Trip Reports Vol. 16

When I was 14, my cousin who is now literally a living dead person convinced me that what made huffing dangerous was when people ingested the chemicals as he so ignorantly put it and that the air was safe. He claimed everyone says huffing is bad because they do it wrong. He proceeded to fill a plastic bag with a propellant room deodorizer. And then when it was full, he dumped out the liquid which had pulled at the bottom.

He claimed most people leave it in the bag or shoot the shit directly into their mouth through a shirt or rag. Then he took it all in one inhale and then exhaled. After holding it, his eyes glazed over muscles in his face twitched randomly. And then finally, he started drooling on himself. He kind of came to around 10 minutes later, raving about how much he just tripped balls.

He claimed that he felt great and that his method of making huffing safe by dumping out liquid and not breathing it back into the bag to keep inhaling. It had kept him and his friends perfectly healthy. After my experience though, I'm sure he knew he was lying to me. Unfortunately, I was much less drug savvy at the time and assumed that my cousin knew something. Most people didn't know about a drug class that I knew nothing about. I tried his method. I don't know how I felt.

I just know, I really, really liked it. I remember doing it with him for the rest of the day until the can was dead empty. I remember believing that I enjoyed the effects. Even though the only effect was blacking out and waking up, face down and drool with a bag in your fist. I never remembered one single second of the high. The only part I was conscious for was the suicidal headache. And the night of vomiting that followed after that, you'd think that I'd want to stop.

I woke up the next morning and craved it horribly. This was made worse by my cousin saying that's normal for your first time. I told him I couldn't remember anything other than the few minutes between huffs and being sick. When we ran out, he claimed this was normal. My memory is so fucked that I'm not sure how many days I huffed with him for. But I do know that after the second day I didn't get sick anymore.

And even when I wasn't actively huffing, I felt intoxicated like I was drunk, but I was 100 times more stupid and forgetful than alcohol could ever make a person. At some point. My cousin started talking about how the best high is inhaling gasoline fumes. But that we should only do that just once as he did not have a fake method for making it safe. Now, gasoline, I do remember what that felt like.

We took the small half empty spare gas tank from the garage and unscrewed the smaller cap on the back than inhaled through the spout. I was still in a severe stupor and wanted my cousin to think I was cool. So I was the guinea pig. I took a lung full and exhaled. What happened next was nothing like inhaling propellant. It started at the base of my spine.

A very warm and intensely pleasurable sensation slowly crept up and I felt like as it passed each vertebrae, my whole body would vibrate more and more with warmth and intensity. It felt like it took a whole lifetime to reach my head. But when it did, I felt an explosion of warmth and rushing that washed over my whole body. Once I could register sight and sound again, I have no idea how long I was out of it.

For the first thing I heard was a phone's busy signal, extremely loud, which then faded as I shook my head and tried to figure out where I was. I saw my cousin slumped over the gas can on the floor and remembered the orgasmic rush I had just had and promptly stumbled, giggling back to the can. The next X amount of days are completely blacked out. One major problem with using gas fumes to get high is that in two or three days of huffing, we still had the same amount of gas in the tank.

So it was an endlessly reusable drug with a rush. That one will never want to stop chasing after no more than a week of huffing. I was a zombie whose only function was to keep breathing air filtered through that can, I must have remembered to drink some amount of water because I'm still alive. But I think the last time I ate was the morning after my first use. My parents were out of town for all of this.

And my cousin and his mom had been ignoring each other for years when I finally was dropped off at home. My parents immediately noticed that I was really fucked up on something. I claim to be really, really drunk, which they believed. And after some yelling, I was finally allowed to pass out of my own bed after telling myself that it was no big deal. And I'll just go back to smoking weed and getting drunk for kicks and it'll be fine at 3 a.m. That morning.

I woke up to throbbing pain in my head and eyes, extreme nausea, but only dry retching. And even though I felt very sober, I couldn't focus my vision and attempting to walk. Resulted in so much dizziness that once I got myself laying back down. I was dry, retching again. This feeling was combined with crushing depression and cravings brought me to the point where I probably would have tried to commit suicide at the worst of it.

If only I could have walked 3 ft without being immobilized by pain and nausea, I laid in bed and cried for hours. Honestly, hoping that I would die soon because I was convinced that's what was happening. It took three days before I was able to get out of bed and be able to pretend I was better from drinking myself sick. My first time trying liquor, which my parents still believe it took a month for the headaches and pain behind my eyes to go away.

I was severely depressed and considered suicide every day for the next year only getting better after I eased myself back into smoking weed and spent months in therapy. And finally, I know not think but know that I did permanent brain damage. Inhalants are not drugs and they do not get you high. The pleasurable effects I experience were my brain's panicked endorphin responses to the neurotoxins that I was exposing it to inhalants. Make you feel high by doing brain and nerve damage.

Even if you huff one time, the effects are irreversible. Huffing is getting high on brain damage. My cousin and I never truly spoke again and we never will. His mother wrote off never leaving his room as typical teenage angst and assumed he never came out when she was home because he blamed her for his father. Walking out a year before I tried to talk to him a few times over the next two months, but he never came to the door and his mom had to start working a second job.

So he was alone all day, every day. I still blame myself for not telling my aunt to take him to the hospital the day that I realized he was still using when I couldn't get him to unlock his room door to let me in. I was already horribly depressed and I couldn't imagine how much worse his poisoning would be than mine was. I finally told my aunt that I thought he might be smoking crack and she ended up calling 911 when she couldn't get any response whatsoever through the door.

He was severely malnourished like literally skin and bones. He was and is completely unable to speak or make coordinated movements. He never got better and never will. And the hardest part for me is that my aunt blames herself. If I just fucking told my parents the truth the night I claimed to be extremely drunk, then they would have freaked out appropriately. And my cousin might still have a life. I ruin my aunt's life.

Also. Her son requires full time care the way an infant would only he never smiles, never laughs and never cries. He just stares blankly. The part that truly makes me physically sick is that she is so grateful to me for my selfish lying. She thinks I saved her only son's life. And the truth is that I could have saved him, but I was too much of a coward that was eight years ago. And I still have horrible nightmares. I feel like his soul will haunt me my whole life.

I've used a lot of actual drugs over those eight years and none of them are anything like huffing take it from me as I have done both. You would be doing much less harm to yourself. Smoking crystal meth all day long than taking one single huff. It took me three hours to write this and I did not do it for my own health. There is no such thing as the safest inhalant. They all create euphoric effects as a result of destroying the brain. I have to live with this horrible lie for the rest of my life.

I am a grown man and I will break down into tears when I remember how I felt after being poisoned like that. And I imagine my cousin living in that hell or possibly something even more torturous. He was unable to speak or even go to the bathroom on his own, a prisoner inside his own mind doomed to spend every second of his life. He still has praying for death. Before I begin, I want to emphasize that this is my experience on Lexapro, Lexapro has helped many people in the past.

This is not me bashing the medication I am now on Zoloft to Clonodine and Wellbutrin and I'm doing much better antidepressants and other psychiatric medications do amazing things. I simply had an adverse reaction that was not handled correctly. This story happened in 2020 2021 when I was 15 to 16 years old before I knew I was autistic. Back then. I had never done any type of drug though. Now I do use edibles and have done shrooms which were amazing.

By the way, when I was put on Lexapro, it happened because of an impulse suicide attempt. I have always had mental health issues specifically with the association and some of the most awful intrusive thoughts, not the I'm gonna cut my hair intrusive. The I should smash my face into the concrete right now type. It would feel like something would take over me and fight for the control of my body. I experienced tactile hallucinations.

The most common being bugs under my skin which eventually led to self-harm and effort to get rid of the bugs. I had a very unstable childhood which affected my taste and future partners. This is important. COVID affected everyone in very different ways. I slept most of the day and stayed up most of the night, talking to my friends on Discord. It started during spring break of my freshman year. Throughout that time, I was manipulated into sending explicit pictures of myself.

It started with PX of me and a bra and eventually escalated into full nudity. Let's call this person si felt so disgusting. My now ex had a crush on me since he first met me. Let's call him VV was a horrible person to this day. What V has done affects me greatly when I had broken up with SV, swooped in immediately due to my struggles with depersonalization. My memory was horrible. I only saw the present and had more or less forgotten what had passed. V began to pay extra attention to me.

Staying on calls late at night with me and talking to me, my dumb ass thought that if someone gives me attention, I should like them. We eventually got together. And on that first night, he told me that he had fantasized about shooting up our school. Many people wonder why I didn't end things on the spot. And so do I jokes aside, I'd become so afraid of leaving him in fear that he would do something to himself or others or me? He started by being very sweet, which I now know is love bombing.

That's when the grooming started. I must emphasize that due to my heavy derealization, I was hardly lucid. I was so far removed from myself. That time had become like a gray sludge life was so bleak and I was lonely. So I thought that what he was doing was normal. The more the relationship progressed, the more he talked about a serious desire to kill and eat someone, he constantly made up stories about a character murdering and dismembering people in the most gruesome ways.

I was very much afraid of him. The sexual experiences between us progressed much farther than I had ever wanted. And eventually I was coerced into having sex. It wasn't enjoyable. I wanted it to end and was happy when it did. It felt really weird afterwards. But this being my first time having sex, I thought it was normal. A few days later when I was walking to my house from the bus, I very distinctly remember thinking to myself in a brief moment of total awareness. Oh, fuck.

I could feel something horrible coming. I'm going to spiral and I did what followed was possibly one of the worst months of my entire life. Until that point, I was more erratic and irritable. My self-harm increased dramatically and my intrusive thoughts filled my brain at the end of that November. I tried to kill myself. Well, my brain told me to drown myself and I was suddenly stuck under water. It happened out of nowhere. As soon as I ripped myself back out of the bath, I just started bawling.

I later confided in my therapist that I had attempted by impulse. Of course, my mom had to get involved and everything went to shit. I went to the hospital and waited nearly four hours for a psychological exam that lasted five minutes. I was barely awake because the doctor didn't reach me until 2 a.m. They basically ended up telling me that I wasn't suicidal enough to be admitted to the hospital. All because I said I wanted to go to one that wasn't connected to their system.

You know how normally it can take several months to years to get a psychiatric evaluation from a psychiatrist. They got me in within a week due to emergency reasons. Crazy how they can just do that anyways. It was early December when I had my first appointment with my psychiatrist. I didn't feel like I had talked to him enough about my symptoms because we only had an hour and a half. Despite this, he prescribed me Lexapro. I took 5 mg for a week and then took my full dose 10 mg.

Following that week, I started to feel pretty nice and calm mostly. But little did I know that I was about to begin the actual worst months of my life. It started very gradually. At first, I just felt tired all the time, like uncontrollably tired. I was on the dance team and I started falling asleep during practice when I needed to quickly sit down due to my knee hurting. This got me in lots of trouble. I started to fall asleep in zoom classes and eventually in my in-person classes. As well.

I was actually voted most likely to fall asleep in class for the yearbook that year. It's all shits and giggles until you find out I was severely over medicated and on the wrong meds the whole time. The next thing I noticed is that I started to lose feeling in my limbs. I would grab my arm and I would barely feel it. And what I felt wasn't for me if that makes any sense. When I walked, I felt like I was floating. I could hardly feel my feet touch the ground. This sounds amazing on the surface.

But the worst part is what happened within my mind. The anxiety that I was meant to be treating was replaced by this overwhelming indescribable emptiness. I felt nothing. I wasn't happy. I wasn't sad. I wasn't angry. Everything was gray. I couldn't even recognize myself in the mirror. No matter how long I stared, I could not register that. It was me. I'd become a shell of myself. I appeared better on the outside, but it was just me masking how I felt so I can fit in better.

Then I had my first encounter with the corner guy. He was a tall shadowy figure that always resided at the furthest corner from me. No matter the height of the roof, he would always be slightly too tall to fit. So he was always hunched over. It got really scary when the roofs were super high. He had a head and eyes and that's about all the discernible features he had from the shoulders down. He was just a tall black shadow. I couldn't see him as much as I could feel him watching me.

I just automatically knew what he looked like. I felt his presence and could make him out wherever I was, my paranoia skyrocketed, the bugs under my skin returned more noticeable than ever. There was one specific night where I cut myself or my underwear would be on my thighs, that little spot where your legs and hips meet. I was listening to in a year of 13 moons by current Joyce as I sat on my bathroom floor feeling indescribably empty.

I started to cut myself and after about the fifth or sixth cut, I could hear my music fading. It started to become really hard to breathe and my ears were ringing. My vision went red and my brain was full of static. I came to and my music was at a totally different spot from where I left it. I then quickly crawled. I couldn't feel my legs to my toilet and threw up. I still felt nothing. I laid down on my bathroom floor, still half naked and threw up some more.

I felt more empty and heavy than ever. The only new thing I felt was an intense amount of guilt. Another memorable event started like any other day I was stuck in bed and feeling nothing I opened up Instagram and accidentally swiped to the camera. I saw myself but it wasn't me. I barely recall what happened next and could only remember from archives. I ended up posting a string of selfies at the top of my face just staring at my camera in confusion. My ability to type was shot.

I lost all coordination and all feeling in my body. My hands felt so far away from me that I could barely tell they were my own. This made me lose it. I just started to panic and that panic led into me just screaming at the top of my lungs. I couldn't control it.

I was just screaming in complete distress for anyone wondering why no one noticed my mom was at work and my little brother had noise, canceling headphones on playing Fortnite or something after a while of just screaming and crying and not knowing what was going on. I started to feel right. However, in some stroke of divine irony, my friend responded to one of my stories and said actually, you're not real because it was a joke we had between ourselves.

I went right back to freaking out because I truly believed him. I had another meeting with my psychiatrist. I told him that I didn't think the meds were working. All they did was make me feel tired and disconnected for myself. I wanted to get off of them and change to something else because I knew Lexapro wasn't working for me instead of changing the meds. I kid you not, he doubled my dose. I was now on 20 mg of Lexapro daily. Keep in mind I am young and fairly small.

I am very much a lightweight 20 mg is the highest recommended dose for adults. Needless to say I got worse. My delusion started to get really, really bad. I had believed I was some sort of experiment and everyone was in on it for a long time, like since I was eight. But it wasn't something that affected me too much because it wasn't at the forefront of my thoughts.

However, I now fully believe that the government was stalking me and that they could hear everything I was thinking, I thought I was being watched and monitored at all times that everyone close to me were spies that were reporting everything that I did. I also thought I was stuck in purgatory, a coma or a time loop. It really depended on the day. And when you're in that state, you're not logical.

After some time of thinking this, I started to fully believe that the only way to come back to real life was to kill myself in this reality. I thought I had been put in another bleak world and that I had to escape. This lasted for over a month. Thank God. My mom stopped looking at my grades because they went to shit when I had the next appointment with my psychiatrist. I told him all that.

I was thinking the Lexapro stayed the same, but he also prescribed me wellbutrin, which I am on to this day. He also said that it would be a good idea for me to go to the mental hospital for a bit for my own safety. Unfortunately, the hospital was full and they would not take me for two more weeks. It was also way too expensive for my family to afford comfortably. I now had two therapy sessions a week and very close monitoring for my mom. All the sharp objects had been hidden for a while now.

But I can no longer shower with the door closed or anything like that. Despite all this, the wo Butrin actually made me feel so much better. I didn't feel like a shell. I actually started to feel like a real person. The delusions remained the same, but I was more awake than I had been in months. Towards the end of my sophomore year, I met up with my psychiatrist and told him that I really need to get off Lexapro.

I finally advocated for myself and he listened, switching me to Zoloft plead for my insomnia and a DH D. This was fantastic news. Everything was great until he said, don't worry about weaning off of Lexapro since Zoloft and Lexapro do the same thing. You don't have to worry about it. I knew something wasn't right, but I did what he said since he's the professional. After getting off Alexa Pro, I started to feel so much better. In fact, I felt amazing.

I had so much energy and I had so many ideas and thoughts all the time. I didn't need to sleep and I was getting so much done. Everything was so colorful and lively. I felt like I was invincible. I wasn't getting better. I was hypomanic due to the sudden withdrawals combined with the adjustment period to Zoloft and Clodine at the time, I didn't think anything was wrong because I just felt great. I went back to harming myself because it gave me this buzz. It didn't sting or anything.

It just gave me a rush. This was all good until I impulsively decided to just sneak out of school and get in a car full of random older guys I never met because my friend knew them. We were stuck outside in the hot Texas sun for nearly two hours waiting for them. They finally came and we went to Target to hang out and do whatever. The guy ended up locking his keys in his car. We were stuck outside again. I almost passed out from the heat.

I waited for another two hours until a friend could pick me up and drive me home. Once I got back, I went up to my room and just cried. I had snapped out of the episode and realized all that I had done my legs were cut up. I had unsafe sexual encounters with V more times than I can count. We were still together at this point. My grades were awful and now I had a nasty sunburn from being outside for forever. After the episode, everything started to get normal again.

I was calmer but not lethargic. I could recognize my reflection. The violent intrusive thoughts gradually went away. I started to feel emotions. I felt whole again about a year later after V left me for another girl because I didn't want to have sex. I had finally connected my spiral at the first time doing it. I identified it as rape and it affected me heavily for a very long time. My struggles with mental health are something that I can never get rid of.

I'll have to learn how to live with my brain, not against it. Self harm is still an almost daily intrusive thought, but it's quiet now. I still feel my corner guy sometimes but he isn't so real to me anymore. He lost his power over me whenever I get upset or frustrated. I still feel the bugs but I have learned safe ways to cope with my urges to self-harm. I have so much work to do myself.

I am never done growing, even though that, er, of my life was beyond awful, I wouldn't go back and change it. That doesn't mean I would do it again. It hurt me and I am permanently impacted by everything that happened. But it's made me who I am today. I am much happier now and have achieved so many great things. I am a very successful artist, winning an extremely prestigious award for one of my pieces. Placing me in the top 150 high school artists in my state.

I made the varsity dance team of only 18 dancers and we won the first runner up in our category nationally. Despite all my struggles, I am so glad that I am alive right now. To anyone who is considering suicide, please reach out for help. Even if you don't feel love from those around you. You are so loved by all the survivors of hardships like your own. You are never alone even if it feels like it. I discovered nitrous when I was very young for a medical procedure I needed.

When I was about 12 years old, I was very nervous to inhale the gas. Even though the doctors assured me I would be fine and fine. I was, I absolutely loved it and never forgot the feeling it was euphoria like I had never experienced along with visual and auditory hallucinations.

It didn't make me an addict at the time, but it definitely set the ball in motion for later on in life because of the fact that I now knew I loved it and that it must have been safe because doctors used it by the time I discovered nitrous in a recreational setting. I was 25 years old and had just moved to San Francisco. By this stage, I had been dependent on pot for over two years and had tried to quit the marijuana use many, many times without success.

The only thing I can think nitrous for was breaking my addiction to marijuana. As soon as I discovered I could buy nitrous in smoke shops in San Francisco and around the Bay area. I was infatuated with it to the extent that I didn't even care about pot anymore. I was attached to being unattached. This was the nitrous experience. It all started one night at my friend's house, I'll call him be who lived in the mission district of San Francisco.

We were smoking pot and I saw a whipped cream dispenser lying on his couch with a bunch of spent Whippet canisters lying around the place. Is that Nitrous? I excitedly asked to which be replied, yes. Ooh, I want to go. I said, and I sat down and started to Hoff. I absolutely loved it. I would do about five or six canisters back to back and completely trip out all kinds of vivid hallucinations happened.

And when I woke back up, I would explain that I was like opening up my eyes for the very first time. I also remember explaining to be that I was having intellectual orgasms and other inexplicable phenomena. I felt as though I was contacting a higher plane of existence. I felt as though I was conversing with God. At the beginning, I loved the drug. I would buy hundreds of Whippets a day and go home from work at lunch and have a good 50 to 100 of them. After work, I do another 100 or so.

I was averaging 200 Whippets a day. Not a day went by after I was introduced that I didn't Hoff, I was completely enthralled with my new addiction. In my mind, it was completely safe because doctors gave it to me and I justified it to myself as something that was harmless and recreational. I didn't even realize how quickly I was losing my grip on reality. A friend at work gave me music to listen to and listened to it while huffing nitrous.

I was convinced he gave me the music because he huffed while listening to it. Also, this was not the case. He didn't use drugs. He just liked dance music by two weeks into my new addiction, my mostly positive nitrous experiences started turning really, really bad. First of all, the intensity of the hallucination started getting out of hand. I believe this was probably because my brain chemistry was partially destroyed by the stage from all the inhaling abuse.

Secondly, whenever I would huff, I would hear the same audio loop playing in my head. I could not hear what I was saying at first, but eventually I could hear it loud and clear. It was telling me to kill myself, not just audibly, but it was communicating to me on all kinds of different planes of existence. The communications were so strong, they were downright convincing. I was starting to believe what the nitrous was telling me over what my senses told me in the real world.

Because my physical tolerance to the nitrous had increased so much over the course of my use, I had to consume a lot more whippets to get the same kind of effect. This is where it got to be really dangerous. Six whippets huffed back to back at the beginning of my use was enough to send me to the stratosphere. By this stage, I could Hoff 10 of them back to back and barely get enough fact.

So it was taking me 12 to 15 whippets about 30 to 35 breaths to which I would hold at the top, which translated to me starving my brain of oxygen for literally minutes. Needless to say I'd eventually passed out and when I woke up, I was in different positions. Sometimes on the floor, sometimes I was seizing, sometimes I bumped into things and bruised myself.

But more importantly, I was totally out of it because I was starving my brain for so long and then doing it again and again, I was kicking my body while I was down, so to speak. By the end of this physical torture, which was signified by the point at which I had ran out of Whippets. I would fall into a deep and dangerous depression for about a half an hour. A depression that was lower than I had ever felt before. It got to the point where I would start dreading the inevitable depression.

As I got towards the end of my last box of Whippets, I didn't know what to do with myself after the drugs had run out. The voice in my head telling me to kill myself, started to never go away. Even when I was not actively huffing, I got so suicidal. At one point that I was going to throw myself off a parking structure in a state of panic. I called 911 to come and get me before I did it. I didn't want to die. I just felt so compelled to kill myself because the voice was telling me to do so.

At this point, I was taken to the hospital and placed on psychiatric hold. A few hours later, I was craving the nitrous again and I convinced the doctors I was ok and they let me go. I took a taxi right back to the store that sold the nitrous and bought another 100 Whippets. I was huffing at home that evening. And while watching the TV, I got this amplified feeling that something terrible was about to happen.

As I kept huffing, I felt this massive feeling well up inside of me that this colossal event was about to occur. But there was no point in getting out of the way or running because I was powerless over it and it was going to happen whether I wanted it to or not. It was kind of like the first time you go on a scary roller coaster and your anxiety is peaking as you slowly near the top of the first hill, you want to get off so badly.

But you know, it's too late, amplify this feeling 100 times and you might have what I experienced. The voice was still playing in my head louder than ever. It was a mixture of a feeling telling me I was going to die soon that I should kill myself and some other muddled sounds that I couldn't quite make out on the TV. There was an episode of Top Gear with two cars racing to the peak of a hill.

I kept huffing so addicted that I couldn't even stop for a breath of air, even though I knew bad things were happening and about to happen. All of a sudden, it became too much. The voice in my head became clear and it was in perfect synchronization of the audio on the TV. I had never seen this episode of Top Gear before. Nor do I ever watch that show. But the voice in the back of my head that had been repeating for the past few days.

Started speaking in tune with the TV, which was impossible since it was content. I had never seen all of a sudden my left hand curled up into a ball and I could feel a very sharp pain in the palm of my hand. Kind of like the pain that occurs when you hit your funny bone really hard against something. Mentally, I'd reached my breaking point. Something inside of me made me call a friend I work with who used to have a drug problem.

I knew he would understand to some extent what was happening as I waited for him to arrive. I kept huffing. He showed up, I'll call him. Oh, and saw the mess that had become my life. Thousands of empty steel whippets all over the floor, Whippet boxes, trash bins full of things all over my furniture and bed in every room of the apartment. He took the nitrous from me right away and said I was going to kill myself if I didn't stop the post nitrous depression hit me like a ton of bricks.

But worse than ever this time, I cried and cried. I had gone from an everyday pothead to an all out inhale abuser in four weeks flat. I had spent $100 a day on whippets for the last four weeks, roughly $3000 spent on destroying my brain cells and luckily not killing myself. O took me to the chemical dependency unit of my health carrier to get me checked into a rehab because of my bipolar disorder, dual diagnosis. It took two days to find a rehab that would take me.

So the following night when I had no nitrous and nothing but myself to keep me company, I hit a new low knowing I didn't want to kill myself. I started cutting to ease the pain. I was feeling for my unstable mind and bipolar disorder exacerbated by the inhaling abuse. I took a pocket knife to both arms and both legs. Totaling about 150 precise parallel cuts deep enough to draw blood and bring me relief. I had never cut myself before that night. I got into rehab.

The next day, my brain was so fried. I couldn't even read the material they gave me. I remember the date as I wrote one check after another for my financial obligations. Over the next month, my brain was operating extremely slowly and my vocabulary was terrible. I could not remember the words I wanted to use as I spoke sentences. I'd love to say this was the point where things got better for me. But it has been a long struggle from this point to get better.

In summary, I escaped rehab after 10 days to get nitrous. I was let back into rehab but left nine days later because I was sick of treatment. The day after I left, I relapsed on nitrous in my apartment, I moved into a halfway house. Determined to quit. I relapsed on nitrous. 10 days later, I started going to some alcoholics, anonymous meetings. Determined to kick the habit. I relapsed on nitrous. 36 days later, I had to do something different. Determined to kick the habit.

This time, I pledged to go to an AA meeting every day to avoid relapse. I relapsed 91 days later, the last relapse was yesterday. I don't know what is going to happen to me, but I'm going to keep going to meetings to try and beat this. I've met a lot of good friends at a a and they are cool people. They are like me in the sense that they used to like to get fucked up too. They just came to realize that if they kept behaving like this, they were going to die. In conclusion.

I have come to realize that drugs don't mix well with me because A I have bipolar disorder and B I have an addictive personality. No one could have told me this. I had to go through this to figure it out, but it could have killed me. I'm happy to be alive today and I'm happy to get another shot at sobriety. I don't think drugs are stupid. I don't hate on people that do them personally. I love drugs. The problem is that I love drugs too much. I love them so much.

I can't stop doing them when I start. So it's time for me to make a decision for my life, for my friends and for my family before it's too late. I have come too close enough for my liking to a tragic ending. I hope this post helps someone even if it only helps one person, if it means they don't have to go through what I went through. It was worth it. I met Scotty in 1986 at a bar that my roommate worked at.

He would always come in with his friend Steve and they would sit around in bullshit drinking, Crown Royal. Anyhow, they were both very nice and polite likable kind of guys. Scotty would sometimes come in by himself and he always looked so down later, I found out it was because he was very lonely. One time he asked me out to dinner with no strings attached as he put it. But I was in a relationship at the time and had to decline his kind offer. One day in September of 1987.

I was at the bar and Scottie was there too and I wasn't very happy my relationship because of abuse and I ended up going over to Scott's house to drink and do crank. We partied and talked and drank, we talked about all kinds of things including my unhappy relationship. He offered me a place to stay if I needed one. And again, we talked and drank some more. And then he finally told me that he had to lay it down and try to get some rest because he had to go to work in a few hours.

He welcomed me to stay and sleep on his couch or in his bed. So I decided I would stay the night there. He offered me one of his t-shirts to sleep in and I began undressing in front of him. He hit his face and pointed towards the bathroom and said, you can go in there and change. I chuckled to myself and thought what a country bumpkin. But his innocent like ways were cute.

Anyhow, I ended up laying in his bed and a couple of months later, I realized I was pregnant with his baby Scottie and I began our life together. He was so happy to have me there with him. My daughter that was 10, was also there with us for a bit and he was just great with her. He seemed like such a great guy and he really was, you know, but drugs had a hold of him and me too.

At the time, I carried our daughter to term and partied in the manner of beer and a couple match heads of coke in the first three months of pregnancy. Then I quit and stayed clean and sober during the rest of it. And of course, Scottie partied like usual, I gave birth to a healthy, beautiful baby girl and did the party thing all over again after she was born with a new baby. I couldn't run free like I used to when I got left at home while Scott would go to the bar and do his thing.

Sometimes Scotty and I would go out to the bars and party together and later down the road, I would get pregnant and quit. He would continue throughout my pregnancy though, I would lay awake worrying about where he was and if he was ok, if he was dead or alive, I called the bars, his friends, the hospital jail, all those things hunting him down. And eventually he would wander in drunk. Sometime in the morning, I cried, yelled, screamed, I tried to talk to him. Reason with him, guilt trip him.

You name it. I did it trying to make him clean up his act. He would feel bad and say he was gonna clean up. But hey, we all know the scene. I got pregnant a second time and found out that I was having a boy and could hardly wait to tell Scott. I rushed home to tell him. And on the way back, I saw his truck sitting out in front of a friend's house, friend and dealer. I stopped and went in only to find him there pawning one of his carpenter saws for a quarter bag of crank. I was mad and split.

He came home shortly afterwards and hung his head in shame. As usual with all the I'm sorry. I've let you down again. Speeches. Anyways, I gave birth to our son on the day I was being discharged from the hospital after I had already checked out. I waited for two hours for Scott to come and pick me up and his new baby when he did arrive, he was so amped up. It was embarrassing. He was sweating and talking so fast.

I was mad and hurt and thought, how could he be late picking me and his son up from the hospital? I yelled at him all the way home. He gave me some story about being out riding his motorcycle with some other guy and the guy got pulled over and of course, good old Scotty had to write off a bit and pull him somewhere to keep an eye out for his buddy. The guy went to jail and Scottie went up to some chick at the gas station at a truck and asked her to help him get his friend's bike.

Oddly enough, they knew each other from the bar. And so she helped him. I always wondered how true that story was, especially down the road when we were at the bar together and I saw him in a corner arguing with her about something looked like a lover's quarrel. To me the night we got home with our son, Scottie took off to the bar because he was mad that I bitched him out and I just sat home and cried finally I called the bar and was told he wasn't there.

But I told the bartender that if he saw him to please tell him I was sorry and that I loved him and wanted him to come home. That was what our relationship was like. He would drink and use and I would yell and scream and accuse him of being on dope. And then he would lie. I would find his bag and bust him. He would get pissed and leave or feel guilty and apologize. It was like a vicious circle. This is the dance we did. He would leave.

I would hunt him down via phone or with my car, we would fight make love, make up and do it all over again. I ended up going out and buying my own quarter bag because I thought screw it if you can't beat them, join them. But really, all I wanted Scotty to do was accept me. And if that meant I had to use for him to like me again, then I would do it. And I did, we continued to fight and he continued to run. I chased and sometimes I did my own running and he chased.

That was fun for me to have him come after me for a change. We ended up moving out of our old neighborhood to a whole new city hoping that we could get away from the drugs. Scottie had lost jobs and was taking whatever he could get. We hoped our move would bring us a new future and it kind of did for about a month. Scottie stayed home with me and we were both clean. We laughed and had fun. It was really great to be around and I got pregnant again. One day, Scottie left to look for work.

I put it around the house doing the Suzy homemaker thing it got later and later in the day with no sign of Scottie, I started worrying about him wondering if he'd been in an accident, calling the hospitals and jails, calling some of the local bars. Then that dread set in the thoughts of him using again, filled my mind, but I wouldn't let them take root. There's just no way he would do that.

I thought to myself hours later, he wandered in with some story about running out of gas and some guy that was right on helping him out. Of course, the guy just happened to be a crank dealer and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, but I didn't get any dope and I'm not going to use, I promise. He said day after day, night, after night, Scott's addiction took him further and further away again.

I wasn't sure I wanted to have this baby and do this all over again, but I just couldn't go through with an abortion. I was pregnant again for the third time with Scott's baby. Scott began hanging out at his new friend's house a lot and he had become mean in his actions towards me. One day, he was outside being a jerk and I was going to our door just so I didn't have to listen to his mouth spewing out obscenities towards me. I shut the screen door and was about to begin to close the glass doors.

When out of nowhere, Scottie thrust a knife through the screen just barely stopping before making contact with my pregnant belly. I continued shutting the door and he went around front and broke through it, tearing it off the hinges and everything. We constantly fought and I constantly felt like if I was only a better person or if I only didn't do this or did that, then maybe he would love me and stop using. Once again, we decided to move. I must say I was relieved to leave that place.

I was all for moving. We were moving to the San Fernando Valley in L A county. We're going to stay with some friends for a bit until we got back on our feet. Scottie was mellow there but still did his thing. We got our own place and things remained the same for me wondering where he was and what he was doing, he drank and did his dope, but he seemed less out of control as before I had a friend that lived in Oregon and we talked to her on a regular basis.

We decided to move there and try to start a new life. My mom sent me some money to help us move. Things were fun on the way there until our car burnt to the ground. My friend had to come and get us. We stayed at her place and things were ok, but I was not happy there either. Scottie was drinking but I didn't notice much crank use, but of course, I was taking care of three babies. Now, all in diapers. I was focused on them.

We ended up moving back to California a month later and staying in his brother's wife's house, his brother was in jail for what else? Drugs? Anyway, we stayed there and found a place to move to. And just like before it started all over again, this time though, I went out drinking with Scottie. And when we came home, I was so drunk, I hugged the toilet all night. The next day, I was thinking about things and realized that I didn't remember if I paid our babysitter or not.

As a matter of fact, I don't even remember coming home. I thought to myself, what if I had dropped my baby? Would I have remembered to call 911? And that's when I knew things had to change. At least where I was concerned, Scottie remained true to his addictions and I was miserable. He would drink and come home drunk, yelling and screaming at me, calling me all kinds of names. I hated it. I thought to myself, if he calls me a fucking bitch one more time, I'm going to scream.

I was so sick of my life and all the misery Scott's drinking and drugs were causing. I thought I am so unhappy and have been unhappy for as long as I can remember. I thought I'm just going to kill myself. Yeah, that's it. I'll kill myself. I've tried drugs. I've tried alcohol. I've tried men. I've tried everything and nothing works. Now, there is nothing left but death. Then something said, have you tried God yet? Until you've tried God, you haven't tried everything.

I prayed right then and there I said, God, I don't want to drink anymore. I don't want to use drugs anymore. I don't even want to smoke anymore. Three days later, it occurred to me that I hadn't done any of my old habits and I realized that not only had I not practiced any old habits, but I didn't even have the desire to. That was the beginning of the end of my drug days for the next four years. And at that moment I thought to myself, there must be something to this God thing.

I could never quit on my own before. But when I prayed it worked for me, it was a true miracle. I began going to church. I wanted Scotty to come, but he preferred the bars in his dope. I took the kids and attended church. He hung out with his buddies and did drugs. I told him that we needed to live in separate places and that I wanted him to move.

He wasn't happy with me, but he pretended like he would honor what I said and left to go to work on his van so that when he moved out, he could leave me the car. Well, that day I got a phone call from Scott's friend, Scotty had propped his van up on one side, resting it on a couch and the other side was jacked up. It was a windy day and the wind blew the propped up side and dropped on Scott while he was under the van and he was rushed to the hospital.

Some friends from church came over and took my kids so that I could leave to be with Scott. I got to the hospital and the doctors told me that they doubted that he would live. And if he did live, they said he would have brain damage. I went to see him and he was hooked up to tubes and monitors and all sorts of things. He was in a coma. And later the nurses told me that they didn't think he would make it through the night. Scotty had no broken bones but had punctured a lung.

The big worry was that he had been under the van for about four minutes with little to no oxygen. Well, time went by and Scotty came out of the coma but couldn't move his right arm. As time went on, he healed completely and was back to his old self before he knew it. I thought for sure he would have this new outlook on life since his life had been spared. But no, he didn't even remember the accident.

I still had to move out and he went to stay with his brother that had gotten out of prison again. I continued on in church and he continued to worship his God met and alcohol. One day he came to me and said he wanted to be clean and sober and start going to church. We were married a few days later, I was so happy that he was clean and he did real good for a while. But he fell here and there before our first anniversary, he was already back into his dope world.

I'd come home from church and there would be all these stupid people out front, all druggies. Of course, while Scotty was clean and going to church, we had some really nice times. He could be so wonderful when he was clean. I loved him dearly. I kept thinking he would come to his senses and stop doing dope again. But no such luck. It got worse. I'd find evidence of his drug use and confront him only to have him lie about it.

Our first anniversary rolled around and he was so proud to take me to Pismo Beach and rent me a Lexus. It was great except he just wasn't present. He tried to be, but he just couldn't fake it. And I could tell he really wanted to make me happy and be clean. But if he did that he wouldn't be happy. So from that point on Scottie lived the way he wanted to. I left Scottie November 14th of 1994. I hope it would be a wake up call for him like a big smack in the head.

But it wasn't, he spiraled down even further. I would go see him from time to time or have him over for dinner. He usually didn't eat. I was having a hard time letting completely go of him. He would come to me every now and then and tell me that he needed help and I would try to help him. He went in and out of drug rehab at Christian men's homes, but always returned to drugs. I tried to help him as much as I could by taking him to meetings and being supportive. But I got burnt out.

The final straw for me was when he stayed with me under the condition that he would go to the v for outpatient rehab. I would take him to the meetings and things. He went and seemed like he was doing ok until one day I was in financial need and was going to the swap meet to sell some things to pay a bill. He said he had some things he needed to sell too. So he came along with me, I made a little money and he also made a nice amount. That evening.

He had a meeting and I drove him there, dropped him off and didn't see him for a couple of days. He had taken his money and spent it on dope. That was it. I was done. Don't get me wrong. I let him come visit his kids and me. But I kept my distance. He was staying with some friends and I would get phone calls from people saying that he had ripped them off and that they found needles around the place he was staying. I didn't believe them because I hadn't seen that sight of Scottie.

I knew that in his past he had used needles, but I didn't think he did when he was with me. There was a time or two that he came to visit and fell asleep on my couch and I thought that there might have been needle marks on him, but I wasn't sure. And I didn't want to ask to have him lie about it. And if the truth be known, I really didn't want to know. I do know that I watched a man go from being hardworking to a man that couldn't hold a job.

And I watched a man that had a place to live, begin to live under overpasses and down my lakes. One day, Scotty came to me and told me that he really wanted to help. And a friend of mine directed him to a place called the Lord's house. Scottie went and stayed there for a while. He got a job at the church and did quite well for a fairly good amount of time he would come and visit for the holidays. He really was trying. But the hope he now held for a relationship with me was gone.

I had lost all trust. Scottie moved out of the Lord's house but stayed in the same California City. I ended up moving to Maryland in 1998 Scotty called me up and said he wanted to come see his kids. I told him, ok, but that he would have to stay in a motel because he couldn't stay with me when he showed up, he had $5 to his name. I let him hang at my place for two nights. And then I took him to a place to talk to someone about rehab.

I gave him 10 bucks and dropped him off on the way to this place. He was trying to tell me how much he had changed changed. I yelled, you haven't changed here. I sit in this van driving you to another place so you can go into rehab. You haven't changed at all. Scott, what has changed is me and this is the last time that I'm going to do this with you. I'm not the same woman. I was in California and you are not going to put me through this ever again. So you better get it right.

This time, Scott got into a rehab but took off a few weeks later and went back to California. We would talk to him from time to time via telephone. He had always tried to tell me he was doing good, but I knew he was lying. I moved back to Oregon in June of 2001. And I hunted Scott down via telephone so that he would at least know where his kids were at. That time, Scott was traveling around with some carnival.

But he did say that he would like for me to look up jobs for him and to help him find a salvation army out here to stay at. But I didn't, I honestly didn't want him to move here unless he could have come out here with enough money to find a place to live and really look for work on his own. I would get letters from Scott apologizing to me and the kids. He would always let me know, he wished we could get back together. And I know Scott, he loved me as best as he knew how.

But I couldn't put myself or our kids through his drug addiction. He later ended up in coastal California and has lived there the past three years, we talked a few times and he sent the kids some money for their birthdays and Christmas. I don't know what he did for work there. But I do know that he used the homeless shelter as his address. He would write the kids and her oldest daughter was going to school out in California and he would go and visit her and I saw his effort there.

He told me he wanted to see our other kids and get to know them. But I was really scared to let him. I was afraid he would hurt them with his drug use. They haven't been hurt enough. I had always been honest with them about his drug use and never tried to cover it up. I figured it was better to know that daddy was a drug addict and that is what kept daddy from being around rather than chance them thinking daddy didn't love them. I talked to Scottie about a year ago. I was distant.

I had to be, I wasn't about to let him in ever again. Our older daughter told me that he had gone to see her in June of 2004 and he kept leaving and going to the bar. He was hanging out with old friends that use a mutual friend said that he was sweating and acting like a wild man and drinking one beer after another. He was with his brother who had just gotten out of prison yet again for drugs. My daughter was upset with her dad because he was supposed to be helping her move to Colorado.

He was to drive the u-haul but she didn't feel safe with him. Acting like he was a friend, confronted him on his behavior and he did the typical and was insulted. He said he resented being accused of being on drugs. He told him that they could figure out how to get to Colorado themselves and left in November of 2004. I tried to contact Scottie regarding the kids but he did not answer his cell phone. I called and left message after message with nothing in return.

That was very odd for Scott because one thing he'd been trying to do was call back if it was one of the kids or about one of them on February 9th, 2005. I got a phone call from her oldest daughter that lives in Colorado. I picked up the phone and said, hello, mom. Yes, dad died. I will never forget those words. Scotty died on October 16th of 2004 due to complications from drug use.

He had been shooting up and as a result, he got a bacterial infection, cellulitis which he probably thought was just an abscess. He more than likely tried to treat it himself. And when he realized that he couldn't, and it was getting worse, he then went to the hospital but he had waited too long because it had turned into Staph and necrotizing fasciitis. He lived for seven days until his body went into septic shock and he had a cardiac arrest and died.

I just found this out February 9th of 2005, Scotty had listed himself as single. Therefore, they didn't try to find his wife to tell her or his kids. He died being labeled a transient with no kin instead of celebrating his 48th birthday, Scott was being cremated. I spoke with the coroner and sheriff and they told me that a man named John took Scott to the hospital. And after Scott passed away, John tried to say that he was Scott's brother and claim his personal belongings.

When asked for Id John then said, well, I was like a brother. What a vulture. The very people that paraded around as his friends were the first to try and rip him off. I was angered by this to no end. You know, when we use, we think what's the big deal? I'm not hurting. No one that is not the truth because people are being hurt by your drug use. Everyone who loves you is being hurt by it. Just ask Scottie's kids, they've suffered the ultimate pain. Their dad is dead because of his choice to use.

If you are reading this and you are using drugs, it doesn't matter what kind of drugs or how you use them, please get help. There is hope for you. Remember this as long as there is breath, there is hope I was 18 when this incident took place. And I had done a at lots of times with no issue at this point including a 500 microgram dose during a car ride that turned out fine. So I thought I had psychs under control. Shrooms. However, I had only done twice a 2 g and a 3.5 g trip.

The 3.5 g trip was pretty scary. I almost slipped into ego death. But I'm pretty sure I held on to reality enough for my ego to not fully dissolve. I assumed that it was scary because my set and setting wasn't very good. So after that, I wanted to experience a moderate dose of shrimps again. But this time in a good setting and hopefully have a great time. I had a really good dealer. He was a kind person. I would often throw in free tabs with my orders and stuff like that.

I told him I wanted 8 g of mushrooms and that me and my friend were going to take 4 g each at his house that night. He sold me the shrooms and I didn't have a scale or anything. I just trusted him and I assumed that he gave me 8 g. I'd never seen 8 g of shrimps before. It looked like a lot, but I thought that 8 g should look like a lot. But in retrospect, I think he had sold me about 14 or 16 g or even more.

They weren't very high quality from what I had seen before and he was probably just trying to get rid of them. Honestly, it was a bag of small caps and stems and it was about the size of an ounce of weed. They were pretty hard and chewy, not as fluffy and soft as the white giants I had in the past, but I powered through and ate as much as I could. My friend said he couldn't eat anymore because he was sick of the taste.

So I would say I ate about 60% of the bag that puts my estimate at about 8 to 10 g that I had consumed at my friend's house that night. A little more context before I get into the horrifying and scarring events that took place that night. My friend's mother was home and she was absolutely not ok with anything more than weed or alcohol being consumed at her house.

This led my friend who we will call Jay to feel a little paranoid about taking them in the first place because he didn't know if we were going to be loud or anything. Jay had only done shrooms one time and it was with me when I took the 3.5 and he was also freaking out and trying not to let his ego dissolve. He also took acid with me at my house one time, probably 100 microgram dose.

In retrospect, it was completely stupid and irresponsible for me to push him to take what I planned on being 4 g of shrooms at his house while he was paranoid about his mom and inexperience with psychedelics. Also, my parents are not accepting of any drug whatsoever, not even alcohol or weed. I'd been caught drinking one time before this and that was a major shock in the family which completely devastated everyone. Somehow, this wasn't enough to get me to stop seeking substances.

Anyways, we waited on his porch during the come up and when I started feeling it, it hit me like a brick wall. Everything started to look like the old 3d movies used to look if you weren't wearing the red and blue glasses. If that makes any sense, this is hard to explain. But I started to have this deep feeling that I was entering a realm where I'd been before, but I hadn't been to in a long time and it felt like it was the other half of my life that I had completely forgotten about again.

I can't explain it that well, but it was an extremely powerful feeling and I was overcome with emotions about how I'd forgotten about this place. And I'd spent my whole life without remembering it. After this, we quietly went inside into his room. His mother was sleeping. I remember talking to him for a while about random trippy things for a few minutes. But after that, things got very, very weird. The following events happened to me like they were movie scenes.

The next thing I remember after talking to Jay was him sitting across the room on the bed talking about how he wasn't feeling very good. Something about nausea and confusion and general anxiety. I was like, no man, don't worry. We're actually in a dream right now. I think I'm actually dreaming and he was pretty confused and didn't know what I was talking about.

I pulled out my phone and texted him despite being 10 ft away from me trying to explain to him that I was having this crazy feeling like I was in a dream and that I was nuts, I guess for a few minutes, I forgot he was there because I was texting him like I was sharing my shroom experience for my house and I was trying to tell him about it. The next thing I remember is opening Pokemon go on my phone and there was a trio and when I tried to catch it, I thought that it was my dad.

I legitimately without exaggeration, thought that this Trico on my screen was my actual true father. And I was just fascinated. I couldn't believe this discovery and just spend a few minutes thinking about it. I then tapped on another Pokemon to try to catch it. And when I did, it turned into a freaking ditto. Those of you that play Pokemon go probably can imagine how fucking insane it was to catch a ditto high as shit on mushrooms. I thought the damn world was about to collapse or something.

It was unbelievable. After this, Jay decided to turn on some youtube and try to relax and distract us both because he could feel things going south. I guess he took it as a bad sign when I was telling him that Arica was my dad. I'd have thought like, I think they say you're not supposed to watch TV on shrooms, but I thought nothing of it and figured it might be fun.

The TV started talking to me, the characters and whatever the video was, were talking to me about how we were all living in a simulation and that we have to figure out who was causing it. Once we found who was running the simulation, we would have to find them and tell them that we realized we were in a simulation and that the game could end. And at that point, we would be released into the actual true reality and be free from this dimension. That sounded super cool to me.

And I had a discovery that the person running the simulation was his mother. I thought that as soon as we went to her room, she would be waiting on us to tell her, we figured it out and at that point, we would be released into true reality. So I told Jay and he immediately told me that it was a terrible idea and that it was all nonsense and that if we woke up his mom, that we would be fucked and might even go to jail.

I debated with him for a while trying to explain to him what I was thinking and why I was legitimate, but he was having none of it and would not let me leave the room. Eventually, I gave up the idea which you would think was a good thing. But when you hear what happened instead, you'll realize it probably would have been better to go talk to his mom and get kicked out of his house.

The next thing I remember is Jay laying in bed, I think he said he wanted all this to end and that he was going to try to sleep. So I was alone with my thoughts. I started to feel lonely. So I crawled into his bed with him, which was very weird because I was never one of those people who was comfortable sharing a bed with another guy or anything like that. This is when the full blown psychosis started.

I suddenly thought I was 10 years old and that I was in my old bedroom laying in bed with my dad early in the morning, I really wanted breakfast. So I started poking Jay, who I thought was my dad at trying to get him to wake up and take me to Hardy's. This didn't work and he wouldn't move. So I just continued to lay there and daydream and think about whatever was going through my head. I remember seeing a shape on the wall, which was familiar, but I had no clue where it was from.

And I suspect this was something that I'd seen very early in my childhood, like when I was a baby or something that started to manifest itself on the walls. It was like a circle with three shapes in it. That kind of reminded me of a face of some kind but looked nothing like a face. I could still imagine it to this day. But if I actually try to draw it, I would have no clue what to draw. It's just some abstract thought.

I do not know what happened, but I ended up on his floor and the delusion that he was, my father was over at this point. Now I had completely forgotten he was there. I didn't know where I was or what I was doing, but I knew that somehow I had escaped whatever fixed simulation I was in. And that now I was in a true reality where I could do whatever I wanted. I was pleased with this. My first thought was that I wanted a strawberry doughnut.

Yes. Apparently if I was given the power to do anything I wanted without consequence, the first thing I would do is manifest a strawberry doughnut. I figured that it would take time to learn how to fly and walk through walls and stuff. And that for now I would start simple. So I decided to piss my pants since that was one thing I thought in my past life I wasn't allowed to do and since I could do whatever I wanted now I said, fuck it and pissed.

It was warm and gross and I kind of regretted it for a second, but I quickly forgot that it even happened. I was distracted by some other fantasy which I cannot remember, but it had something to do with me doing something I couldn't do before. And I was amazed at it at this point, I'm fully in a delusional psychosis that I have escaped the simulation. And there are no consequences to any action that I do.

Kind of like I had a reset button that could just undo any action that was done or something. I didn't think I was in a dream anymore. I literally thought my new reality was this world. And so I did whatever I wanted to with no thought or hesitation.

The next thing I remember is waking up to his room being completely destroyed, the lights on and Jay and his mother standing there looking at me in shock and horror and me being pinned to the ground by a giant wardrobe, the type with doors on top and the drawers under it there was shit falling out of the doors onto me and I was covered in ashes from an incense tray.

The wardrobe was really heavy and I couldn't get out from under it, but I was still fully in psychosis and asked Jay and his mom why they weren't fucking helping me out. When I was obviously stuck. I was yelling and screaming at them. What the fuck are you doing? Don't just stand there, get the shit off of me so we can go get a strawberry doughnut. What the fuck are you doing? I couldn't figure, figure out why there was no reaction from them.

If anything just disappointment and disbelief and that started to really piss me off. Why weren't they down to go get some strawberry doughnuts? Obviously, it was time for fun and destroying shit. And they're just sitting there looking at me. This wardrobe is fucking heavy and crushing me and they're just looking at me like deer in headlights.

I remember there was a cord for something near my head and I just grabbed it and started chewing on it like actually trying to eat it since I could do whatever I want. Jay's mom came over to me and said to cut that shit out or to stop or something. And I was like, fuck you, you're pissing me off. Quit killing the vibe. Let me eat it. I was pissed off. She took it from me, but I just kept grabbing it again.

She was wearing flip flops and I think I took one of them off of her foot when she was trying to kick the cord away from me and I tried to eat the shoe and I think she hit me in the face with it, but that's so blurry in my mind that I don't actually know if that happened or not. I kept trying to eat anything. I could get my hands on. The next thing I remember is Jay on top of me fully restraining me like a cop has to restrain a resistant criminal.

He had my arms pinned down beside me and he was sitting on my stomach area trying to keep me from moving. It fucking hurt a lot. I was like, dude, Jay, what the fuck are you doing? Get off of me. I'm trying to have a good time and you're actually hurting me. I remember it was really hurting my stomach because Jay was a bigger guy and I felt like my stomach was about to explode and kill me.

I had a brief thought that I'd been sent to hell for doing whatever I wanted to and that the rest of my eternity was going to be him sitting on top of me while I screamed at pain. I thought that it would never end. And I started going ape shit, crazy screaming, yelling and crying, begging him to get off of me. Like I literally pictured this painful scenario lasting for another minute and couldn't stand it.

Then realized this is what it will be like for the next hour in the next 24 hours and for the next 40 days and 40 years, and I couldn't bear the thought, I didn't know how the wardrobe got off of me at the time. But again, weeks later, Jay told me that I somehow became a superhuman for a second and pushed the wardrobe off of myself and lunged straight at his mother's neck trying to strangle her. I got pretty close to her apparently and she had to jump back. But I don't remember any of that.

That's just what he told me at that point. He had to take me down or restrain me because he recognized that me trying to kill his mother was not a good thing and it had to stop immediately and believe it or not. At this point, his mother had called my mother and told her the situation a phone call that I am sure my mother will remember for the rest of her life because she could hear me screaming and cursing in the background of the call.

She put her on speaker and my mom tried to ask me what I was doing and I just told her to fuck off and come help me because these people weren't letting me have strawberry donuts and get wild like I wanted to. That call didn't last long, but she sent my dad to come and pick me up, Jay restrained me until my dad came. And when he got there, they told me to leave and that my father was there to pick me up. I was like, ok, fuck you guys. I'm going to party with my dad and I got in his car.

He didn't say a word to me and I was still fully in psychosis and did not realize what was happening. My pants were soaked. So I just took them off. My dad told me to stop that. I couldn't take my pants off. But I was like, no, they're wet, they have to come off. So I got completely naked in the passenger seat of the car. Unfortunately, that moment was when the psychosis ended and I became fully aware of what had just happened.

I think this moment will forever be the worst moment of my life unless I do something else stupid in the future. Every negative emotion you could possibly feel hit me right there, guilt, shame, anger, all of it hit me right in the chest and I swear I almost passed out. It was physically painful when I realized what I had just done. I probably lost my very best friend forever. His family hates me. Now, my family knows I do psychedelics. I'm naked in my dad's car.

I have just fully ruined my life as I know it and I have no clue what went wrong in the trip that led to this point. I have no clue why I went into psychosis, but I sure did. And I fucked my entire life up in the span of four hours. I cannot explain how terrible that moment was and I'll remember it for the rest of my life. I was defeated being the real genius. My father is trying to, I guess lighten the situation or something. I don't know.

He went through the Hardy's drive through and ordered me some food. The lady at the window did in fact see me naked in the passenger seat, which I'm sure made her day. The rest of the car ride was just me being completely speechless and more or less paralyzed with fear and regret. And when we got home, I ran inside straight to my room and locked the door. I refused to look at my mother who wanted to talk to me. Obviously, I couldn't face her at that moment.

She didn't even know what mushrooms were that they were a drug. So trying to explain a full blown psychosis experience wasn't going to happen. I texted Jay and I had no clue what to say besides that. I was sorry, there were no words I could say to him to even start to explain anything. I didn't even know what I needed to explain. So I just said that I couldn't believe what had just happened and that I was infinitely sorry. He didn't reply.

I slept for probably six hours and woke up actually feeling pretty normal. At which point I decided to go upstairs and talk to my parents. I don't remember much after that, but I know it sucked. I know it took Jay weeks to even speak to me like we had ever been friends and months after that to repair our friendship. Yes, we did repair it. And now three years later we simply don't talk about it. I even see his mother occasionally out in the town and she's very loving towards me and says, hello.

I don't know how I got so lucky to have a friend like Jay and his family because if it was nearly anyone else, they probably would have called the police and had me thrown in jail instead of calling my parents. I'll forever be thankful for them. Be careful with your doses people every day. I think about this trip and wish I can go back in time to prevent it. It is the worst thing that's ever happened to me.

And while I understand the innate curiosity associated with such a fascinating drug, I strongly urge you don't touch it. And if you decide to take a much smaller dose and don't do it alone, seriously, try finding a single report with a positive experience. You can't. It all started in June of 1994 and my friends and I had just graduated high school. We were all massive potheads. But I had only ever used marijuana and tried mushrooms once. We also like camping a lot.

Something I still do to this day. One thing we always made sure of was to camp as far from civilization as possible. I don't think camping at an established campsite is the real deal. You have running water, a fire pit and sometimes even electricity. What's the point? You might as well just be at home? Luckily, where we lived in Oregon at the time, there was plenty of that. The weather was perfect, sunny, warm and despite the mosquitoes, everyone was having a great time.

We were on a hike and about halfway into it, one of my close friends spotted a plant growing a few yards off the path. We'll call them Pelvis. I'm not sure where they got the name, but we all called them that and even some of our teachers, yo guys check this out. Elvis walked off the path and came back with a handful of spiky jimsonweed seed pods. I've heard of this stuff. It makes you trip balls. We should try some.

I mentioned before that I had tried shrooms once and it was actually on another camping trip. Like this one. The dose was relatively low and all I remember was the sunlight streaming through the trees looking really pretty. So I was excited to try this new stuff since I thought it would be the same. But, oh boy, it was not. We were all clueless and thought it would be a great idea except for Elvis's sister.

A she thought that if anything was to go wrong, she didn't want it to go wrong out in the middle of nowhere. I wish every day that I had listened to her when we got back to the camp, everyone took two seed pots except for a, we broke them open and ate the little black seeds. However we could, my buddy e tried to eat them whole but nearly vomited at the taste. I mixed them into a can of soup that I had brought and ate them. Being careful not to chew them a while later.

I don't remember how long, but it could have been more than an hour. I really needed to piss and my mouth was dry as hell. I went behind a tree and tried to. But as with most Aurra trips, nothing came out. It was at this moment, a massive 100 ft tall tank passed over my head, crushing trees and leaving deep tread marks in the ground. This terrified me, not because of the massive fucking tank, but because I remember that there was a military draft to Yugoslavia.

In reality, there was none but in my mind, there was and I was about to be whisked away from my scholarship at PSU my future and my family and placed into war. I ran back to camp and found that my friends were all gone, replaced with demonic versions of them. They had skin that seemed to flash between jet black and bright white and an impossibly fast speed and gaping holes for eyes. They all stared at me.

And the next moment I was laying down in my tentt, I don't remember walking to it or laying down the travel happened in an instant. Then the tent instantly transformed into my bedroom. It's strange how hallucinations manifest themselves. It's not like a sharp cut or a fade. But you simply look at something one moment and the next moment, it's simply another thing with no change happening in between your brain just says, yeah, that's about right.

And carries on, I got up from the bed and walked down the hall where my dad was sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper. He never reads the paper. I opened my mouth to speak, but he stood up and beat the ever living shit out of me. My father isn't abusive and has never been violent to anyone. So I have no clue why I hallucinated this. I ran back to my room and found myself in Elvis's tent.

He was there and without a word passed me a blunt, I smoked it for a while but then I dropped it and when I tried to pick it up, it was just a seam line in the sleeping bag. I was sitting on Elvis and I talked for a while. Until I found myself in the back of his truck. Bevis had taken his truck up there and he had taken their car. Elvis was in the back with me until he got snagged on a branch and yanked off at a high speed. For some reason.

This was really funny, despite the fact that he was one of my best friends, I had no idea where I was going and when I looked into the cab, there was nobody there. I was all alone in the back of his truck speeding down the road. I got real scared and started banging on the cab's window. And in an act of desperation, I jumped out. The intense searing pain that followed was nothing I'd ever experienced before or since I had road rash on both my legs and my left hand.

But that pain was felt over every nerve and piece of skin in my whole body. I felt nothing but pain. There were no thoughts, only pain. I was in my own personal hell for what felt like an eternity. There was no time, no past, present or future, only pain. The world around me looked like hell full of deep reds and blacks. And a constant deafening scream was heard in my ears. The world around me looked like hell full of deep reds and blacks. And a constant deafening scream was heard in my ears.

Eventually, I must have fallen unconscious because the next thing I was aware of was being rushed to the hospital on a gurney. Once they noticed I was awake, they gave me a cup of something black and told me to drink it. I politely told the nurse no, and handed it back to her. But when I talked to a afterwards, she told me that I was screaming slurs and cursing through the black liquid all over her.

Not sure what they did, but they probably gave me a lot of antipsychotics and put me to sleep later. When I'd mostly come back to reality, my parents were at the foot of the bed and the doctor told them I would be ok. As long as I didn't ingest anything like that ever again, I had road rash and a broken leg and had to wear a crutch for a while, but I would recover.

I hadn't completely come down from my trip while my parents drove me home as I kept seeing people on the road who weren't there and warning my dad not to hit them all with a mild background feeling of pain. I recovered. But it's a wonder I didn't die and that none of my other friends got hurt while talking to a after the trip. She told me everything that she had seen everyone else had their own story.

But what she saw me do was run into the camp with my dick out screaming about Bosnia before jumping over the campfire and hiding in my tent. Then about an hour later, I walked out of my tent and down the trail. I stood staring at a tree for probably a half an hour before screaming and running back to camp this time hiding in Elvis's tent. Elvis wasn't in there. They were staring at the fire and mumbling to themselves.

Everyone was going crazy and several people had to try to jump into the fire, burn down the forest with burning sticks. A was getting really scared. So she corralled everyone into Elvis's truck and took us to the hospital which I especially needed. After falling out, there was no more room in the front for me. So I was put in the back. She saved my life and I can't thank her enough. I have since then. Never done anything other than weed and will never touch anything else.

The eternity in hell of sitting on the pavement fucked with my brain. I don't know if it's PTSD or something else, but I frequently get flashbacks to that moment. If I can go back in time and stop myself from taking that damn plant, I would. The experience changed me and not for the better. Don't take anything that can mess with your consciousness and make you do stupid shit beyond your control. It's a miracle. None of us died. And if it wasn't for a saving us all, I might not even be alive.

Don't take this stuff. Don't do it. No matter how curious you are, no matter how fascinating it is. Don't do it, if you do decide to do it for some reason, only take a small dose and don't do it alone deter us. Scary stuff, man.