Citation: xEdize. "Vicocybin: experience with Hydrocodone with Acteminophen, Mushrooms & Cannabis (ID 65164)". Erowid.org. May 13, 2009. erowid.org/exp/65164
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Another dull weekend past, more time wasted in doing nothing, and ever growing problems from the real world mounting. Being faced with rising bills and reduced work hours, friends falling off the face of the Earth, and the threat of being laid off, I had had enough of Reality that I could tolerate. Putting off the search for another job for later, I managed to save up a small amount of money to put into another night of drug recreation. I suppose it was the estranged experimental side of me, nurtured by observing the effects of drugs on my own self, which led me to believe that taking mushrooms and vicodin together would be a good idea. It made sense at the time, and Iíve handled myself before on difficult trips gallantly. So with the decision set on my mind, I began the preparations to enjoy one night of psychedelics and painkillers together in glorious harmony. A combination I would later coinÖVicocybin.
I had obtained the shrooms from a young partygoer at an outdoor event. The party itself was okay, but there were too many youngsters and newbies for my liking. A couple friends had offered me a few free ecstacy pills, but I politely turned them down. I needed a break from that drug. But I had no quarrel with mushrooms, and seeing as how I had no connects in my immediate area, I was more than willing to relinquish my hard earned twenty to the guy for an eighth. We talked for a little bit after the exchange. Found out that he was from Sac and had a reliable source that always came through with some extremely good mushies. I didn't pay much heed to it, as dealers always bragged about how their stuff was the best. But he assured me that this batch he had was extremely potent, and to be careful with them. I thanked the guy, tucked the mushies into my pocket and saved them for a time when I could take them safely and without distractions. It happened to be the weekend after the party. Being frustrated with a lack of suitable places to conduct drug experimenting, I ultimately decided to do this trip at home, in the solitude of my own bedroom, even if it ran the risk of my parents finding out.
A few words about my parents. They were both immigrants from other countries who had to work hard all their lives, coming up from mostly nothing, to own a home and start a family they could proudly call their own. My mother was fairly traditional, and although she had a brief wild streak in her mid twenties, never took any drugs or got into the hippy culture of the 60's. She is a shrewd, distrustful, repugnant, and sometimes obnoxiously loud woman, who took any opportunity to place any blame or criticism to whichever facet in my life she did not approve of. And she did this frequently. It has been a struggle to keep my drug use a secret from her, and I've had to create several different hiding spots in my room available whenever I brought drugs into the house, rotating a few different spots at a time, for my mother was notorious for doing random searches in my bedroom as well. Fortunately for me, my mother instinctively stayed away from drug users and addicts, and thus developed a very limited education and experience on drugs. This was proven to me when she once found my nitrous cracker in my backpack. I simply told her it was a valve for some plumbing unit I was holding for a friend and the old goose bought it (And she says she knows everything, heh).
Several months ago my mother was prescribed hydrocodone 5/500's for a lower back surgery she underwent. As I previously mentioned, she stood clear from drugs when she could, so she had only taken a total of 6 or 7 pills during the first couple weeks when the pain was extremely bad, and then stopped when the pain was gone. There they were, some 40 odd shiny white pills, doomed to expire slowly inside a medicine cabinet. Oh how silly my mother was, wasting practically good opiates like that. I couldnít allow such a travesty to befall under my household, so I decided to take some of the pills myself. I wouldn't dare take all of them, that would be too obvious, but taking about a half dozen vics would go unnoticed, and yes, even if it is considered stealing, I hadn't much qualms about it, seeing as she didnít want anything to do with them anyway. Besides, it was going to a good cause, experimentation. And I could most certainly appreciate the experience far better than she ever could. I hadn't met anyone who had done this combo before, so it could well be that I am the first in my area to try it out, although I doubt it.
The first attempt at doing this I was overly cautious. With my parents sleeping about 15 feet away from my bedroom door, it would be wise to do small amounts of both drugs. If I did too much and my bewildered antics awoke them, I would be in serious trouble. So I ate half an eighth of the dried fungus with some Reese's Peanut Butter Cups inside my bathroom, and it did a fine job at masking the offensive and bitter taste. The shrooms did turn out to be rather potent, and the objects in my room morphed into many grinning and mischievous creatures. It wasn't too strong, but it was mildly unpleasant, and I lost all track of time lying on my bed staring at all the visuals. By the time I remembered to take the vicodin it was too late. In the hour or so it took for the two white pills to kick in, the effects of the mushrooms were already gone. I did not consider this experience to be a true combination, but luckily, I still had half an eighth left. I could try again.
And so I did, two weeks later, waiting for my tolerance to go back down. This time I planned on taking the vicodin first and the shrooms last. That might yield better results. On Saturday night I drove to buy a few bathroom supplies. In the parking lot I popped one Vic and went inside to do my business. Roughly 25 minutes later, after leaving the store, I parked by a post box in the corner of my house to smoke a bowl of some deliciously fine weed I had. Weed was always good at amplifying effects on psychedelics, but I smoked it because I wanted to amplify the effects of the vicodin. I've had some wonderful times together with both Mary Jane and Vicky, and I would quite enjoy another reunion with my two favorite gals. One 5/500 doesn't do much for me, but a marijuana boost goes a long way. I would just stick to one 5/500 for now, and wait and see how it will react with the remaining half eighth, before deciding to take another one or not. I still had two left. About an hour after I had taken my first vicodin, I ate the remaining shrooms, two caps and 3 stems, again with the Reese's in the bathroom. Shortly after eating the shrooms, I went into my room to relax and await the infusion. I was already feeling the pleasant effects of the vicodin, and it was much stronger than I had thought it would be. Mary Jane and Vicky knew how to treat a man well.
Within 20 minutes I could feel myself getting more and more stoned. It was 1:30 am by now and I started seeing little squares and trails of light emerge from the edges of my computer screen. I had already compiled a nice tracklist full of different psy trance tunes, tech breaks, deep house, etc, downloaded some new Winamp visuals, and also had a few pictures of optical illusions minimized on my taskbar. After all, I loved listening to music while under the influence of drugs, but I was taken by surprise at how quickly the effects of the mushrooms were coming in. Perhaps the vicodin and the shrooms were stronger synergists than I had expected.
I started feeling warm, and at other moments, uncomfortably hot, flushed, and my thoughts were straying and fragmented on random things. I felt my heart beating rapidly, and I began getting nervous. I was doing my best to calm myself down, reminding myself that I was in a safe place, and no one would ever find out what I had done. But those feelings of uncertainty and insecurity continued to persist. I tried listening to some soft electronic music, but the bassline of the music felt too strong, and its rumblings began making me feel nauseous. In a few minutes I had to turn it off, reluctantly. I sat on my chair staring blankly at the clock, looking through it rather than at it. Things started to slowly morph around me and I felt myself becoming strongly inebriated as the minutes slowly passed. The feelings of nausea were also intensifying and it didnít help much that my increasing body temperature from that vicodin was becoming amplified by the effect of the psychedelic. All I could do was drink more water that I had wisely placed in the room, and kept my garbage can close in case I did vomit.
By 2 am, all 4 substances, marijuana, hydrocodone/acteminophen, and psilocybin were kicked in to full swing and I soon greatly regretted doing this. My room had become completely foreign to me. I barely recognized my own computer and desks, and visuals were popping out of everywhere. I knew the trip had just started but it was already spiraling out of control, and I greatly feared how I was going to deal with another two hours of this madness. Many negative thoughts set in, first, one at a time, then bunches at a time. I kept trying to go back to the music I so desperately wanted to hear, but every little movement I made hurled the nausea back in full-force. Soon I started hearing cop sirens. Iím sure a few of them were real, as cop cars passed by my area once a night, but I was constantly hearing the sirens everywhere I turned. Even the faint humming of my computer fans sounded like sirens. And so, becoming paranoid that the police would come to arrest me at any moment, I didnít dare place my headphones on. I kept darting out the windows, peering through the blinds, trying to see if any police vehicles had parked by my house. I didnít know what I would do if I saw them, but Iíd make sure they didnít get the drop on me.
After a little while I knew the idea of the police showing up was unlikely, so I sat back in the chair, forcing myself to relax, and propped my legs on the table near the monitor. I closed my eyes and tried to lose myself with all the wonderful and vivid closed eye visuals I was getting. I was seeing multi-colored triangles, polygons, and twisted vines which continually stacked upon each other, creating more complex shapes in their dance. Sometimes the polygons would move and stack on each other so fast I felt that I was flying through another dimension. Unfortunately, the flying feeling was only adding to my nausea so I opened my eyes quickly, only to be almost thrown out of my seat at the sight of some long shadowy arm trying to grab me.
It took me a moment to gather my bearings, but now, the plastic frame of my computer screen had turned into a jumbled heap of moaning faces and wavering arms, much as if the computer had been built by Satan himself! And each moment one of the wavering arms would suddenly reach out to grab me, only to pass through my neck and face harmlessly, and then recede, annoyed at its inability to touch me. Every now and then I would feel like a shadowy face would pass by the edge of my perception to stare at me, but every time I glanced back at it, it would disappear. My God, I had never had visuals this realistic on mushrooms! It was both exciting and mortifying at the same time. And as much as I tried to reassure myself that what I was seeing wasnít real, that confounded inebriation would interfere with my thinking, and scramble my thoughts to other paranoid fears, real and imagined.
I rose out of my chair and lied on my bed, still fighting the nausea. I didnít know how many minutes had passed, but even being as fucked up as I was, I could feel the effects strengthening. I kept closing my eyes, then opening them, but it didnít matter, I continued seeing hallucinations either way. Stronger the visuals came, stronger to the point where I could no longer discern if my eyes were open or closed. My jaw clenched and shook violently. I wanted to scream at times, but my throat was so dry and my jaw so heavy, only ragged whispers emerged. That worked to my favor, because one scream would be enough to wake up my parents.
More violent the hallucinations became, feeding off of my discomfort and paranoia. I soon saw neon cut-outs of malicious looking miscreants, thugs, wanting to pounce upon me and beat me to my death. I could not shake them away. Whether my eyes were opened or closed, there they were, bearing brightly colored purple and green bandanas and glowing mustaches, whose only intent was to do me the most harm possible. It took a great underlying effort on my part to convince myself that they werenít real, that they couldnít be in the same room with me or even exist, for that matter. In time, they went away, only to be replaced by the agitating cop sirens again. By this point I had given up moving. I would just roll around restlessly on my bed, enduring this trip as long as I could until it was done. For those who have taken psychedelics, you should understand very well, that it doesnít matter if youíre done with the trip, itís not over until the trip is done with you. Gradually the sound of the cop sirens went away, but the sound would return at later times, growing fainter at each interval.
For a short while, I was at peace. There appeared a large indigo net that enveloped my entire closet. It shimmered brilliantly in the night, flickers of white energy ran through its criss-crossing pattern, the netting itself turning into different shades of purple and lavender. This was probably the most enjoyable visual I saw throughout the whole ordeal. I wished I could have lost myself to this visual longer, but I worried again over my increased heart rate. I kept thinking I would go into cardiac arrest and die. I had this feeling before, the time when I did acid and dxm together. That was a far worse trip than this one, but I wondered if remnants of the fear from that night were being brought back from this psychedelic trip. It seemed reasonable. Before long, the netting dissolved, and my thoughts traveled elsewhere.
Tons of memories flooded into my head. From child-hood, to high school, college, work, raves and parties, different people long gone. It was all coming back to me in an entirely random order, as if I was watching a film editor on drugs produce a trailer on my Life. I saw my friends telling me that they loved me and cared about me, and I saw my enemies cursing me and spitting on me. I also saw quick glimpses of things that never happened, but could have happened. It was as if my life was flashing before my very eyes, much like how most people would describe when they were slowly dying. But I always figured it would be more of a pleasant feeling, this was just utter madness.
Through the daunting collage of memories in my head, I also heard laughter, faint, but maniacal laughter. I associated this laughter with the shrooms. They were swirling around my head, picking at all of my memories deep inside my brain, unlocking doors, analyzing each memory with devious amusement, mocking me. My pain was their pleasure. They saw my life as some giant sitcom, created solely for their entertainment, and I was powerless to stop it. Oh these cursed things, why do I continue taking them? What could I hope to accomplish, these swirling thoughts, this agonizing fear of death? There was no enlightenment in this, there was only insanity, insanity that I had oh so willingly brought upon myself. And now I could do nothing but roll around in my bed like a scared child, fearful of the Vicocybin boogeyman. I had no choice but to continue waiting it out, for eventually, the trip would be done with me, and I would be at peace.
By 4:30 am, I knew I was winning the battle. The effects of the vicodin were gone, and the intense visuals, which were overwrought and ubiquitous, were only faint now. The laughter and the sirens had ceased, and it was clear that I would survive another trip gone awry. It was almost over, just like my night. My one night saved up this week to enjoy the mysteries of Vicocybin, and it had been an enduring 3 hours of Hell. I went back outside to my car, watching a few pine trees warp back and forth, feeling disgusted at putting myself through such needless torture. I had left my pipe and some untouched weed in the car, and I needed to bring it back inside before my parents saw it. Yes, they liked to search my car at random times too.
I sat inside my car in complete silence, tired and appalled by what had been witnessed and felt. I had half-expected this trip to be something like a hippie-flip, but disappointingly, it was nothing like it at all. Vicodin proved to be a poor substitute for ecstacy. I smoked a little more weed to calm myself down, and ten minutes later I returned inside the house, ashing out the pipe and hiding it away. I still had two vicodins left. But seeing how late it already was and how tired I felt, it would be a waste to take them now. I decided to save them for tomorrow night. At least that would make up for this trainwreck I had experienced. I went back into my room, put my headphones on, and played Balance 006. It was a chill progressive breaks mix done by the illustrious Austrailian bred DJ Anthony Pappa. It was the only music Iíd hear that night, so I made the best of it, taking some pleasure of the mushroom afterglow. The set ended all too quickly, and I grudgingly returned to bed at 6.
I have decided after that night not to try unknown combinations of drugs at home again. Considering my situation, it would be disastrous and possibly traumatizing if my parents did walk in on me while I was having an already difficult trip. They wouldnít have the faintest idea what was wrong with me or know how to calm me down. It probably didnít help either that my mind was also on my job closing down. I really despise the whole job searching process and it worries me not knowing where my new source of income will be coming from. But another lesson that needed reemphasizing: donít take psychedelics when youíre already in a stressful state. I knew this, but I assumed it would be alright and fun since I was in a safe and comfortable place. Instead, the Vicocybin magnified my problems, plagued my hearing with sirens and laughter, and offered no spiritual epiphanies at all.
The only thing I can boast about is that I somehow managed to keep my struggles hidden deep inside, without anyone finding out. And my parents never suspected anything. I sure pulled a fast one on them huh? Yeah, like I deserve a medal for that. Now itís time to deal with my old nemesis Reality again, and see whose toes Iíll have to step on in order to gain new employment. Oh well, the drugs will be waiting for me once things get better again. Once Iím in a more peaceful state of mind. And what kind of person would have the audacity to place himself in another vagarious and compulsive state? Answer: a person who doesnít understand his own existence, unsatisified by vacuous and hollowed answers from meaningless theologies. A person who gave insanity and dementia a chance, when logic and reason failed. The findings have been inconclusive, but the exploration has been fascinating. Iím sure my fellow drug users would agree. Cheers.
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