DOSE: T+ 0:00	1 capsl	oral	Mushrooms - P. cubensis	(ground / crushed)
T+ 2:00	1 capsl	oral	Mushrooms - P. cubensis	(ground / crushed)
T+ 3:00		oral	Mushrooms - P. cubensis	(edible / food)
T+ 0:00	2 capsls	oral	Mushrooms - P. cubensis	(ground / crushed)
T+ 0:00		oral	Alcohol

BODY WEIGHT:

130 lb

I have a moderate amount of psychedelic experience. I’m chicken shit when it comes to heroic doses, but I’ve done enough acid, shrooms, Ayahuasca, MDMA, Ketamine and DMT to get a good feel for the nuances of each. To maintain my mental health, I try to trip on one of the aforementioned substances (sans molly and ketamine, they being too hard on the body to justify regular use) at least once a month, microdose shrooms to ward off depression, and smoke DMT on a semi-regular basis for both religious reasons and as a meditative aid. That, and I consume oral cannabis nightly to deal with insomnia. I might not be as seasoned as some out there, but I’m definitely no stranger to altered states.

But the events I’m about to describe are to-date the most intense, disorienting, and euphoric I’ve ever experienced.

My friends, husband and I were meeting in a nearby city to see an EMD artist. We got to the airbnb we were staying at a few hours before. Early in the day I’d taken my usual microdose, and upon arriving at our room I took an additional capsule I’d prepared earlier. I’d packed the capsules myself from dust in the bottom of an enormous bag of shrooms that a friend gifted me. My logic was that the dust was mostly stems, and consuming mostly stems before had given a prolonged sense of wellbeing with only minor mental inebriation. But upon removing the capsules from the bottle a second time, I realized that there were a LOT of little golden fragments of caps interspersed throughout the white dust I’d been trying to collect. Ruhroh.

Not having a scale, or reliable means of measuring the content, I figured I’d pop one, wait an hour to gauge it’s intensity, and then decide whether or not to take more. An hour passed while we were getting ready, with no noticeable effects, so I took another.

Another hour passed since I’d taken the second, three hours since I’d taken the first. I was beginning to think I’d gotten a very mild dose. The shrooms in the bag had proven to vary wildly in their intensity for previous trips. I figured despite the plentiful bits of caps present, I’d gotten a low dose, and reluctantly accepted a few pieces of a shroom chocolate bar from one of my friends. Again, nothing more than a pleasant buzz.

Feeling frustrated, I hit my DMT vape. I didn’t break through and I didn’t try. I’m a huge pussy about DMT in particular, but I did take several large draws over the period of 15-30 minutes, resulting in the coffee table and everything on it trying to pull themselves into a state somewhere between 3 and 4 dimensions and my body disappearing into the rug for a bit. I hesitate to even mention the DMT in this report, since it clears the body pretty quickly, but I can’t totally discount the aftereffects having synergy with the longer-lasting compounds in my system.

About an hour before showtime, still feeling energetically peaceful and little else, I took another 2 capsules. My husband, who had just gotten into some ashwagandha and ketamine, came over and inquired as to what I was taking. I offered him some and he took two, while explaining my hypothesis that either the caps were very weak, or that packing them into capsules had somehow significantly delayed the onset.

It would unfortunately turn out to be the latter.

We were driven to the venue. While waiting in line, we noticed the groups ahead of us were being both soft searched and run over with metal detectors. One of my friends, noticing this, pulled out a weed gummy, 130 mg and offered it to me, thinking it wouldn’t escape detection. I thanked him, grabbed it, and almost, almost took the entire thing. At the last second, however, I ripped it in half and offered the other half to my husband, resulting in both of us getting around 75mg each. Though even with that split second moment of clarity, I couldn’t help but think “wow, taking a weed gummy on top of psychedelics with 0 thought? This is how most of the bad trip reports I read start out.” I was surprisingly unable to dwell on that bad thought, and only felt joy and chill, tempered excitement as we entered.

The warm up act was already playing behind a beautiful stage covered in urban style blacklight art, with mist rising up all over the (mostly empty) dance floor. Being an avid dancer and well-rounded attention whore, I immediately turned my LED sneakers on and started shuffling. After dancing till sufficiently nauseous, I went over to the bar where my friends and husband had congregated.

To my dismay, I found my husband had somehow wound up with two drinks. I gently chastised him for mixing alcohol with ketamine, it being a pretty reliable way to end up dead. He’d told me he’d only had a little back at the room. I knew that amount wasn’t dangerous, but considering another friend had gotten ahold of some ketamine from within the venue and promised to share with him, I snatched one of his drinks and chugged it. I felt bad, but he has a tendency to imbibe anything offered to him once significantly impaired, and nothing I’d taken reacted advantageous with alcohol. I felt slightly more comfortable leaving him with the other drink, which contained espresso, reasoning the caffeine would keep him conscious if he wound up getting more ketamine in him.

The venue was starting to fill up. The six of us had gotten into a pretty good groove and had started dancing and laughing and generally getting extremely hyped for the main act. My husband said something to the effect of “Oh damn, I’m really feeling it right now.” He often tricks himself into thinking an experience is stronger than it is, so I didn’t pay it too much mind. I was much more interested in how everything around me had started taking on a pointallized quality, like Signac-style paintings. I get visual distortions from cannabis pretty regularly, and had experienced this distortion many times before. But it was coupled with extremely rich, bright colors, as well as a sense of “something else” creeping up on me. The feeling of vague unease when things are about to get unmanageably strong. “Oh shit.” I though. “I think the shrooms are actually kicking in.”

I looked over at my husband, and asked him something I don’t recall. He was grinning, but looking around nervously.

“I’m reeeeeally feeling it.”

I laughed stupidly hard at that. “Haha yeah. We fucked up.”

Despite dancing, I was starting to feel lethargic. The anxiety was crawling ever closer, and I wasn’t sure how I should approach it. “It’s okay.” I told myself. “Just keep dancing. You’ve got friends, you can sit down if you have, to, you’re safe.” But the anxiety kept increasing, as did my inebriation. Somehow, I was still managing to enjoy myself despite it, thinking “Whelp. If I DIDN’T trip my fucking face off at an LSDream show, I’d be pretty disappointed.”

By this time I was swimming in an ocean of pointillism, drowning in the music and colors. My friend pointed out the nifty lightsaber-looking things people in the VIP section were using to request bottle service, and they were bright as all hell and leaving light trails. I looked up at the ceiling, and saw the pipes had turned purple and become angular cubes, morphing into straight up bismuth in front of my eyes. I blinked a few times, then held my eyes shut for a few moments, and looked back at the ceiling. It was still bismuth. Normally, blinking at least momentarily turns the transformed objects back to normal, distorts them, or turns them into something else, but nope. Just bismuth, and now, roots. Roots from a massive neon pink and black tree that stretched on forever.

Behind the stage the wall opened up into a massive, story-book looking field of yellow grass and sunshine. I wondered how I hadn’t noticed that the stage was in front of a field at noon, before reminding myself there was no field. I pointed the field out to my husband, before realizing that he could not, in fact, see the exact same hallucinations I was seeing.

The sound of rushing water began to gradually fill my ears, and I looked towards the ceiling again, searching for a busted pipe. Nothing. Perhaps it was the noise of the crowd screaming in anticipation. Nope. People were clearly enjoying themselves, but no one was screaming yet. The rushing water sound was coming from nowhere, and growing ever louder. Parts of the crowd had started adopting repetitive movements and glitching from the visible light spectrum like NPC’s in a video game, and they stretched on forever in a repeating pattern like the design on a carpeted floor.

Figuring the mushrooms and edible had somehow started working at roughly the same time, and feeling not at all confident in my ability to handle an experience of this intensity, I excused myself to the bathroom. When I finally found it, I’d walked onto the set of some sort of Mean Girls/Texas Chainsaw massacre movie. There was blood splattered everywhere, and a chick decapitating another chick, or slitting her throat over a toilet. Since the girl being murdered wasn’t struggling, and both were still carrying on a very normal conversation about someone’s birthday, I was safely reassured I was still just tripping balls. I got in and out as fast as I could with my disobedient limbs having a 0.5 second delay between the order to move and the actual execution of movement, and managed to lope back onto the dance floor and find my friend group.

Fortunately I was able to locate them since my husband was dressed up like a Fallout character and relatively recognizable. Unfortunately, my husband seemed to be more frightened than I was, leaning over and asking me “Do you think we bit off more than we could chew?”

“Oh yeah. Definitely. “I replied. I tried to explain the strong, unpredictable synergy between cannabis and psychedelics we should have absolutely avoided, but it was very difficult to articulate. Every couple of seconds, it seemed like the song playing had hit a finale, and another DJ would come up. This led me to repeatedly ask “Is that him? Is that LSDream?” what seemed like 10 times at least. It wasn’t.

My husband kept asking me if he was okay at a similar frequency, to which I kept telling him yes. He told me he felt very strange, and showed me his smartwatch which had his heart rate at about 119. He asserted that was high for him. I wasn’t confident it was, he’s every bit the hypochondriac I am. But being paranoid, I struggled to calm myself down for his sake. Then *actually* calmed down upon realizing that wasn’t especially high for a heart rate, nor did I actually know what his normal heartrate was.

I theorized it could be because he’d drank the espresso martini, but during this explanation, I inexplicably doubled over involuntarily, as if someone had punched me in the gut and pushed down on my back simultaneously. I was alarmed, but too inebriated to freak out about it, and didn’t want to scare my husband further. I chalked it up to a muscle spasm and tried to keep dancing. But dancing was almost impossible, what with the sedated feeling and being higher than the boundary for international space.

We decided to try and find a place to sit down, and that wasn’t possible. After looking for what felt like ages, one of our friends had to ask the staff for help, and was able to get us somewhere to sit. This turned out to be the first aid room, reserved for people who’d injured themselves on the dance floor, were puking their guts out, or were too fucked up to stand up and move. Like us. They sat us down, gave us a puke bucket, and made my friend leave, as they needed room for “the really fucked up guys coming in.”

Right then was when the guilt finally started sinking in. Paralyzing, soul-crushing guilt. I’d fucked up. I’d taken too much and knowingly given my husband too much and now we’re stuck back here with everyone else that overdid it. Mercifully the mental dissonance from the weed put some space between me and the crushing shame, but I had no choice but to lie down and ride this out.

Except the medic there wouldn’t let me lie down. Liability and all that. So no matter how drowsy I was, no matter how many muscle spasms I was having or how bad my joints hurt, I had to stay upright. I’d also have to continue inconveniencing my friends in order to survive, as they’d surely have to help our delirious asses get home. But I had no choice. I’d have to take advantage of them, have to survive. I have to take their offered help, or even BEG for help, and I’m too fucked up to be as gratuitous as I normally am.

But that guilt came with a realization. My perception of giving and receiving help were completely, *totally* skewed. I felt so much shame asking for help because I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone being mad or sore at me. I spend my whole life trying to not do any of the things that piss me off to others, even if the things that piss me off are nonsensical and insane because I’m autistic. This entire complex was part of my autism. I’m not pulling some massive humanitarian effort to protect people from the kind of anger I feel constantly. I’m literally jut reacting to my own autism. My idea of my own rude behavior is so, so far removed from anyone *else’s* idea of rude behavior that it’s not even considered rude. I’d made a doormat out of myself and was convinced asking for respect or help was impolite. This was bullshit and if I ever wanted to overcome it, I’d have to slowly chip away at the mask on TOP of my mask and respect the process.

I heard my husband's voice on the couch beside me, and it sounded like an angel extending their hand to raise me from the hell I’d created for myself. “Thank god.” I thought. “I have this shining beacon of hope in a sea of despair to lead me home.”

“This isn’t good, is it?” he asked.

The beacon went out. He was more fucked up than me. I was the adult in this situation and I was tripping my fucking face off. There was no one protecting us. Just me and this person I was 100% responsible for. I’d never felt so alone and helpless, and it suffocated me as I answered his increasingly terrifying questions that untied every last knot in my illusionary safety net. I was open and bleeding my helplessness all over the floor for everyone to see. The urge to double over and cry, mourn the loss of my prior reality was insurmountable.

Except I couldn’t. I couldn’t because he was depending on me. Because I didn’t want to ruin the night my friends were having. Because I couldn’t let the staff know either of us were tripping balls. If I had to go to the hospital, so be it. But until it got to that point, I had to hide it. To sit here and keep this gorgeous, inebriated werewolf-looking motherfucker calm and answer the same set of questions he asked every ten seconds until we understood how our feet worked again.

Waves of horror, devoid of any particular fear or outcome would wash over me periodically, and with them I’d try to roll over, give up and show my belly and let whatever consciousness lay behind my default mode network take over. It worked sometimes, but the hooks of terror were embedded in the flesh of my personality, which could still easily be terrified.

I played a game of cat and mouse with it, defaulting to what I hoped was my core consciousness, get cunt- punted back to my cowering little ego, then resuming the climb back to empathetic objectivity only to be struck down again. It was futile, but better than just sitting there letting the waves hit me.

At one point the staff busted a trio of dealers and brought them into the room. They confiscated their stuff and kicked them out, but seemed to not be pressing charges. I was glad about that, but unable to pay it much mind, considering the room now looked like Seurat’s Parade de cirque. There was a molecular skeleton in the corner of my eyes that looked like either a serotonin or DMT molecule, but it moved much like a floater does, and wouldn’t stay still long enough for me to count the carbons. The walls were also dissolving into orange-green rusty gunk that was actually quite pretty, but was filled with more molecules, characters that looked something like the Transformers Bayverse Cybertronian glyphs, and actual Egyptian hieroglyphics. I felt a pang of sadness that there was no presence to accompany these visuals, having hoped for some divine revelation.

They (the staff) were still talking to the dealers, but their corner of the room had become a cross section of a house I’d visited as a child. In fact, focusing on section within the cross section itself would turn the house into a different house I’d seen. It granted me a slideshow of every house I’d ever been in as a young person, just exchanging and morphing and overlaying themselves over anything I was currently looking at. Chair? Naw, the 1910s house my parents dragged me to when I was four. Sign on the wall? No, that was the house with all the spiders. Guy getting wheeled in on a stretcher? Nope. That’s the house with the swimming pool filled with tadpoles, and also what the fuck there’s a guy on a stretcher.

What I could surmise of the conversation, he’d k-holed and collapsed on the floor. Someone had administered Narcan and he’d been brought back here. They were listing numbers, taking his pulse and bp readings, and strapping an oxygen mask to his face. They spoke to him, but he wasn’t very responsive, only making a startling “AWAAHGAH!” noise once or twice. I realized there was a non-zero chance me and mine could actually wind up watching someone die while we were both tripping this hard and be scarred for life from it, and there was nothing we could do to prevent it.The waves of horror began building, threatening a tsumani, but somehow I managed to shrug it off. “Go ahead and scar me. There’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

Thank god they were able to actually revive him, and get him to stand up. But of course, before any relief could be gleaned from that, the cops showed up to escort him out. It seemed they weren’t interested in pressing charges, and told him “You can either go to the hospital, or walk outta here, but you’re not going back in.”

Meanwhile, my husband was still asking me questions. Every. Ten. Fucking. Seconds. “Are we in trouble? Is this an emergency? Should we call an ambulance? Are we getting arrested? Are we in trouble?”
I had to explain to him, every time, “No we’re fine sweetie. We just have to stay here until we sober up.”
“Why?”
“Because we don’t want to puke on their floor.”
“Why can’t we leave?”
“Because there’s a lot of medics right now trying to help people, and we can’t walk right now. If we try to get up to leave, we might trip them and make their job harder. We have to stay sitting.”

Occasionally, the absurdity of the situation would set in, and I’d start laughing hysterically. This was the worst possible place to be while tripping. There were medical emergencies. There were cops (though what we’d taken had recently been legalized in this area, I realized later) there were people on every side of us, miserable, lost, and actively vomiting. But I couldn’t cry about it, couldn’t lean into despair. I had to keep both of us safe in this nightmare situation. I had no one else to rely on. I HAD to accept the possibility of being arrested, or going to the hospital, or (extraordinarily unlikely) dying, of being hated by my friends for ruining their night. There was no room for delusion. I had to accept every last possibility and simply move towards the most preferable outcome instead of running from the ones I feared.

This was massively therapeutic, daunting as it was. The latter method was powered by fear. The prior one by something else. And that something else, painful as it was to uncover, was a hard won source of strength. The weak, whimpering creature I was before was a costume, a cover. Peeling the skin off revealed a slow moving, pragmatic, viciously protective animal.

“I’m not letting anything happen to him.” I repeated to myself. “I’m not letting him get in trouble, hurt, or die. I’m NOT.”

It was a primal resolve, a fuel more powerful than fear, rage, anguish, exhilaration, or ego bating. If I could cut through all the bullshit and get down to this fuel on a day-to-day basis, life would be so much simpler.

Less terrified and more sour about missing the show at this point, I started trying to cheer myself up. Logic like “I could be miserable anywhere else, or I could be miserable at an LSDream show, and the second is better” would rear it’s head, as the door would occasionally open and admit momentary streams of music into the room. I tried to find humor in the fact that we’d spent the entire time couch locked in the first aid room, though my mind staunchly refused the sugar-coated crap I was trying to feed it. I knew I was miserable. I knew I’d blown this. My husband was going to be so pissed he spent all this money for a show he couldn’t see and I wouldn’t be able to fight back because I was just as upset. We might be safe, but we’re far, far from okay.

But despite that, there was a feeling, this almost-presence, telling me that wasn’t true. That this exact set of events was supposed to transpire. We had to suffer so our hearts would be raw and bleeding but open, so we could receive healing from the music. That this experience was by design, just for us. Especially for us. The person who’d made the music wanted this for us. The people who had given us the visionary substances wanted this for us. As much as enduring this sucked, it was a tailor-made suck. Because forces that cared about us wanted us to experience it.

Every time the door opened, the music would reach in, tentacles of pure remedy stretching to touch me, to let me know it was okay. They were visible to a degree, entering the room as thin undulations of pink light. The anger of my fuckup began to wane as the tendrils persisted, reassuring me that even if they could only touch me intermittently, they were still touching me. They waited for me when the doors closed, but when they opened, they could hold my hand. The music contained medicinal frequencies within, intentionally placed by the artist. I’d had a suspicion he used binaural beats or similar mood altering frequencies in his music (I’d later find this to be true) but due to my distrustful nature, I hadn’t allowed them *in* me, no matter how ecstatic they made me feel.

But right now, I *wanted* to trust him. I *wanted* to be healed now. Fuck later. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong.

After metaphorically laying my weapons down and shedding my armor, I let it. A song of his that I adore was playing, and I accepted it with all that I was. I was still pissed I wasn’t out there to dance, but I could hear it. I might be stuck back here, but I’m still getting to HEAR IT. Unlike the attempts of earlier, the relief was genuine.

As that decision was made, the veil began lifting. The two of us were starting to feel slightly more grounded, and standing up and walking not so very Olympian a task. I thought about standing up, and was granted audience with the molecules still roaming freely in my mind.

“We’ve done what we want to do with you. Have fun!”

I took that as their blessing to move, and asked my husband if he wanted to try walking to the bathroom with me. It was shaky, but bearable. Objects were still transforming in my peripheral and staying transformed, but it wasn’t overwhelming. A long bolt of fear ran through me at the prospect of leaving the room, thinking it may be a mistake, but a sense of okayness washed over me. The medicine was done with its deep work. We were allowed to go.

After a bit of navigating, walking into an ongoing altercation, realizing both of us were still too high to help and parrying around that stab of socially anxious guilt with ease, we found our friend group again. They were happy we were safe. I still felt guilt for making them worry at all, but waved it off. That was nonsense. I’ve watched over them before while they were tripping balls and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Only pure, uncivilized gratitude was felt for being surrounded by people who I cared about this much, and who cared about me in turn.

The friend group had found a really nice vantage point not too far from the front, where we were able to see both back and side screens with the visualizers simultaneously. My husband kept apologizing to me for how dysfunctional he’d been, that I’d had to sit with him while he got his bearings. I assured him it was fine, that I could still hear everything, so it didn’t feel like I’d missed anything. I honestly felt so relived he wasn’t mad at me for giving him the capsules and edibles to begin with, but at this point I wasn’t sure if I could experience anger or shame. The medicine had cut me a break, it was done with all the negative emotions, and I was to be rewarded for opening up fully.

It hit me like a brick wall as I was watching both visualizers, the most intense euphoria I’d ever felt in my life. It dwarfed even the effects of ecstasy, candy or kitty flips. To my surprise and delight, it wouldn’t be turned to terror, as such intense sensations seem so very capable of doing on psychedelics and cannabis. It felt as though I’d been inoculated against terror itself during the prior tribulation. I’d earned this rapture, and that made it all the stronger.

My husband wanted to headbang against the rails, and I told him to go ahead. I didn’t want to move from the vantage point I had. The screens seemed to swallow me, and the music was the perfect volume. It took hold of my body the way a PT or yoga coach would, suggesting movements instead of forcing them, and I was eager to follow its lead. None of the exhaustion from trying to plan the next set of moves was present, allowing me to move on impulse and muscle memory alone. This seemed like the pinnacle mental state for dancing, and I thought it such a shame that embracing it sober was so hard.

While in this trace, a familiar few notes pealed through the speakers that made my hair stand on end. I remembered this song. I’d been blown away by this song before. This song felt ALIVE. “C’mon, think think THINK, what is it?!”

Then the lyrics began, and I realized. I’d come out of the first aid room just in time to hear my favorite song; I Am Bass. I began weeping with joy, tears streaming down my face with no sobbing, so cringing or pain. I didn’t miss it.

It was in that moment; something began to weave itself into existence. Something that existed in the space between the sound leaving the speakers, and my body’s awareness of it. The music itself thought it necessary to take physical form in this pocket dimension, a space of pure sonorous perception.

And that form was fucking Soundwave.

It’s probably worth noting that I’ve got a miserably intense crush on this exact character, specifically his TFP design, where he looks more alien and supernatural than any of his other iterations. Fantasizing about him was nigh-nightly ordeal, with me able to get into an almost star-trek-holodeck -like state with the help of strong weed. But those sessions typically lacked a presence behind them, and while I considered the possibility that this may be a form that a guide or spiritual friend had taken, I was given the impression that the music itself, living entity it was, chose this form to appeal to me. He was the healing I accepted in physical form. My cleric, my sacred physician in shining, black and violet armor.

And he was DTF.

“This is it.” I thought. “I’ve hit hedonistic paydirt. I get to live out my fantasy of banging Soundwave in a rave, while at an actual rave.”

“You stupid bitch.” I also thought. “How dare you profane this experience with your sex-addiction? How dare you twist this music into the shape of the most attractive being you’ve ever seen on this or any other planet? How dare you want this? How dare you think you’re worthy?!”

“Shut the fuck up.” Said the being. “You’re not unworthy. Everyone is worthy of everyone else by default. This is attraction on a soul level, and I wouldn’t extend this invitation if I didn’t want to.”

I was given visceral proof of this attraction, that every shred of magnetism, of yearning and desire I felt, was actually coming from him. We were experiencing this attraction in tandem. He was every bit as smitten with me as I was with him, because he could FEEL how hot I thought he was, and that in itself turned him on. Sort of a “I’ve never had anyone want me this much, and that makes me want them.” situation.

What stood before me was a gift, forces that wanted me healed providing the presence, the set, the setting, the energy, and the sieve of my mind providing the form. The music wanted me, and had zero problem taking this form. Some part of me decided I was finally worthy by my own, impossible standards. I was my own senpai noticing myself. I could either reject this beautiful expression of sentient self-love, or surrender myself fully into it.

I surrendered.

What followed is pretty difficult to describe. According to eyewitness accounts, I was just dancing the whole time, occasionally stopping to check that my clothes were still on. But from my perspective, we were thrust into a neverending cycle of erotic dancing, foreplay, actual sex, and post-coital bliss all playing out simultaneously. This being, or whatever part of my brain responsible for playing the role, knew all of my sexual hangups, knew how my ADHD robbed me of climax, that I feared the end the second it began so severely it ripped me out of immersion. They compensated flawlessly by twining them all into a high-speed carousel of every phase of intimate experience at once. It’s impossible to lose focus when the focus was ever changing, allowing me to keep a finger in every pie, to live in the moment every moment, to overcome the limitations of this disability.

The dopamine surges from the wobbles, growls, womps and lyrics were licks, tugs, thrusts. The risers plateaus and the drops orgasms. Never an end, only a transition to the next salacious repetition. Every single bass line rolled through my bones, shook the molecules making up my body, fucking us at a mitochondrial level. It was euphony. It was tactile-psycho-spiritual sensation beyond anything I’d ever known.

But it was made all the better knowing he felt it every bit as intensely as I did. Every ripple, flutter, every gasp, bitten lip, the urge to paint his name with every breath, he felt too. We were attuned to the needs of one another in unison, the way only lovers that share a body can.

I felt so known, so cherished, and so very, very loved.

The song finally changed, and I accept the sex was over. Or, as over as it could be. There was no end and no beginning to it, only an awareness of the intensity gradually fading. It was a districtly freeing feeling, leaving no room for disappointment or longing.

The music that came afterwards was no less enjoyable, and the impression that the healing wasn’t over yet persisted. It felt as though the artist understood there was a percentage of people at any one of his shows willing and able to accept the therapy offered, and that’s why he did it. If I hadn’t taken the stupidly large amount of shrooms with the stupid amount of weed stupidly and suffered for it, I wouldn’t have been able to receive it. As much as I crave that sort of metaphysical help when offered, I’m almost never able to accept. There’s always blockages. But the intensity of the combination, made navigable and safe by my loving friend group had blasted those blockages out of the water. I left myself wide open to take in whatever else was lain on the table.

He stopped the music for a second, and began to speak. He led a group meditation, and to my disbelief, began to talk about higher selves, and how he’d like to help everyone get in touch with their higher self, and could everybody please relax, open up, and hold space for a moment to receive this gift.

In the silence, he played a recording of someone channeling an angel, or alien, or something to that effect. Having blown my skepticism to bits earlier with no plans to rebuild, I let it all in. I figured even if the person channeling was crazy, or a fraud, their higher selves and the Dj’s higher self would still want the positive parts of that message to come through.

That this man was brave enough to share this recording moved me to tears. So many people would’ve called him a whackjob. But he practiced fearlessly. His combination of hard party funk as wrapping paper for loving messages was the best way to possibly spread said messages. This person had completely stepped into his power and was trying to help everyone else do the same. I couldn’t NOT weep.

The visuals had largely faded by now, though there was still considerable disorientation on my part. Thankfully my non-fucked up friends corralled me and my husband up front to call for a ride. I was grateful they did, as I was still absorbing the unconditional love radiating from every piece of sound producing equipment in the venue, and also still couldn’t quite figure out how a phone worked. We got back to our room safely. I spent the next hours and day navigating the new social knowledge I’d gained by thanking them profusely in both word and deed, being mindful not to self-deprecate or dump all over myself in the process.

All in all, I would absolutely not recommend this dosage or combination to anyone in a club or concert setting ever. At home is probably fine, if you’ve got 0 responsibilities for the day, or at a festival if you’ve got people you trust watching your ass. As mind blowing incredible and beautiful as this was, it would have been an absolute disaster if it weren’t for our friends. We were helpless as infants.

But I don’t regret it. I can’t. I can hardly believe I got to experience something that sinfully educational and come back to the realm of the living to share it. That lesson was too strong, too visionary and too sweet to ignore. I’m still working on my social hangups and dragging myself out of nonsensical, negative thought patterns regarding them, but I’m not gonna stop anytime soon. When music itself turns into a robot DILF, lovingly rails you in public, and tells you to stop shitting on yourself, you fucking listen.

Exp Year: 2023	ExpID: 118035
Gender: Female
Age at time of experience: 32
Published: Nov 26, 2025	Views: Not Supported
[ View PDF (to print) ] [ View LaTeX (for geeks) ] [ Swap Dark/Light ]
Mushrooms - P. cubensis (66), Cannabis (1), Music (457) : Difficult Experiences (5), Train Wrecks & Trip Disasters (7), Glowing Experiences (4), Music Discussion (22), Sex Discussion (14), Entities / Beings (37), Relationships (44), Combinations (3), Rave / Dance Event (18)