to turn around.
I honestly don't know if someone is coming into my house at night. I kind of don't want to know. There is no good answer. If it's all in my head, I am insane; if not, I am the victim of some person (or thing) that drifts - unnoticed - in and out of my house while I'm asleep. I'm not sure which scares me more; so, I chose the third option.
(+01:05)
Am hallucinating quite a lot already. Now, while typing, my eyes are drawn to the previous entry. The sentences are moving about on the screen. Particular letters and phrases stand out, as if they are physically protruding from the screen. There is a depth of field effect between vowel and consonant. The non three-dimensional letters and words are out of focus slightly. It is all to specific - the choice of characters - to be accidental. I suspect that it is a code of some sort. But that's crazy, so it must be the drugs. My brain accepts this. There is no way to prove that it isn't the drugs. For the first time today, my weird thoughts make sense; in Wonderland, up is down and down is up. I prefer it that way.
I'm tempted to take a shitload of mushrooms. Must be getting up to about a kilogram, I've ingested over the past twelve months. I mix mushrooms with everything now. Tonight is no different. It's only a matter of time before I eat a couple of gel caps. I have about a hundred left. Maybe a hundred and fifty. They're just sitting there, waiting to be consumed.
Sobriety doesn't include mushrooms. Even when I'm not tripping, I take shrooms in non-recreational doses (below threshold) as an anti-depressant and to help with the withdrawal symptoms from other substances.
(+01:30)
Feeling stir-crazy, already. Can't sit here typing. Going to go smoke a joint and go for a walk. I promised myself the next time I took DOI, I would go on a massive journey. 30 or 40 kilometers, on foot. Walk to the beach and back. Or walk out into the forest and get lost.
(+03:20)
This tab has less DOI than the last one. A manageable amount this time. My first experience was basically an overdose. I used to IV speed four times a day and I've never been rushing that much. Part of me is disappointed, part relieved. Most of the unpleasant side-effects are gone, this time around. I no longer feel like if I stop physically moving I might die. My heart isn't racing. Then again, I'm not combining it with shrooms and energy drinks this time. Whatever the reason, the effect is much nicer.
DOI has that introspective element that most hallucinogenic psychedelics do. The amphetamine part of the drug keeps me alert and focused throughout the trip, rather than getting side tracked and going of on cognitive tangents. The crazy paranoid thoughts are gone now. Not gone as in indistinguishable from their surroundings. Gone. The fact that I'm high ensures that I'm not crazy, despite the fact that being high all the time is almost definitely making me crazy.
The amount of drugs I've consumed over the past ten years, it's a miracle that I have any semblance of sanity remaining. At this stage, being paranoid and losing my grip on reality is a given. It just confuses me, I guess, that I'm crazy when I'm sober and relatively sane when I'm high. Logically it should be the other way round. Either way, I need to stop for a while. My mental health is slipping. I haven't had a week of sobriety for almost two years.
The effects and after-effects of drugs have become normality, to such an extent that I confuse them with symptoms of physical and psychological ailments. I don't know if I am a depressed or if I'm just depressed as a result of seratonin depletion; if I'm a hypochondriac because I'm on drugs or a hypochondriac because of an overly-hygeinic germaphobic parent; paranoid because of a chemical imbalance due to the abuse of psychedelics, or paranoid because of a psychotic chemical inbalance. Either way, though - inherent or induced - it exists. This affliction, that I continue to feed so that it will leave me alone; like villagers making human sacrifices to their local monster.
Which reminds me, I never smoked that joint.
(+04:30)
One of my cats follows me as I walk. He often does this late at night, when there are no cars to freak him out, but usually stops after a couple of intersections. This time he followed me for about three kilometers. Getting him beyond his usual territory took a bit of convincing, but once we got going he was alright. He walked in bursts, hiding in the shadows, then running past me to another shadow; like some kind of human-cat version of leapfrog.
We encountered a number of pissed off male cats, trying to maintain their territory; me, escorting him through their turf. With me, he was invincible. And with the DOI, so was I.
I led us down roads untread, taking random turns - left and right - through dormant suburbia. After an unknown amount of time, I came to a large park I'd never seen before. At the far edge, a brightly illuminated building. I had no idea what it was, this place. The size of a small library; open at half past one in the morning; all the lights on; erected - for some reason - in the middle of a park. I put flame to joint. The bright light, and my curiosity, drawing me towards a large window; my cat sensing a change in atmosphere, and reluctantly following.
When I got about five meters from the glass, I noticed a figure inside. My heart, now racing from the drugs, almost exploded. It wasn't a park. I was standing in the middle of a police station. The uniform-clad officer inside the building noticed me and gave me a strange look. I stared at her. The joint hanging out of my mouth. Sweat dripping from my hair; my face like a melting ice sculpture. Frozen. Paralyzed by fear. Thoughts raced through my head like a flock of retarded racehorses. I considered eating the joint. Just flicking it into my mouth and swallowing right there in front of her. It didn't matter how weird it looked, that was all I had on me. I could just say it was a cigarette. Then I realized I'd have enough time to hide it somewhere by the time she found her way outside. I could flick it into a bush, or put it in my shoe. She'd never look in my shoe. But what if she did? I was in no state to talk my way out of anything. Whatever I said, would be used in court against me; undoubtedly. Still staring at her, I reached up and pulled it from my lips. How long had it been sitting there? It was unnatural to stand there not smoking it. Conspicious. So, to avoid suspision, I continued smoking. Staring at her. Trying to think of some way out of the predicament. After much frantic contemplation, I decided the best thing to do would be to smile and give her a wave. But she took it as a signal. As if I wanted her to come outside. As soon as I waved, she started heading for a set of double doors beside the window.
Casually as possible, I turned around and made my way back to the street. Didn't look back until I was a hundred or so meters down the road, in case she was following me. But there was nobody there; just my cat. I made my home slowly. The boundless manic energy I experienced with my first DOI experience was nowhere to be seen. Despite having just stumbled into a police station with a head full of research chemicals, I felt relaxed. No joint stiffness or muscle cramping; just a bit of your good old jaw-clenching, accompanied by a desire to climb Everest. Very slowly; take the mountain inch by inch. Weed blending perfectly with amphetamines; mixing mellow hues into an otherwise bold pallete.
(+05:10)
Relative time dilation in an amazingly compressed space has resulted in me smoking only one small joint in the past five hours. I need to smoke more. When I say need, I really mean need. It helps take the edge off the DOI. Sixteen hours is too long to be wired from one trip. Without a copious amount of bud, I don't think I'd make it; whatever that means. It's not an unpleasant high or anything. It's just constant energy. Constantly needing to move. Anyway, I feel the need to smoke another joint, so that is what I will do.
(+05:50)
Hallucinating so much that it is difficult to write. Went for another walk. This time, without the cat. Ominous passing trucks and cars shining brilliantly under the street lights.
I realized as I neared the shops, that I hadn't had anything to drink for over six hours. No water. Nothing. I became aware suddenly that I was extremely dehydrated. Bought a litre of orange juice and shoved it into my face. Drank so fast I got a brain freeze. Emptied the entire thing in one minute. It felt like my life was literally depending on how fast I could drink.
A part of me - the part responsible for practical things, like food and water - is screaming silently, defeaned by drugs. On the other hand this part of me, the one writing this - the one with all the control - doesn't care. It would be better really, if it was the other way round; if the responsible part of me was in control. The me with regard for my physical health doomed to bear witness to my destruction, and unable to interject.
Or at least that's a convenient thing to say. In order to justify not excercising will power. Separate myself into pro and antagonist. Invent a cognitive dictator, so I can submit to my desires while acting the victim. Need to smoke. Need, not want. Need. After a while you start to believe your own bullshit. Maybe that's what addiction is; justifying want until it becomes need.
(+06:45)
A righteous man tests himself because he is concerned with wether he is righteous; the fact that he tests himself is testament to his faith. By asking the question, "Am I good man," it is clear that he is. Maybe the same can be said for prospective lunatics.
Sane people who don't question their sanity are not sane and insane people who do are. Which means that sane and insane are interchangeable. Therefore, we can confidently say that the the same is true in reverse. Which means sane is, both equal to and opposite, insane.
Mathematical proof that there is no such thing as mental health; the product of a sane mind?
Does everybody have crazy thoughts that they keep inside their heads. Is there a psycho lurking behind every set of eyes, forced to live out relatively normal lives for fear of being exposed as abnormal. Are we all closet lunatics. Or is it just me.
(+07:30)
I catch my reflection in the window. I can see that other part of me, the responsible me, glaring back from the shimmering glass. His angry face framed with dancing patterns. My reflection is not me. I wonder who I am: the id; the ego; the superego; some parasite, burrowed in to the brain of whatever poor son of a bitch used to call this body his own.
(+08:00)
People limit the word junky to certain drugs. You say junk to most people and they think smack. But, you can turn anything into junk if you want to. There's no difference between heroin-addicts and hardcore acid freaks; between alcoholics and potheads. When you are high way more often than you are sober, you are a junky. That's my definition. I've known a shitload of weed junkies in my time. Addicted to the extent that they lose it if they can't get onto some bud. Hell I've been one of them. I've also been a speed junky. An alcoholic.
When you start using needles, you realize there is no difference between needles and any other form of ingestion. That stigma you've had piled on you about IV drug users. Those filthy junkies. When you start using, you don't become one of them, you realize that you've always been one. A junky by many names.
Some people are convinced that certain drugs, and certain methods of ingestion, are okay. To the hardcore acid-freak, acid is like medicine. Same goes for smack. It's all medicine. People take acid as a party drug; for spiritual purposes; and, or, so they can open up to others. People drink so they can open up to others; to lower inhibitions, so they can dance. MDMA, amphetamines. The social drugs. All medicine, but for what? Does a repeated desire to lower one's inhibitions chemically indicate a limited ability to do so otherwise? As for spiritual pursuits, if you use drugs to connect to the cosmos, doesn't that imply a significant disconnection? A spiritual disorder.
I could never accept the fact that revelations were fleeting. Psychedelics offered me this insight into myself and others that I otherwise never would have attained. Everything made sense when I was tripping. Until, the next day, it all went away. My beautiful perspective of the world - that clarity. Gone. I took drugs to connect, but the effect was only temporary. The medicine didn't cure my disorder. It just alleviated the symptoms. Viagra for the Godless.
I went into this looking for something. I was never exactly sure what that something was, and I got lost a more than a couple of times along the way. Then I found it. Turned out to be God. This spiritual quest reached it's conclusion. And the conclusion was permanent.
My sense of awe is constant, sober or tripping. I am humbled by clouds, by the moon. I see the beauty of little things constantly. Flowers. Trees. Insects. I am open and uninhibited when I interact with people. Amazing music sounds amazing, because it is. These things inherenet to the psychedelic experience are now inherent in me. Basically, I got what I wanted. The treatment worked. It cured me. So why continue to take it?
Because I'm just a junky. Even God can't change that. In defiance of what I believe to be divine intervention, I continue to take the cure for something that no longer ails me. It feels empty now, the experience. The junky in me says, "You're taking the wrong medicine," and he's right. The problem is, he needs something.
Heroin appeals to me; because it is a treatment for everything, and you can't cure everything. It is also a cure for nothing, which is what I am suffering from. It appeals to me, because there are no bullshit reasons for taking it recreationally. It is what it is. It serves it's own purpose. Junkies know they're junkies. That's probably why the word is often reserved for opiate addicts. Because they're the only ones likely to admit it. There are no pretensions; heroin simply is.
I don't know if people plan on becoming heroin addicts, but it is definitely on my bucket list. Not just to use it, but to be hopelessly addicted. The sort of habit that replaces everything in your life. Total devotion to a drug. To feel for heroin what heroin-addicts feel for heroin is a beautiful thing. People who smoke cigarettes enjoy smoking, it's nice to go out for a smoke. A positive value has been attributed, chemically, to the consumption of nicotine. People who've never been addicted to cigarettes will never understand. I've attempted to explain to non-smokers why it makes sense to smoke cigarettes. The addiction is self-fulfilling.
The smoker needs to smoke. Need being stronger than want. You don't have to think about what you need. Addictions add to the factory default list of needs - like hunger, sleep and lust. Smokers have an extra thing that they need. Non-smokers don't see the point. The point being that there is no point. Habits are extreme need; they trump everything else. Food. Sex. Sleep. Shelter. None of that shit is important, in the absence of junk. When you're addicted, you need it more than you need anything else.
To be totally devoted to a drug like that is like love. Not literally; they're just on similar levels. The junky part of me is yet to convince me of this, but he puts forward a compelling argument. I'm going to India later in the year, to smoke opium and lose myself. So, we'll see.
(+09:45)
I roll another joint. The sun has risen: my deserted streets are occupied; my shadows, gone. Rolling is awkward. Co-ordination is off. Abdominal pain, most likely due to hunger. The trip continues past the peak. Pupils still dilated. Hallucinations still strong. Lots of energy, in terms of cognition; little energy left physically. Going to go watch Friedkin's "Bug."
(+11:45)
The amphetamine part of the drug has worn off. The hallucinogenic part is still going strong, but it's combined with the comedown from the amphetamine part. Feel pretty scattered. That film was insane.
It kind of fucked with my head.
(+14:25) 11:55
I wake up feeling like utter shit. It feels like two hours of sleep have been subtracted from me. Power operated garden tools, so loud they appear to be running inside the house. I follow the noise out to the balcony. The sound is coming from over the fence. It is absurdly loud. Like somebody revving a motorbike over and over. Whoever it is, they're doing it just for the sound; this unknown machine, it's sole purpose to vomit audio. I consider yelling abuse at the fence. But I don't. Yelling would be too painful. I would be screaming into my own head, adding to the machine, like a hearing impaired person using their ear-piece as a megaphone.
I go back to lie down. Eventually the sound - like a dentist drilling through my jaw, into my brain- it stops. I drift off to sleep.
(+16:45) 2:15
I wake up, another two hours subtracted. The sun outside is so bright it looks dangerous. As if some huge creature is hovering above with a magnifying glass, waiting to zap me. My eyes are bulging against my eyelids. My skin tight against scull. I am losing weight again.
Difficult to breath. Extremely dehydrated. My brain feels like it's trying to gently push it's way up through my scull. As if it's full of helium. I drink some milk with a mult-vitamin and fish oil chaser, then go back to bed.
(+17:30) 3:00
Can't sleep. I stumble outside. My pants falling down; the effort required to tie the drawstring, inconceivable; the weight of the phone, in my pocket, pulling the elastic down over my hips. Trying to walk without them ending up around my ankles is a constant struggle.
The unforgiving sun, burning my skin; being outside is like being in an oven. I decide to smoke another joint and have a couple of gel caps of mushrooms. I have two. A threshold dose. Any more than that and I will start tripping. I'm tempted to make some firecrackers. Cover all my bases; knock myself out for twelve hours or so. It couldn't do any harm. I feel like I'm coming down from 200 mg of MDMA while simultaneously withdrawing from a week-long meth binge. My frontal lobe is numb. My body is weak. Still, some small part of the drug is still active. A fraction of the hallucinogenic part. I'm still tripping, which means the come down is just going to get worse.
(+18:15) 3:45
I made a tight little joint, using a different strain of weed. My clothes felt like they were strangling mel, so I stripped down to my underwear. As soon as I started smoking something happened. Standing out on the balcony, blues blasting from inside the house; the over-exposed effect I had been experiencing slowly faded. The world became darker, as if the sun's aperture was gradually twisting shut.
I watched white butterflies dance among the green and purple leaves of my overgrown grass. Walking around, I can't shake the fact that I am not naked. That I am uncomfortable being naked on my own property. My underwear, foreign, constricting me like a chain around a dog's neck. I take it off and return inside to roll another joint.
The heat of the sun and the afternoon breeze against my skin, I stand on my balcony, well above the fence line. I smoke greedily, holding every puff deep in my lungs until there is nothing left upon exhalation except carbon dioxide. I lie down on a chair, propping my legs up on a table. My body is rubbery like a Dali clock; I sit there like meat in a shop window. My neighbours, if they chose to look, have a cock-side view. In the state I'm in, I don't care. I would walk down the street naked if I could. My dick swinging between my legs for all to see.
The only good thing about a really shitty comedown is how sensitive you become. Same goes for hangovers; the hair of the dog. Your capacity for inebriation expands. Consequently, I am more stoned than normally possible. So stoned that my eyelids keep closing, never opening more than halfway - between intervals of darkness.
B.B. King sounds amazing; because he is.
(+18:30) 4:00
I see my reflection in a ceiling-high mirror. My hip bones jutting out at sharp angles. My ribs hanging over my stomach, creating a little cave where the food should be. I can't remember the last time I ate something. It's been at least 24 hours. Probably more like 48 since I've had a meal. When I finally do eat something, it's going to taste incredible. That's something fat people never experience: eating when you're starving; needing food, rather than just wanting it.
(+18:55) 4:25
I can feel the mushrooms now. They provide a subtle lift, hardly noticeable. It is the perfect dose. I am sitting on the threshold fence. Neither here nor there. The mild buzz acts as a counter-weight against the come down. I roll one last joint.
(+19:10) 4:40
It is pouring rain as I smoke. The temperature has changed rapidly, from unbearably hot to refreshingly cool. Rain drips through holes in the plexiglass roof. I don't move my chair out of the way. I get up and walk down the stairs out into the grass. Standing there, surrounded by tall reeds I gaze up into the stormy sky. The clouds roaring like lions. Lightning streaking across the sky. Water falling from the heavens onto my naked skin. I keep puffing on the joint until it gets too wet to burn. I leave it hanging there, like a line of fresh drool from the corner of my mouth. I close my eyes. The sky screaming, threatening; asserting itself as the dominant one in our relationship. Thor throwing lightning bolts; God, reminding me that I am nothing.
Projected on the darkness of my inner world, the patterns continue to dance. Psychedelic jig-saw puzzles from beyond the cosmos. Rain falling on my eyelids, providing me with surrogate tears. Crying, artificial or not, is a suitable response; I stand, awe-struck and humble before God.
Tagged by Xorkoth
substancecode_doi
substancecode_amphetamines
substancecode_phenethylamines
substancecode_marijuana
substancecode_cannabis
_combo_
explevel_inexperienced
exptype_positive
exptype_spiritual
exptype_bodyload
exptype_difficult
exptype_addiction
roacode_oral
roacode_smoked
roacode_inhaled
Against my better judgement, I take another tab of DOI. It is the middle of the night. I'm bored. Why not, I say. But, really, I know why not. I'm supposed to be getting clean. Straight and sober. Getting my life in order. I'm supposed to resist, but it's right there and I don't have anything better to do. I tell myself that the longer I leave it sitting there, the longer it will be until I achieve a sustained period of sobriety. It needs to be disposed of, for my own sake, and the only way that's going to happen is through my blood-stream; it's not like I'm going to throw it away.
The tab has a strong chemical taste. It sticks to the roof of my mouth, as if coated with some sort of adhesive. I have some trouble removing it with my tongue. My mouth is dry. I'm too stoned to think of drinking water. I rub the carboard across my sandpaper-like gums, coating the inside of my mouth with that horrible taste. After five minutes the tab breaks apart into little soggy pieces and I swallow. My brain is still telling me that it's a bad idea. I keep thinking about the comedown I experienced last time. It is too late to go back, though. What's done is done. There is no sense in worrying about something beyond my control. My brain accepts this and the warning bells stop.
(+00:20)
I've been having heart palpatations and nose bleeds all day, which I forgot about when I consumed the DOI. It's as hard for a hypochondriac to differentiate between unfounded fears and symptoms of a genuine illness as it is for a skizophrenic to differentiate between delusion and reality. I've been experiencing fairly intense paranoid delusions for the past week or so. I am convinced that someone is breaking in to my house at night and re-arranging things. Possibly even raping me. It's hard to say. I try to dismiss these fears as implausible. I tell myself that it's the drugs. But I don't believe it. If I wasn't constantly fucked up on one thing or another, then I wouldn't have the drugs to blame. There would be no reason for the paranoia, aside from perhaps insanity. And, I don't believe in insanity. Believing kind of defeats the purpose, though, I guess. If you know that you're insane, you're probably not. Either way, you're not as far as I'm concerned. Psychosis supposedly runs in my family. Bullshit, as far as I'm concerned. My skizophrenic cousin, he's faking. He can't be insane. Because if he is, I might be too.
My head is totally fucked up but that's because I'm always high. As long as I keep taking drugs, I never have to deal with the possibility that it's me that is fucked. It's a vicious cycle. The more fucked up I get, the less grounded I become; and the less grounded I am, the more fucked up I have to be. If somebody who was completely bat shit insane took bucket loads of psychedelic drugs practically every day of the year non-stop for their entire lives, nobody - not even the world's greatest psychiatrists - would be able to diagnose them.
I have been out of contact with sobriety for so long, I don't trust it anymore. There are no excuses in the sober world. You can't blame drugs for your problems. Nor can you pass of a mental breakdown for a year long binge. Alcoholics are violent because they have a disease. Sober people are violent because they are assholes. It's not true, of course. But it's socially acceptable. For the same reason that I trip to avoid realizing that I am insane, alcoholics continue to drink to avoid discovering they don't have a disease and are - in fact - assholes.
Junkies don't give a fuck about anything. That is one of the hardest things about getting sober. Caring is a frightening thing. Caring about yourself. Who you are. What your life has become. The longer it goes on, the more difficult it is to turn around.
I honestly don't know if someone is coming into my house at night. I kind of don't want to know. There is no good answer. If it's all in my head, I am insane; if not, I am the victim of some person (or thing) that drifts - unnoticed - in and out of my house while I'm asleep. I'm not sure which scares me more; so, I chose the third option.
(+01:05)
Am hallucinating quite a lot already. Now, while typing, my eyes are drawn to the previous entry. The sentences are moving about on the screen. Particular letters and phrases stand out, as if they are physically protruding from the screen. There is a depth of field effect between vowel and consonant. The non three-dimensional letters and words are out of focus slightly. It is all to specific - the choice of characters - to be accidental. I suspect that it is a code of some sort. But that's crazy, so it must be the drugs. My brain accepts this. There is no way to prove that it isn't the drugs. For the first time today, my weird thoughts make sense; in Wonderland, up is down and down is up. I prefer it that way.
I'm tempted to take a shitload of mushrooms. Must be getting up to about a kilogram, I've ingested over the past twelve months. I mix mushrooms with everything now. Tonight is no different. It's only a matter of time before I eat a couple of gel caps. I have about a hundred left. Maybe a hundred and fifty. They're just sitting there, waiting to be consumed.
Sobriety doesn't include mushrooms. Even when I'm not tripping, I take shrooms in non-recreational doses (below threshold) as an anti-depressant and to help with the withdrawal symptoms from other substances.
(+01:30)
Feeling stir-crazy, already. Can't sit here typing. Going to go smoke a joint and go for a walk. I promised myself the next time I took DOI, I would go on a massive journey. 30 or 40 kilometers, on foot. Walk to the beach and back. Or walk out into the forest and get lost.
(+03:20)
This tab has less DOI than the last one. A manageable amount this time. My first experience was basically an overdose. I used to IV speed four times a day and I've never been rushing that much. Part of me is disappointed, part relieved. Most of the unpleasant side-effects are gone, this time around. I no longer feel like if I stop physically moving I might die. My heart isn't racing. Then again, I'm not combining it with shrooms and energy drinks this time. Whatever the reason, the effect is much nicer.
DOI has that introspective element that most hallucinogenic psychedelics do. The amphetamine part of the drug keeps me alert and focused throughout the trip, rather than getting side tracked and going of on cognitive tangents. The crazy paranoid thoughts are gone now. Not gone as in indistinguishable from their surroundings. Gone. The fact that I'm high ensures that I'm not crazy, despite the fact that being high all the time is almost definitely making me crazy.
The amount of drugs I've consumed over the past ten years, it's a miracle that I have any semblance of sanity remaining. At this stage, being paranoid and losing my grip on reality is a given. It just confuses me, I guess, that I'm crazy when I'm sober and relatively sane when I'm high. Logically it should be the other way round. Either way, I need to stop for a while. My mental health is slipping. I haven't had a week of sobriety for almost two years.
The effects and after-effects of drugs have become normality, to such an extent that I confuse them with symptoms of physical and psychological ailments. I don't know if I am a depressed or if I'm just depressed as a result of seratonin depletion; if I'm a hypochondriac because I'm on drugs or a hypochondriac because of an overly-hygeinic germaphobic parent; paranoid because of a chemical imbalance due to the abuse of psychedelics, or paranoid because of a psychotic chemical inbalance. Either way, though - inherent or induced - it exists. This affliction, that I continue to feed so that it will leave me alone; like villagers making human sacrifices to their local monster.
Which reminds me, I never smoked that joint.
(+04:30)
One of my cats follows me as I walk. He often does this late at night, when there are no cars to freak him out, but usually stops after a couple of intersections. This time he followed me for about three kilometers. Getting him beyond his usual territory took a bit of convincing, but once we got going he was alright. He walked in bursts, hiding in the shadows, then running past me to another shadow; like some kind of human-cat version of leapfrog.
We encountered a number of pissed off male cats, trying to maintain their territory; me, escorting him through their turf. With me, he was invincible. And with the DOI, so was I.
I led us down roads untread, taking random turns - left and right - through dormant suburbia. After an unknown amount of time, I came to a large park I'd never seen before. At the far edge, a brightly illuminated building. I had no idea what it was, this place. The size of a small library; open at half past one in the morning; all the lights on; erected - for some reason - in the middle of a park. I put flame to joint. The bright light, and my curiosity, drawing me towards a large window; my cat sensing a change in atmosphere, and reluctantly following.
When I got about five meters from the glass, I noticed a figure inside. My heart, now racing from the drugs, almost exploded. It wasn't a park. I was standing in the middle of a police station. The uniform-clad officer inside the building noticed me and gave me a strange look. I stared at her. The joint hanging out of my mouth. Sweat dripping from my hair; my face like a melting ice sculpture. Frozen. Paralyzed by fear. Thoughts raced through my head like a flock of retarded racehorses. I considered eating the joint. Just flicking it into my mouth and swallowing right there in front of her. It didn't matter how weird it looked, that was all I had on me. I could just say it was a cigarette. Then I realized I'd have enough time to hide it somewhere by the time she found her way outside. I could flick it into a bush, or put it in my shoe. She'd never look in my shoe. But what if she did? I was in no state to talk my way out of anything. Whatever I said, would be used in court against me; undoubtedly. Still staring at her, I reached up and pulled it from my lips. How long had it been sitting there? It was unnatural to stand there not smoking it. Conspicious. So, to avoid suspision, I continued smoking. Staring at her. Trying to think of some way out of the predicament. After much frantic contemplation, I decided the best thing to do would be to smile and give her a wave. But she took it as a signal. As if I wanted her to come outside. As soon as I waved, she started heading for a set of double doors beside the window.
Casually as possible, I turned around and made my way back to the street. Didn't look back until I was a hundred or so meters down the road, in case she was following me. But there was nobody there; just my cat. I made my home slowly. The boundless manic energy I experienced with my first DOI experience was nowhere to be seen. Despite having just stumbled into a police station with a head full of research chemicals, I felt relaxed. No joint stiffness or muscle cramping; just a bit of your good old jaw-clenching, accompanied by a desire to climb Everest. Very slowly; take the mountain inch by inch. Weed blending perfectly with amphetamines; mixing mellow hues into an otherwise bold pallete.
(+05:10)
Relative time dilation in an amazingly compressed space has resulted in me smoking only one small joint in the past five hours. I need to smoke more. When I say need, I really mean need. It helps take the edge off the DOI. Sixteen hours is too long to be wired from one trip. Without a copious amount of bud, I don't think I'd make it; whatever that means. It's not an unpleasant high or anything. It's just constant energy. Constantly needing to move. Anyway, I feel the need to smoke another joint, so that is what I will do.
(+05:50)
Hallucinating so much that it is difficult to write. Went for another walk. This time, without the cat. Ominous passing trucks and cars shining brilliantly under the street lights.
I realized as I neared the shops, that I hadn't had anything to drink for over six hours. No water. Nothing. I became aware suddenly that I was extremely dehydrated. Bought a litre of orange juice and shoved it into my face. Drank so fast I got a brain freeze. Emptied the entire thing in one minute. It felt like my life was literally depending on how fast I could drink.
A part of me - the part responsible for practical things, like food and water - is screaming silently, defeaned by drugs. On the other hand this part of me, the one writing this - the one with all the control - doesn't care. It would be better really, if it was the other way round; if the responsible part of me was in control. The me with regard for my physical health doomed to bear witness to my destruction, and unable to interject.
Or at least that's a convenient thing to say. In order to justify not excercising will power. Separate myself into pro and antagonist. Invent a cognitive dictator, so I can submit to my desires while acting the victim. Need to smoke. Need, not want. Need. After a while you start to believe your own bullshit. Maybe that's what addiction is; justifying want until it becomes need.
(+06:45)
A righteous man tests himself because he is concerned with wether he is righteous; the fact that he tests himself is testament to his faith. By asking the question, "Am I good man," it is clear that he is. Maybe the same can be said for prospective lunatics.
Sane people who don't question their sanity are not sane and insane people who do are. Which means that sane and insane are interchangeable. Therefore, we can confidently say that the the same is true in reverse. Which means sane is, both equal to and opposite, insane.
Mathematical proof that there is no such thing as mental health; the product of a sane mind?
Does everybody have crazy thoughts that they keep inside their heads. Is there a psycho lurking behind every set of eyes, forced to live out relatively normal lives for fear of being exposed as abnormal. Are we all closet lunatics. Or is it just me.
(+07:30)
I catch my reflection in the window. I can see that other part of me, the responsible me, glaring back from the shimmering glass. His angry face framed with dancing patterns. My reflection is not me. I wonder who I am: the id; the ego; the superego; some parasite, burrowed in to the brain of whatever poor son of a bitch used to call this body his own.
(+08:00)
People limit the word junky to certain drugs. You say junk to most people and they think smack. But, you can turn anything into junk if you want to. There's no difference between heroin-addicts and hardcore acid freaks; between alcoholics and potheads. When you are high way more often than you are sober, you are a junky. That's my definition. I've known a shitload of weed junkies in my time. Addicted to the extent that they lose it if they can't get onto some bud. Hell I've been one of them. I've also been a speed junky. An alcoholic.
When you start using needles, you realize there is no difference between needles and any other form of ingestion. That stigma you've had piled on you about IV drug users. Those filthy junkies. When you start using, you don't become one of them, you realize that you've always been one. A junky by many names.
Some people are convinced that certain drugs, and certain methods of ingestion, are okay. To the hardcore acid-freak, acid is like medicine. Same goes for smack. It's all medicine. People take acid as a party drug; for spiritual purposes; and, or, so they can open up to others. People drink so they can open up to others; to lower inhibitions, so they can dance. MDMA, amphetamines. The social drugs. All medicine, but for what? Does a repeated desire to lower one's inhibitions chemically indicate a limited ability to do so otherwise? As for spiritual pursuits, if you use drugs to connect to the cosmos, doesn't that imply a significant disconnection? A spiritual disorder.
I could never accept the fact that revelations were fleeting. Psychedelics offered me this insight into myself and others that I otherwise never would have attained. Everything made sense when I was tripping. Until, the next day, it all went away. My beautiful perspective of the world - that clarity. Gone. I took drugs to connect, but the effect was only temporary. The medicine didn't cure my disorder. It just alleviated the symptoms. Viagra for the Godless.
I went into this looking for something. I was never exactly sure what that something was, and I got lost a more than a couple of times along the way. Then I found it. Turned out to be God. This spiritual quest reached it's conclusion. And the conclusion was permanent.
My sense of awe is constant, sober or tripping. I am humbled by clouds, by the moon. I see the beauty of little things constantly. Flowers. Trees. Insects. I am open and uninhibited when I interact with people. Amazing music sounds amazing, because it is. These things inherenet to the psychedelic experience are now inherent in me. Basically, I got what I wanted. The treatment worked. It cured me. So why continue to take it?
Because I'm just a junky. Even God can't change that. In defiance of what I believe to be divine intervention, I continue to take the cure for something that no longer ails me. It feels empty now, the experience. The junky in me says, "You're taking the wrong medicine," and he's right. The problem is, he needs something.
Heroin appeals to me; because it is a treatment for everything, and you can't cure everything. It is also a cure for nothing, which is what I am suffering from. It appeals to me, because there are no bullshit reasons for taking it recreationally. It is what it is. It serves it's own purpose. Junkies know they're junkies. That's probably why the word is often reserved for opiate addicts. Because they're the only ones likely to admit it. There are no pretensions; heroin simply is.
I don't know if people plan on becoming heroin addicts, but it is definitely on my bucket list. Not just to use it, but to be hopelessly addicted. The sort of habit that replaces everything in your life. Total devotion to a drug. To feel for heroin what heroin-addicts feel for heroin is a beautiful thing. People who smoke cigarettes enjoy smoking, it's nice to go out for a smoke. A positive value has been attributed, chemically, to the consumption of nicotine. People who've never been addicted to cigarettes will never understand. I've attempted to explain to non-smokers why it makes sense to smoke cigarettes. The addiction is self-fulfilling.
The smoker needs to smoke. Need being stronger than want. You don't have to think about what you need. Addictions add to the factory default list of needs - like hunger, sleep and lust. Smokers have an extra thing that they need. Non-smokers don't see the point. The point being that there is no point. Habits are extreme need; they trump everything else. Food. Sex. Sleep. Shelter. None of that shit is important, in the absence of junk. When you're addicted, you need it more than you need anything else.
To be totally devoted to a drug like that is like love. Not literally; they're just on similar levels. The junky part of me is yet to convince me of this, but he puts forward a compelling argument. I'm going to India later in the year, to smoke opium and lose myself. So, we'll see.
(+09:45)
I roll another joint. The sun has risen: my deserted streets are occupied; my shadows, gone. Rolling is awkward. Co-ordination is off. Abdominal pain, most likely due to hunger. The trip continues past the peak. Pupils still dilated. Hallucinations still strong. Lots of energy, in terms of cognition; little energy left physically. Going to go watch Friedkin's "Bug."
(+11:45)
The amphetamine part of the drug has worn off. The hallucinogenic part is still going strong, but it's combined with the comedown from the amphetamine part. Feel pretty scattered. That film was insane.
It kind of fucked with my head.
(+14:25) 11:55
I wake up feeling like utter shit. It feels like two hours of sleep have been subtracted from me. Power operated garden tools, so loud they appear to be running inside the house. I follow the noise out to the balcony. The sound is coming from over the fence. It is absurdly loud. Like somebody revving a motorbike over and over. Whoever it is, they're doing it just for the sound; this unknown machine, it's sole purpose to vomit audio. I consider yelling abuse at the fence. But I don't. Yelling would be too painful. I would be screaming into my own head, adding to the machine, like a hearing impaired person using their ear-piece as a megaphone.
I go back to lie down. Eventually the sound - like a dentist drilling through my jaw, into my brain- it stops. I drift off to sleep.
(+16:45) 2:15
I wake up, another two hours subtracted. The sun outside is so bright it looks dangerous. As if some huge creature is hovering above with a magnifying glass, waiting to zap me. My eyes are bulging against my eyelids. My skin tight against scull. I am losing weight again.
Difficult to breath. Extremely dehydrated. My brain feels like it's trying to gently push it's way up through my scull. As if it's full of helium. I drink some milk with a mult-vitamin and fish oil chaser, then go back to bed.
(+17:30) 3:00
Can't sleep. I stumble outside. My pants falling down; the effort required to tie the drawstring, inconceivable; the weight of the phone, in my pocket, pulling the elastic down over my hips. Trying to walk without them ending up around my ankles is a constant struggle.
The unforgiving sun, burning my skin; being outside is like being in an oven. I decide to smoke another joint and have a couple of gel caps of mushrooms. I have two. A threshold dose. Any more than that and I will start tripping. I'm tempted to make some firecrackers. Cover all my bases; knock myself out for twelve hours or so. It couldn't do any harm. I feel like I'm coming down from 200 mg of MDMA while simultaneously withdrawing from a week-long meth binge. My frontal lobe is numb. My body is weak. Still, some small part of the drug is still active. A fraction of the hallucinogenic part. I'm still tripping, which means the come down is just going to get worse.
(+18:15) 3:45
I made a tight little joint, using a different strain of weed. My clothes felt like they were strangling mel, so I stripped down to my underwear. As soon as I started smoking something happened. Standing out on the balcony, blues blasting from inside the house; the over-exposed effect I had been experiencing slowly faded. The world became darker, as if the sun's aperture was gradually twisting shut.
I watched white butterflies dance among the green and purple leaves of my overgrown grass. Walking around, I can't shake the fact that I am not naked. That I am uncomfortable being naked on my own property. My underwear, foreign, constricting me like a chain around a dog's neck. I take it off and return inside to roll another joint.
The heat of the sun and the afternoon breeze against my skin, I stand on my balcony, well above the fence line. I smoke greedily, holding every puff deep in my lungs until there is nothing left upon exhalation except carbon dioxide. I lie down on a chair, propping my legs up on a table. My body is rubbery like a Dali clock; I sit there like meat in a shop window. My neighbours, if they chose to look, have a cock-side view. In the state I'm in, I don't care. I would walk down the street naked if I could. My dick swinging between my legs for all to see.
The only good thing about a really shitty comedown is how sensitive you become. Same goes for hangovers; the hair of the dog. Your capacity for inebriation expands. Consequently, I am more stoned than normally possible. So stoned that my eyelids keep closing, never opening more than halfway - between intervals of darkness.
B.B. King sounds amazing; because he is.
(+18:30) 4:00
I see my reflection in a ceiling-high mirror. My hip bones jutting out at sharp angles. My ribs hanging over my stomach, creating a little cave where the food should be. I can't remember the last time I ate something. It's been at least 24 hours. Probably more like 48 since I've had a meal. When I finally do eat something, it's going to taste incredible. That's something fat people never experience: eating when you're starving; needing food, rather than just wanting it.
(+18:55) 4:25
I can feel the mushrooms now. They provide a subtle lift, hardly noticeable. It is the perfect dose. I am sitting on the threshold fence. Neither here nor there. The mild buzz acts as a counter-weight against the come down. I roll one last joint.
(+19:10) 4:40
It is pouring rain as I smoke. The temperature has changed rapidly, from unbearably hot to refreshingly cool. Rain drips through holes in the plexiglass roof. I don't move my chair out of the way. I get up and walk down the stairs out into the grass. Standing there, surrounded by tall reeds I gaze up into the stormy sky. The clouds roaring like lions. Lightning streaking across the sky. Water falling from the heavens onto my naked skin. I keep puffing on the joint until it gets too wet to burn. I leave it hanging there, like a line of fresh drool from the corner of my mouth. I close my eyes. The sky screaming, threatening; asserting itself as the dominant one in our relationship. Thor throwing lightning bolts; God, reminding me that I am nothing.
Projected on the darkness of my inner world, the patterns continue to dance. Psychedelic jig-saw puzzles from beyond the cosmos. Rain falling on my eyelids, providing me with surrogate tears. Crying, artificial or not, is a suitable response; I stand, awe-struck and humble before God.
Tagged by Xorkoth
substancecode_doi
substancecode_amphetamines
substancecode_phenethylamines
substancecode_marijuana
substancecode_cannabis
_combo_
explevel_inexperienced
exptype_positive
exptype_spiritual
exptype_bodyload
exptype_difficult
exptype_addiction
roacode_oral
roacode_smoked
roacode_inhaled
Last edited by a moderator:
