Citation: Anatoli Smorin. "The Department of Existential Destruction: An Experience with Methoxetamine, MDMA & S-Ketamine (exp114125)". Erowid.org. Feb 25, 2020. erowid.org/exp/114125
My intention going into the experience that is detailed below was to have a strong dissociative experience. Slightly over two weeks ago I had a very unique experience using similar substances (all the same as the ones used in this experience except substituting mephedrone in the place of the MDMA and the particular benzodiazepines used at the end of the evening). I was hoping to replicate, and explore further, my ability to keep a mental state as close to sober as possible while at the same time being deep in a dissociative state. I understand this sounds extremely contradictory.
My past few experiences with dissociatives (namely methoxetamine, esketamine, methoxphenidine, and 3-MeO-PCP) have all possessed a new, surprising, and very intriguing characteristic. In these recent ventures, both pre and post ďholeĒ, I have felt far less confused, dizzy, and intoxicated in my mental capacities. This has allowed a unique introspection and general use of my mind, while still under the influence of the substances and in nearly full visual effect intensities.
I thought at first, that this could have been due to the introduction of mephedrone to some of the dissociative experiences, an atypical addition for me. After several experiments designed to test this hypothesis, Iím not able to completely confirm nor deny that adding low dosages of stimulants is causally related to the newfound effects.
The experience below details the most extreme version (to date) of this ability to think clearly, while swimming through the depths of the dissociative ocean.
I take 5000 IU of vitamin D3 daily along with 2400 milligrams of mesalamine for a lifelong stomach condition. I do not consider either of these to be a contributor factor in this experience.
My company for the experience is my partner Kai and trusty dog Gee. We will be spending the day in our house up in the mountains, surrounded by snow-filled meadows, large evergreen trees, and no other people.
A combination of written notes, audio recordings, and commentary from Kai were used in the creation of this report. I am confident that the timestamps are accurate.
The material ingested in the experience described below was sourced from vetted individuals. All dosages were prepared on a freshly calibrated .000 gram scale.
The methoxetamine is a pure white powder that is made up of very fine granules. It smells like an indoor pool, not of chlorine exactly, but a similar stale and sterilized chemical odor. The esketamine is also an untainted white color. The crystals seems to be slightly more cohesive than the methoxetamine which has visibly individual sharp pieces. The baggie containing the powder smells sweeter than the methoxetamine. It is not as sharp or pungent.
The MDMA is a hazelnut color in the center of the large ďrocksĒ, which are highlighted by an off-white powder where the crystals have been rubbed or roughed up. When crushed up, the powder was the lighter tan color and the texture was fine but still angular and pointy. The clonazepam was from a legitimate pharmacy. Yellow pills with ďTEVAĒ imprinted on one side and ď832Ē on the other side with a line break beneath the number.
Tolerance was a complete non factor on the day of the experience with the exception of alcohol. At the time of the experience I was consuming 2-5 drinks per day.
I began the experience in a cheerful state of mind, excited at the prospect of having another positive and strong experience. I have dressed in comfortable clothes and tidied up the house to make the setting as calming as possible. Clutter and general disorganization stress me out. I neatly arrange a few things I might desire during the experience; pens, a few art supplies, notebooks, music devices, and blankets.
My last meal of the day was a hearty meatball sub that I ate at T Ė 05:04 in relation to the initial ingestion of any substances. I know I have the next two days off work and no major obligations during these days off. Iím clear for takeoff!
T + 00:00 [5:39 PM]
I prepare dosages for both Kai and me. Thirty three milligrams of MDMA and thirty seven milligrams of methoxetamine are my selections. Kai elects to skip the stimulant but increase her methoxetamine amount to just over fifty milligrams. The MDMA stings more than the methoxetamine, even after both are crushed up as finely as possible. Nasal discomfort passes in under five minutes.
T + 00:13 [5:52 PM]
There are no obvious effects manifesting yet. I light a fire in the fireplace, knowing the warmth and ambient sound of crackling and popping wood will be desired later on.
T + 00:17 [5:56 PM]
A silky haze of intoxication settles as a weight upon my mind. This headspace shift is the first sign that I've reached a Ī on the Shulgin Rating Scale. My reality is being tickled just slightly, shivering in reaction ever so slightly. I retrieve a glass of water from the kitchen and find that the exposed skin on my arms and legs is cooler than normal. A mysterious breeze dances across these sections of my body.
T + 00:37 [6:16 PM]
The MDMA is faster to the stage than the methoxetamine. I cannot tell yet if this is a dosage ratio issue or if the onset is staggered between the two compounds. I allow the materials to manifest on their own. There is no need to start speculating and tinkering with dosages this early in the evening.
T + 00:54 [6:33 PM]
Forty milligrams of methoxetamine is tipped off my scales tray to the flat black stone on which I use a library card and lighter to crush the powder as fine as possible. There is almost no pain or discomfort as I sniff the powder up my right nostril.
T + 01:10 [6:49 PM]
I send a few messages via my mobile device about potential plans for tomorrow. The physical action of using my phone is not difficult but the concept of each conversation is becoming increasingly difficult to grasp. As topics branch out from my initial comments this is more evident. A chat about backcountry skiing takes an unexpected turn to discussing a close friend who found out today that his dog has a crippling spinal injury and needs to be put down. I am able to navigate the conversation but my brain is finding it difficult to decide what words are appropriate. I am thinking in multiple dimensions and the binary style of text messaging does not compute easily. This is a clear sign that I am now approaching a + level.
My body is beginning to feel foreign to me. I give each of my limbs a shake to find that they feel as though they should be hanging from the ceiling in a butcher shop. Normally I embrace the array of possible physical effects dissociatives can offer. In this instance however, I sense that the MDMA and the methoxetamine are at odds with one another.
I sense that the MDMA and the methoxetamine are at odds with one another.
The MDMA has created a hyperawareness of my physical sensation while the methoxetamine has muted my sense of touch. The result is an awkward attentiveness to my skin desperately trying to feel something beyond the numbing dissociative blanket that is draped around it.
Despite the cold alien characteristics, I can still command the actions of my legs, arms, fingers, and toes just fine. I touch my hand to my face and can detect significant anesthetic effects from the methoxetamine. There is less tingling, and slightly more ability to feel, than when walking out of a dentist office with a jaw full of procaine. The surface of my face hums with this prickling sense of non-feeling. A similar vibration can be felt throughout my entire body.
T + 01:16 [6:55 PM]
Connection and relatability to everyday life are being severed. Anything outside of the present is becoming difficult to conceptualize, find importance in, or bother thinking about.
Iím seated on the couch with my elbows on my knees, taking in the warmth from the fireplace. The mixture of the burning lodgepole pine and Douglas fir produce a scent worthy of being sold as cologne; smoky, fresh, and earthy. Looking down, I find the distance between my knees and the floor to be increasing. The longer I look, the taller my shins become. I feel like I am sitting on top of a mountain peak with the ground far below me. The distance recorded by my eyes and brain continue to grow disproportionately large. I seem to have had a leg transplant with a giant. My hands barely register as hands given their hilarious tininess sitting upon my colossal knees. The methoxetamine has now pushed the MDMA to the side, dominating the experience.
The MDMA, methoxetamine, and my intention of taking quality notes to produce a report are causing me to write frantically in my notebook. Adjusting to the choppy linearity of my thoughts of the dissociative, while amped up slightly from the stimulant is proving to be a bit challenging while writing. I donít want to miss a single detail in my notes. My mind is winding up, thinking faster and faster with every second: ďtake notes! Ah! Faster! Shit!Ē
When I look up from my notes, time slows immediately. Calmness washes over me. There is no need for the crazed note-taking, I realize. I have been trying to dictate every minute detail, to the point where I have begun to take notes about taking notes. In doing this, I have injected stress into my mind and started to confuse myself. The confusion is centered in the fact that my mind is struggling to differentiate between:
1. Having this experience; the first person perspective of ďsoaking it all inĒ and,
2. Documenting and writing about the experience,
which is shaping which? Which is the priority? I find myself struggling with the impossibility of describing every little thing.
Which is the priority? I find myself struggling with the impossibility of describing every little thing.
No matter how fast I write, I cannot keep up with the sheer mass of details I would like to document for inclusion in this report. I am missing the experience in an effort to commit it to memory.
Iím a little turned around mentally. Is this a report? Or a night? What requires my focus and attention? How can a concept like note-taking, and first person life be confused? They are distinctly different, but in my methoxetamine-infused mind, the two are scrambled and disguised.
I cannot decide if I should have the experience or write about it. Doing both is beyond my capabilities. While writing, my thoughts develop a second layer. The first is my natural thought stream that is interpreting my sensory inputs. The second is a conversation with myself that tries to describe the first layer and put it on paper. Unfortunately the layers keep changing places. I struggle to differentiate between what I am experiencing and what I am writing. My brow is furrowed and developing beads of sweat as I try to write about . . . something? How can I describe to someone who is not confused what it feels like to be confused while I am confused about being confused?
T + 01:21 [7:00 PM]
I take a step back from writing. Despite the fact that a main goal for tonight is to get enough documented to produce a quality experience report, the frustration is not worth it.
I decide that living the night is the primary objective. I will take notes as I am able.
T + 01:32 [7:11 PM]
I have decided to lie on my comfortable couch, under my comfortable blankets, in front of the roaring fire: and proceed to get fucked up. My mood soars! Fun is what this is all about after all. The MDMA might be raising the intensity of the methoxetamine but other than that, itís virtually undetectable in the experience at this point. From here on out, there is not much worth commenting on in regards to the MDMA.
T + 01:48 [7:27 PM]
I ďsnap backĒ suddenly: I am less intoxicated and able to think more clearly. I take this opportunity to discuss the rest of the evening with Kai. Should we drag out this lower level intensity or start ramping things up soon?
I have forgotten that Kai has insufflated almost double the amount of methoxetamine that I have. She is already ramping up. In fact, she is seated on the hearth stone, hunched over, with her hands covering her face deep inside the hood of her sweatshirt.
I join Kai, intertwining my limbs in and around hers, creating as much cuddling contact area as possible. The heat from the fire is a little overwhelming. Kaiís sweatshirt seems like itís about to melt to her back as I rub her shoulders and run my hand up and down her spine.
Kai speaks poetically: maybe to me, maybe to herself. Tears leak from her eyes as she comments about her late motherís life and how she intends to act on the lessons she has learned from her. I write down some of Kaiís words for her to read tomorrow. I am incredibly content offering comfort and companionship to Kai. Despite our varying states of intoxication, I can feel the visceral quality of our loving relationship.
We remain in embrace until legitimate conversation breaks out between us. A few jokes have us both standing and laughing soon.
T + 02:34 [8:13 PM]
Iíve come down notably while talking with and comforting Kai. Ideally I would have insufflated more product about an hour and a half ago. There is no angst or disappointment in missing this dosage. I dare say I can make up for it with some strategized dosages. I start this process off with 48 milligrams of esketamine up my left nostril.
T + 03:37 [9:16 PM]
As I jot some thoughts in my notebook, I notice that I am narrating everything I write inside my head, which feels odd. Not odd because Iím carrying the internal monologue as I write, but odd because I have developed the ability to be not only the active thinker and writer, but also a new third party perspective where I am listening and following along. This extra bystander in my mind is where I direct my attention. With this viewpoint primary the words and their verbalization to flow seemingly without active direction from me. It reminds me very much of scenes from the Harry Potter movies where a letter is to be written and the audience can see the words as they are quilled to the parchment and at the same time, hear the characterís voice read the sentences out loud inside their head.
T + 03:56 [9:35 PM]
Iím anxious to explore deeper and already a bit behind the dosing schedule I had tentatively planned. I make quick work of weighing and crushing up 92 milligrams of methoxetamine. Up my right nostril it goes. Iím hoping this dosage will compensate for the fact that Iím insufflating it a bit later than I had expected to. Kai gives me the thumbs up on my plan to settle into this next dosage, then take my ďoff the diving boardĒ dose of esketamine. The goal of this timing is to achieve a ďholeĒ experience, as the grand finale of the night.
T + 04:14 [9:53 PM]
The numbness creeps back, this time itís cold, like when a tee shirt damp with sweat chills the skin after the sun and perspiration causing activities are gone. As I enter a deeper state of dissociation the alterations to my mental state are less jarring than the initial departure from baseline. Excitement grows within me. Kai also wants one more dosage, but is a little indecisive about the amount she desires. While we sit and discuss options, I begin the weighing process of my esketamine and Kaiís methoxetamine.
My fingers are operating just fine, but I like the idea of having all the scale work completed sooner rather than later. Iím less concerned about physical impairment than I am the impending mental trickery that my own mind will likely begin to inflict upon itself.
T + 04:31 [10:10 PM]
My nostril feels unobstructed as thirty nine milligrams of esketamine are promptly sniffed up it.
I immediately get to work crushing up an additional one hundred and eleven milligrams of esketamine that will complete the intended 150 milligrams. I had forgotten this was the last dose, distracted by conversation, and weighed out a booster on accident. My mind is obviously starting to run away from me in some ways, but it can still do arithmetic reasonably well, I find.
Within a few minutes, I can feel the esketamine layering into the experience. More and more vibration can be felt through my body, from skin to bone. At first the vibration chugs along at a slow place. Gradually this transitions to minuscule movement, as though I can feel the atoms inside me shaking wildly back and forth. The faster I vibrate, the less I feel the pulsation, the less I feel anything. Soon I have lost the ability to detect where my feet meet the floor and my backside contacts the chair. Either completely connected or entirely unconnected, I canít tell which. Either way, itís supremely comfortable.
T + 04:54 [10:33 PM]
I take a few deep breaths in preparation of the intensity to come. I donít feel as nervous as I usually do before ingesting a large dose. I attribute this to the fact that the last few experiences with similar substances have been of strong intensity and have gone very well. Each have been entertaining, fun, and I have taken away positive ďlessonsĒ that helped me in the days following these experiences.
Optimistic and excited; I take the line of esketamine in one smooth go. Almost no sting or burn is detected.
I move onto the floor to sit cross legged, facing Kai. We play with a combination of singing bowls and a handpan. Neither of us is playing well, physically intoxicated enough to strike erroneously; poorly aimed, too hard or too soft, and out of rhythm. This couldnít be less important. The tones are beautiful, every note blending together with those that came before it and occur after it.
T + 05:15 [10:54 PM]
I can no longer feign any sort of normal mental or physical functionality. Kai and I exchange a knowing look as I lay back, as though pulled into position by an unseen force. My eyes are closed by the time my head rests on the thin middle eastern rug laid over the hard wooden floors. I feel the back of my headís initial contact with the ground but soon I lose the ability to know where I end and the floor begins.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The cadence of Kaiís drumming is slowing. She started with something like eighth notes being played at 60 beats per minute (think of two notes for every time your heart beats). Within a few moments, or is it minutes? Kaiís pace has slowed to one strike of the drum every few seconds. The reverberation from the drum becomes pleasantly distorted. The smooth ethereal sounds become grittier. There is a machine like quality to the empty space between each note. The intervals grow longer still. The echoing sounds of the instrument now fade into the mechanical yet earthly cacophony that is being generated by my brain.
Metallic strikes from Kai on the handpan ring louder and louder. As the sounds grow louder and more powerful, I begin to feel my body again. This is not my normal sensory inputs coming back online though. Instead, this is a foreign agent making its way through my insides. Starting in my feet, a small number, perhaps ten or twenty, tubular strands twist upwards through my legs reaching towards my stomach. Each strand feels like a muscle stretching; that particular tension that flirts on the border of satisfaction and pain. As these bands move through me, they rotate clockwise, curling around each other like a rope braiding itself. Through my stomach the twisting tubes go, quickly reaching the top of my head. I can feel each end of the strands of my internal rope connecting with the outside of my skin. They continue to produce their stretching sensation. The feeling is very directional, each cylinder now acting as a channel, pushing a slow grinding energy through them from my feet to my head. The interior sensations make it feel like my body is moving across a slow motion conveyor belt even though I know I am laying perfectly still.
Pins and needles dance across my body: I tingle everywhere. The points on my skin where these sensations are felt begin to expand, growing in diameter. Am I physically deconstructing? If so, it feels divine.
The size and power of the tones Kai creates are monstrous, colossal: cosmic. They rule my universe. I no longer think thoughts, or register physical feelings. There are random snippets of these things, but they do not connect to me as a person any longer. This last strike on the drum has brought with is complete and utter destruction of any sense of ďIĒ. Connecting my normal internal stream of thought to what is happening around me has long since been torn down, burned, and banished from existence.
I think my eyes are open. I donít have enough control to try blinking and test this theory. Black lines cut through shades of brown and grey above me. My distance from these shapes and colors seems to change constantly. The black bars divert from their linearity, bending in angular contortions, creating multiplying squares and rectangles as they double then triple back upon themselves. The entire shape-shifting world in front of me bends, folds, then unfolds. A ceiling of impossible origami.
What I ďseeĒ is not ďseenĒ through the normal: eyes → brain → mental processing → reaction, process that exists when I am sober. What I see, is what I am
. There is zero distinction between my ocular intake, ďAnatoliĒ, or the physical body that is strung through with braided tubes of energy. I am the house Ė the house is me. Despite the shattering of my being in every sense of its existence, all feels calm and peaceful. There is not the slightest bit of concern to be found inside me. Perhaps this is because the department in my brain that handles ďconcern for existential destructionĒ was currently out of the office.
I am certain now that my eyes are open. I canít really choose where to focus them, my gaze naturally steadies at the vaulted fir ceilings directly overhead. What I see barely resembles reality. The colors are close, but just about everything else is wrong. The A-frame roof is more like a chicken scratched W-frame. Some timbers are thrice the size of others and far closer to me than the ceiling should be. Despite the utter wonkiness, I think to myself ďOkay, my eyes are open, nothing I see makes sense, but I am not panicked, I feel niceĒ.
Wait! I just had a thought, as myself! Iím rapidly separating from my joint existence with the physical structure and sound around me; becoming my own entity once more.
The drumming of Kai is loud, but no longer shakes the universe. Its tempo has sped up slightly now as well.
The intensity of everything I am experiencing still feels like a dissociative ďholeĒ except for one key factor; Iím now alert enough to move, and I have a desire, or at least a curiosity to see what happens when I try to do so.
The rooms looks remarkably more familiar the moment my head comes off the floor. Propped up on my elbows; Kai, the fireplace, and the rest of the room resume shapes that at least vaguely resemble reality. I can feel the draw of the hole but I resist for some reason. I lie down, and immediately return to a space of vibration and nearly entire dissociation. Once again however, a desire creeps into my mind; sit up, see what is happening!
As before, things look remarkably more normal once Iím off my back. I decide to stand. The task is suspiciously easy. Once on my feet, I test coordination. Surprisingly, basic walking and talking are not too challenging.
Boom. Boom. Boom. BaBaoom. Boom.
The drumming from Kai is back to the same speed it was before my body dissembled and I merged with the physical structure of the house
The drumming from Kai is back to the same speed it was before my body dissembled and I merged with the physical structure of the house
, a process that was entirely orchestrated and commanded by the ringing tones and sounds.
I alert Kai verbally that ďI am coming down but things are still way out of wackĒ. My voice sounds normal enough, and the words come out of my mouth at a reasonable pace, if not a bit choppy.
My secondary communication is to thank Kai for slowing down the pace of her drumming while I was lying down, it had really been perfect for my experience. She looks at me puzzled? I describe to her the change in tempo and ask what she has been playing since I lain down. Her answer: ďThe same as I am nowĒ, rocks my world. I know for a fact the slow down happened. It structured my existence, loss of my existence, and regaining of my existence over the past thirty minutes. If Kai is telling the truth, which I have no doubt she is, then this has been one of the more notable examples of sensory dilation I have ever experienced. I didnít ever feel tricked by the passage of time or the sounds that I judged duration by. The tonal vibrations were an absolute truth, unshakable in their authenticity. To learn that all of this was my interpretation of ďrealityĒ rather than what actually happened, alludes to the weirdness and intensity to come. I am a certifiably beyond a +++ and I wonder, as best my mind can, if I am approaching ++++ territory.
T + 05:40 [11:19 PM]
The next wave of dissociation arrives. The familiarness of room around me fades very quickly . . . gone. Bye bye. The world is now made of Play-Doh. The floor squishes beneath my feet, the stone of the fireplace sags, the staircase droops at an impossible angle. I turn to the kitchen and see that the clean lines of our cabinets and open shelving are swollen and wilting. Ohhh boy. I think to myself, ďI must be really spun, things donít ever look this out of wack following a k-holeĒ. I pull up memories of other strong experiences and canít ever recall anything similar.
I feel calm, but some bubbles of concern arise from the depths of my mind. There is no hysteria or panic in this concern. I scan the room; it still barely resembles the ďnormal worldĒ. This is a new
world. I donít like the term ďparallel universeĒ: far too hippie dippie and difficult to define. Unfortunately, I canít turn a phrase that accurately describes this sensation of having my waking brain in one space, but my physical body, specifically the ocular sensory system, in a similar yet absolutely
different version of the world. Equipped with aforementioned functioning brain, I begin to question if there is a problem afoot. Will I stay like this forever? I highly doubt it, but the thought crosses my mind as a mild concern. There is no mental spiral or worry about heading into any sort of bad trip. In some ways Iím more even keeled now than I am when Iím sober. There are no stressful, fast paced, multiplying concerns. I donít rethink the possibility of having damaged myself. I know itís not true, and am able to accept this in earnest and move on easily.
I canít believe Iím experiencing new dissociative territory . . . Also, I canít believe Iím recalling and analyzing memories. Iím doing so with fluidity and ease. My mental ability and visual experience are entirely antithetical. Iím happy that during this bizarreness I have a sharp and sober mind to comfort and rationalize with. Iím able to talk myself through the momentary concern that I may be stuck in the Play-Doh purgatory forever, never again able to return to normal.
I shake my head back and forth while I rub my eyes. Upon opening them, the kitchen as a whole; cabinets, countertops, appliances, and walls all shake like Jell-O. Wobble, wobble, wobblety-wobble-wobble. I take advantage of my ability to think and walk across the room to the nearest bathroom. I feel fine as I move: no coordination issues at all.
Things seem more normal in the smaller room. I stand and urinate without any retention issues at all. As the flow of liquid exits my body and journeys towards the toilet bowl, normality departs.
The toilet bowl sinks into the floor while my legs stretch concurrently. Iím confused about how things are elongated and yet retaining their size ratios. The toilet is nearly flat, a few inches tall at most, barely raised off the floor. The pancake of porcelain seems geometrically sound and functions as expected. As I reach to flush it stretches back to normal height. In a matter of seconds the entire room returns to normal. Before I can form an opinion about my rapidly fluctuating surroundings, movement in my peripheral vision catches my eye.
Kai has followed me to the bathroom, and is now standing in the doorway. Although I have not expressed the fact that Iím in a very strange space that is not my normal dissociative experience, she seems to know something is up.
I look into her eyes as her face melts, yet stays within its borders. Her face is full of movement; the texture and coloration of Kaiís pores, flushed cheeks, and variation in skin tone flow downwards in skinny vertical strips. Once a section of her face reaches her chin, or any other edge of her faceís outline, it seamlessly appears back at the top of her forehead and begins a downward journey once again. ďGumby KaiĒ progresses from a cartoonish state into a completely obscure rendition that even Picasso might have thought was too distant from reality. Her face is flat. Flatter than paint on canvas. The streaking colors continue to flow. Kaiís face is like a paper cut out placed on a body made of clay. It waverings and flutters, looking altogether flimsy. I know itís Kai, the face I know best in the world. I know her current appearance is due to the substances I introduced to my body. Despite knowing these facts, I canít shake the feeling that this is Kai Version 2.0, that this is no longer the world I normally exist in.
Kai reaches her arm towards me and for a moment, I see the concern swirled with love in her eyes. Iím rendered wordless as her arm stretches more and more, finally reaching me, gripping my shoulder delicately in support. Gumby Kai indeed. Like Inspector Gadget, Kaiís arms are impossibly long. Even once her hand settles on my shoulder the arm continues to lengthen. Although the distance between her shoulder and elbow are elongating, her body remains in the same place. This visual impossibility is simply taken in stride. After all, this isnít normal reality anyways is it?
As Kaiís arms reach a length longer than her height (5+ feet), I still maintain an eery sense of sobriety within my thoughts. The clarity is limited to internal functionality I find. I realize the need to communicate to my partner what is happening, but the clean and concise sentences in my brain are not translatable to spoken words.
I come out with a horrible sentence, ďI donít remember ever tripping or feeling like this before . . . Ē. As soon as the words come out of my mouth I realize they are wrong. I can see the creases of concern form on Kaiís face. I take a moment to try and reconcile and revamp my communication. Itís clear that Kai thinks Iím on the edge of, or already inside, a bad trip. As a knowledgable guide, she acknowledges my limited response capability. She offers simple options to me: Water? Music? Silence? Warmth? Lie down?
As a knowledgable guide, she acknowledges my limited response capability. She offers simple options to me: Water? Music? Silence? Warmth? Lie down?
I am able to choke out, ďItís not bad . . . just . . . weird . . . sorry . . . hard to . . . explain.Ē
I ask in choppy phrases if we can go downstairs to bring up firewood in order to reinvigorate the fire which has petered out. As we navigate the stairs and light switches required to complete this task, I donít notice any significant coordination issues.
T + 05:57 [11:36 PM]
Once back upstairs, I collapse like an overused folding chair: mechanics gritty with sand and saltwater residue after a long day at the beach. It feels good to be lying out, like Iíve been relieved of some great weight or stress. The mental stability juxtaposed with extreme visual effects is becoming quite enjoyable.
I find that I canít give in completely and enjoy the experience. The uncertainty brought on by unfamiliar effects has me a little on edge. This is exacerbated by the fact that they're coming from substances I'm well acquainted with. My inability to communicate is another burr in my saddle. Iím already looking forward to the next time I reach this space again. Iíll be more prepared and wonít have the concern of worrying Kai. I continue to voice, as best I can, what everything looks like and how contrasting my mental condition is. Despite her unwavering positivity in all mannerisms, I can sense concern behind her smiles and reassuring comments.
The fire is roaring once again, I donít recall its progression, itís suddenly full force again. I estimate I've been on the couch for about fifteen minutes. It has felt longer, but itís obvious that some time dilation effects are occurring. Iíve been looking around the room, watching its shape shift and colors flush. This is mildly entertaining, but Iíve mostly been hypothesizing about why I have never found myself in a similar condition to this before.
With each passing second, I can feel myself retreating from the surreal world and returning to the normal one. Within minutes, the room looks slightly rubbery, rather than completely assembled from clay. The plants still look too green and perfect with their veins radiating and glistening as though they are about to glow in the dark. This is a large step in the direction of sobriety compared to the lunacy of the past hour. In tandem with the visuals decreasing, the part of my brain that translates thoughts to speech is coming back online. I demonstrate my abilities to Kai by explaining that I am coming down rapidly.
I walk around the house, continuing to feel fake. I am me, but I am not the thing that I picture as ďAnatoli SmorinĒ. Despite feeling more in control I am still somehow very deep in the experience . . . so far removed from reality that it feels as though I have left it entirely, now existing in a parallel to the ďnormal universeĒ. Everything looks so foreign, I could be dreaming. Despite the wobbling and warping of the world, which has become more malleable once again, I feel mentally clear and sober. There is no confusion or looping of thoughts.
There is no doubt however, that I am indeed coming down from the peak. In some ways this is an even more interesting condition to be in. The edge has been taken off. Iím able to take a deep breath and relish in the fact that I'm speaking somewhat normally now. With the potentially challenging part of the evening behind me, Iím more relaxed to explore my condition.
I am slow. I am peaceful. The world is welcoming. Everything feels like a slowed down version of normality. It simply feels right to be in this space. Anxieties, worries, all things negative: they just have no place here. I donít feel ďunder the influenceĒ but rather that I have been plucked up and plopped down in a different reality. A peaceful place, but alas, a fleeting place as well.
I feel myself coming back to ďrealityĒ too quickly. The surreality is fleeting, fading, leaving me . . . or am I leaving it?
Since the experience intensity started decreasing, the march to baseline has been steady and swift. I have dropped from a +++ to a + in less than thirty minutes.
T + 06:19 [11:58 PM]
I am writing a heap of commentary in my notebook. I know the oddness of the past few hours will only become harder to recollect as more time passes. Once Kai is convinced Iím truly coming down, and not just in a lull of intensity, she's able to provide me her perspective on my actions, mannerisms, and appearance.
T + 06:59 [12:38 AM + 1]
Satisfied with the notes I've put on paper, I shut the notebook and scan the room with a satisfied look on my face. I rise and walk to the kitchen. Its appearance is very normal, the colors are saturated and everything still looks a bit like itís made of hard plastic, but overall it looks as it does most days. I pour a stiff whiskey [4 fl oz. 40% ABV] over ice and begin to sip it. It is already growing late and I donít want to stay up all night if I can help it. I toss back .5 milligrams of clonazepam to push in the direction of sleep.
T + 07:30 [1:09 AM + 1]
Iíve finished my last drink. A warm seductive foggy buzz from the benzo and alcohol is creeping through my mind. No physical effects are noted at this time. I swallow another .25 milligrams of clonazepam using a small shot [1 fl oz. 40% ABV] of whiskey to help it down my throat. Kai makes her way to bed, leaving me to enjoy the fire from a comfy pile of pillows and blankets on the couch.
T + 08:02 [1:41 AM + 1]
I take another shot of the whiskey [1.5 fl oz. 40% ABV] to try and intensify the blissful sedation that is beginning to weigh down my limbs. The dissociative effects are still over a +. Compared to the prodigious assault on my visual interpretation of the world earlier, the mild saturation and visual static seem very tame. The world grows increasingly more normal. I canít help but notice that the underlying sense of relief grows stronger the more I reflect on the past few hours. Despite the fact that there was never any true panic or even discomfort, a piece of me was unnerved by the combination of quasi-normal brain functionality and potent visuals. The clonazepam and alcohol further assuage any sense of unease that might have remained in me.
My brain feels like itís physically relaxing, like a muscle that has been clenched for too long. Thoughts float in and out of it, like a stream without a current, whirling idly without theme or pattern. My mind is happy in this emptier state.
T + 08:26 [2:05 AM + 1]
Music is tolerable only if mellow in pace and volume. I sit with my elevator tunes, basking in the dim orange glow of the fire while mulling over the evenings events and writing some additional commentary in my notebook. I can see better than normal given the minimal lighting; I donít need any additional lighting even all the way in the kitchen, where I pour [2 fl oz. 40% ABV] of scotch over ice to sip on.
T + 08:47 [2:26 AM + 1]
Things are winding down in every sense of the words. Any remaining psychedelia seems to be hanging on by a thread. The weirdness is fading into a clouded memory of sorts. I have excellent recall of the details but it seems like someone elseís story; vivid, but distant. The version of me that was sprawled out on the floor becoming one with the house seems to have disappeared, hiding once again somewhere behind the curtains of my mind, no longer accessible in the first person.
The clonazepam and alcohol are fully manifesting. They are now more powerful than the esketamine and methoxetamine. My eyelids are heavy, but a stubborn mental stimulation buzzes beneath the weight of the sedatives. Surprised by the emptiness of the glass that I raise to my lips, I refill with a generous pour [4 fl oz. 40% ABV]. I drink quickly: more for the effects than the taste.
T + 09:10 [2:49 AM + 1]
I donít seem to be feeling any increase of intensity from the past few drinks. The clonazepam however, is flexing its muscles. A familiar and friendly blanket of relaxation creeps into the folds of my mind. It weighs down my limbs and saturates me with serenity. I know sleep is not far away. Not wanting to take any chances, I swallow .5 milligrams of clonazepam.
As I climb into bed beside Kai, enveloped by darkness, there are no remaining visual effects. The back of my eyelids are black. There is almost no visual static to be found when my eyes are open. All tinnitus has waned. The silence is true and welcomed.
Despite a pile of experience with all the substances involved (by themselves and in combination with each other), this felt like a first time in several ways. The authenticity and realness of the effects were striking. Some of my journeys on psychedelics in the past year have left me borderline jaded. I have been slightly too aware of the fact that the things I saw and felt were the result of something I ingested. They were powerful, but a tinge synthetic in their nature.
This latest foray was a cobweb remover if Iíve ever seen one. In the center of the experience I lost all sense of myself and forged into a single entity with both the house and the sounds that were happening at the time. Shortly after this, as the oddness of the Play-Doh world began unfolding, I had the absolute pleasure of being entirely submersed in the exploration of the new space. Reality itself seemed to have changed. There was no chemical trickery at work. This was the actual world
altering itself. Jarring? Yes. Unsettling? At first, yes. Despite the unexpected sensations, I never felt truly scared that things were seriously getting off the rails. As I came down from the peak, I noted several times how natural and positive things felt.
I felt completely at home amidst the strangeness. The visuals were severe Ė but they felt right. Sometimes I get very nervous before or during heavy experiences. This has been especially true for the past few years. Diving deep and not encountering any concern was refreshing. The strange intoxication felt normal despite being very not normal
I donít believe the MDMA played much role in the experience beyond that of a mild contributor or potentiator earlier on.
I donít believe the MDMA played much role in the experience beyond that of a mild contributor or potentiator earlier on.
It certainly was not responsible for the special alertness I was granted just after the peak of the experience. The timeline and dosage rule this out as a possibility.
The only frustrating part of the evening was that I was aware of the fact that to Kai and the outside world I was an incredibly inebriated version of myself incapable of communicating. I pictured myself standing awkwardly, sputtering out broken sentences trying to convey the fact that I was alright. My stream of thoughts felt entirely normal, but there was an impenetrable blockage between my mind and my mouth. A number of times I tried to say ďIím not having a bad time, I am just in a weird space and itís hard to communicate. I will let you know if I need help. I will probably be quiet and weird for a little while.Ē For the life of me this would not come out of my mouth until nearly an hour past the peak. Despite the fact that I knew Kai was concerned about me, it was not within my power to speak these few simple phrases. Iíd like to think that next time I venture into anything similar I will have the ability to at least get my point across and thus alleviate the concern of communication, allowing me to more fully enjoy the space.
The following day I did not note any hangover or lasting effects from the dissociatives. There was a dull glow from the benzodiazepines accompanied by excitement to discuss and document the previous nightís adventure.
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