Mildly Eccentric
Greenlighter
- Joined
- Feb 5, 2007
- Messages
- 16
I already mentioned this trip in another section of this forum, but I decided to write a more detailed report of the most screwed up trip I've ever experienced on shrooms.
This is what happened . . . The most I remember, put in a story-form that I am more comfortable in. All true, no exaggerations. But try to understand, I'm trying to put order to a chaotic mess of images and sounds. There is a lot that I don't say, like the scratching I heard periodically along my walls, or the withering plant that suddenly appeared in my bedroom corner. Those events are so random, that I cannot put order to them. I'll tell the relevant points.
It starts--
*
Whatever day it was, it was the day after my friend and I had done them for the first time. 'Shrooms. They made me feel . . . different. The first rush was a wave of heat over your face, along with the needles in the face that accompanied throwing up. I kept it down, and my trip started.
The day afterwards, I hungered for the experience again. I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, with 3.5g of dried up shrooms in my palms. If I had read about them beforehand, I probably wouldn't've taken them. But maybe I would. My thought was that, since I get antisocial on shrooms, maybe they'll be better on my own.
Hahah . . .
My mom called me down as I chewed and swallowed the last of them, wincing at the rancid taste. We watched Harry Potter.
First of all, never do drugs when your parents are present. It evokes a sort of paranoia that only that particular event can cause. The only thought that can possibly cross your mind is:
She knows; I'm screwed.
Not in a good way.
After about the half-way point, I left and went upstairs. I slowly started pacing, trying to gage how I was feeling. I wasn't seeing anything, but there was a sudden tightening in my chest, and my throat felt scratchy, as though I wanted to cry. I went on msn, went off, paced. I stopped at one point, swallowed hard and looked at the mirror. It was me; my pupils were dilated, my hands were shaking slightly as they clutched my forearms, my skin was a bit gray. There were dark purple circle tattooed beneath my eyes. As I watched, the started pulsing and growing, until they looked like giant smears of blood. I whimpered and pushed myself away from the mirror, shoving it against the wall, and clenching my eyes shut.
Usually when someone glimpses something that might cause them unnecessary distress, they run away from it by closing their eyes. It's our head-in-the-sand way of blocking out stress. Unfortunately, the thing that was causing me distress was my head-
So closing my eyes didn't help.
I caught flashes of things -afterimages drawn violently by my imagination- that were quickly erased and replaced by darkness. It was not the comforting nothingness that I had been looking for but a dark void that clamped over my heart and squeezed. Claustrophobia kicked in with vengeance and my eyes snapped open, eagerly accepting the light.
I slowly sat down on my bed, remaining motionless for a few minutes, listening to the blood pulsing in my ears. It was fast and irregular, but my skin was ice cold. I looked towards the mirror but it was turned away, shoved crooked by my panicked kick. It started to rock back and forth as I watched. Fear started to grow in my stomach and inch up my throat, tightening my air passage until I was wheezing faintly with every breath.
I couldn't look away.
It stopped, but noises didn't.
It wasn't the wood-against-wood thumping that accompanied the rocking mirror. Instead, the sound of faint dripping started, as well as quiet chatter. I pushed myself further into the middle of the bed, suddenly afraid of the monster under my bed.
I always believed in a monster when I was a kid. Some nights it was in my closet, and some night it was under my bed. Whenever I had to go to the bathroom, I would jump a few feet away from the space, so the monster wouldn't grab my ankles and pull me under.
When I pushed myself against the wood headboard, I was suddenly afraid that the monster would reached in between them and claw my back, so I sat in the direct center, chest heaving with dry sobs. The dripping increased, eventually shutting out the soft whispers. I looked up and saw that my ceiling, once a featureless white blob in the semi-dark was morphing. It appeared to soften and swirl. At first it was pretty, but then the grayish-beige started to turn a darker color. And then it dripped onto the bed beside me. I stared at the spot and looked up again. The blood -because I knew that's what it was- has a molasses texture and was dripping slowly down, creating thin strands of gore before breaking off and landing on my only comfort zone.
They never hit me, but they didn't have to.
I stopped breathing. My lungs locked and the throat clenched to the point where I couldn't swallow. My death grip on my forearms became painful as I stabbed my fingernails into my skin, trying to suck air through my closed throat. All noise was blocked out by the beating of my heart, steadily rising and rising to a critical point. I developed tunnel vision, as the outsides of my view started to get hazy. Finally, just when my muscles started to shake and weaken, enough air accumulated and my throat open as I screamed. It wasn't an overly high-pitched or loud scream, and I was suddenly very glad that my parents were in the basement, three floors below me.
I sucked air back into my lungs and collapsed sideways, shaking terribly.
The blood was gone. It didn't leave a trace. I started to cry.
Maybe my breath sounded raspy to my ears, and I started hearing the whisper again. There was only one person this time. I sat up and looked across my room to the darkest corner. I could discern the shape of a person standing in the dark. Fear exploded in my chest again and I pushed myself away. It started to move and come closer until it stood just on the edge of the light.
I thought it was me, and then it turned into me. It talked. She talked. I don't remember her every word clearly. I don't think she even used words a lot of the time, and instead she mostly conveyed her meaning through images and emotions. So instead of saying the word "anger", I would feel angry. It makes sense, since we were the same person. A fact I find most depressing.
I'll put it to words.
She mostly "talked". I listened.
"Your place is questioned," she said. "You know that your existence in this world is meaningless. You wander from day to day with plans of a future that means nothing."
She looked faintly like a well-formed and long-lasting afterimage. She was concrete around the edges: sharp, vibrant colors and then faded in the middle. Her features were fuzzy, but I could still recognize my own face.
I had another quick flash of myself -the real me, but seen from another's perspective- stumbling forwards with blood on both hands and down my front. I was dying.
I didn't see myself fall. Maybe if I had, the night would've ended up a lot worse. Maybe it's the same as that old dream saying: "You don't wake up after you hit the ground."
This felt too real to be a nightmare.
"It's laughable, really," she continued, after my eyes met hers again. She had shifter her position while my mind had focused on the previous vision. She was standing slightly further back, still just outside the bright light. "Laughable how your happiness depends on other people. You sit in a room that never changes and pine for what you will never have."
Another flash; more blood. More people I loved, more death. Tears were coming faster and my breath was becoming shorter. I pressed my knees against my chest and clutched my head, willing everything to stop.
"Go away," I whispered. "You're killing me."
**
I can't remember. I think she disappeared, leaving me to try and sleep, as images flashes across my mind's eye every time I closed my eyes. I eventually fell asleep, and dreamed that the other me came back.
She was laughing at me. I don't remember why.
That was the last time I slept for a little under a week.
This is what happened . . . The most I remember, put in a story-form that I am more comfortable in. All true, no exaggerations. But try to understand, I'm trying to put order to a chaotic mess of images and sounds. There is a lot that I don't say, like the scratching I heard periodically along my walls, or the withering plant that suddenly appeared in my bedroom corner. Those events are so random, that I cannot put order to them. I'll tell the relevant points.
It starts--
*
Whatever day it was, it was the day after my friend and I had done them for the first time. 'Shrooms. They made me feel . . . different. The first rush was a wave of heat over your face, along with the needles in the face that accompanied throwing up. I kept it down, and my trip started.
The day afterwards, I hungered for the experience again. I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, with 3.5g of dried up shrooms in my palms. If I had read about them beforehand, I probably wouldn't've taken them. But maybe I would. My thought was that, since I get antisocial on shrooms, maybe they'll be better on my own.
Hahah . . .
My mom called me down as I chewed and swallowed the last of them, wincing at the rancid taste. We watched Harry Potter.
First of all, never do drugs when your parents are present. It evokes a sort of paranoia that only that particular event can cause. The only thought that can possibly cross your mind is:
She knows; I'm screwed.
Not in a good way.
After about the half-way point, I left and went upstairs. I slowly started pacing, trying to gage how I was feeling. I wasn't seeing anything, but there was a sudden tightening in my chest, and my throat felt scratchy, as though I wanted to cry. I went on msn, went off, paced. I stopped at one point, swallowed hard and looked at the mirror. It was me; my pupils were dilated, my hands were shaking slightly as they clutched my forearms, my skin was a bit gray. There were dark purple circle tattooed beneath my eyes. As I watched, the started pulsing and growing, until they looked like giant smears of blood. I whimpered and pushed myself away from the mirror, shoving it against the wall, and clenching my eyes shut.
Usually when someone glimpses something that might cause them unnecessary distress, they run away from it by closing their eyes. It's our head-in-the-sand way of blocking out stress. Unfortunately, the thing that was causing me distress was my head-
So closing my eyes didn't help.
I caught flashes of things -afterimages drawn violently by my imagination- that were quickly erased and replaced by darkness. It was not the comforting nothingness that I had been looking for but a dark void that clamped over my heart and squeezed. Claustrophobia kicked in with vengeance and my eyes snapped open, eagerly accepting the light.
I slowly sat down on my bed, remaining motionless for a few minutes, listening to the blood pulsing in my ears. It was fast and irregular, but my skin was ice cold. I looked towards the mirror but it was turned away, shoved crooked by my panicked kick. It started to rock back and forth as I watched. Fear started to grow in my stomach and inch up my throat, tightening my air passage until I was wheezing faintly with every breath.
I couldn't look away.
It stopped, but noises didn't.
It wasn't the wood-against-wood thumping that accompanied the rocking mirror. Instead, the sound of faint dripping started, as well as quiet chatter. I pushed myself further into the middle of the bed, suddenly afraid of the monster under my bed.
I always believed in a monster when I was a kid. Some nights it was in my closet, and some night it was under my bed. Whenever I had to go to the bathroom, I would jump a few feet away from the space, so the monster wouldn't grab my ankles and pull me under.
When I pushed myself against the wood headboard, I was suddenly afraid that the monster would reached in between them and claw my back, so I sat in the direct center, chest heaving with dry sobs. The dripping increased, eventually shutting out the soft whispers. I looked up and saw that my ceiling, once a featureless white blob in the semi-dark was morphing. It appeared to soften and swirl. At first it was pretty, but then the grayish-beige started to turn a darker color. And then it dripped onto the bed beside me. I stared at the spot and looked up again. The blood -because I knew that's what it was- has a molasses texture and was dripping slowly down, creating thin strands of gore before breaking off and landing on my only comfort zone.
They never hit me, but they didn't have to.
I stopped breathing. My lungs locked and the throat clenched to the point where I couldn't swallow. My death grip on my forearms became painful as I stabbed my fingernails into my skin, trying to suck air through my closed throat. All noise was blocked out by the beating of my heart, steadily rising and rising to a critical point. I developed tunnel vision, as the outsides of my view started to get hazy. Finally, just when my muscles started to shake and weaken, enough air accumulated and my throat open as I screamed. It wasn't an overly high-pitched or loud scream, and I was suddenly very glad that my parents were in the basement, three floors below me.
I sucked air back into my lungs and collapsed sideways, shaking terribly.
The blood was gone. It didn't leave a trace. I started to cry.
Maybe my breath sounded raspy to my ears, and I started hearing the whisper again. There was only one person this time. I sat up and looked across my room to the darkest corner. I could discern the shape of a person standing in the dark. Fear exploded in my chest again and I pushed myself away. It started to move and come closer until it stood just on the edge of the light.
I thought it was me, and then it turned into me. It talked. She talked. I don't remember her every word clearly. I don't think she even used words a lot of the time, and instead she mostly conveyed her meaning through images and emotions. So instead of saying the word "anger", I would feel angry. It makes sense, since we were the same person. A fact I find most depressing.
I'll put it to words.
She mostly "talked". I listened.
"Your place is questioned," she said. "You know that your existence in this world is meaningless. You wander from day to day with plans of a future that means nothing."
She looked faintly like a well-formed and long-lasting afterimage. She was concrete around the edges: sharp, vibrant colors and then faded in the middle. Her features were fuzzy, but I could still recognize my own face.
I had another quick flash of myself -the real me, but seen from another's perspective- stumbling forwards with blood on both hands and down my front. I was dying.
I didn't see myself fall. Maybe if I had, the night would've ended up a lot worse. Maybe it's the same as that old dream saying: "You don't wake up after you hit the ground."
This felt too real to be a nightmare.
"It's laughable, really," she continued, after my eyes met hers again. She had shifter her position while my mind had focused on the previous vision. She was standing slightly further back, still just outside the bright light. "Laughable how your happiness depends on other people. You sit in a room that never changes and pine for what you will never have."
Another flash; more blood. More people I loved, more death. Tears were coming faster and my breath was becoming shorter. I pressed my knees against my chest and clutched my head, willing everything to stop.
"Go away," I whispered. "You're killing me."
**
I can't remember. I think she disappeared, leaving me to try and sleep, as images flashes across my mind's eye every time I closed my eyes. I eventually fell asleep, and dreamed that the other me came back.
She was laughing at me. I don't remember why.
That was the last time I slept for a little under a week.
fenix