"TRIPS"

TRIPS : PART I WHAT WAS ONCE ....
LSD effects everyone in many different ways. There are several factors that can contribute to the effects. The different types or potency or the age of the acid are just some of these factors. A persons emotional and mental state has a great deal to do with experiencing a good trip or a bad trip. The same LSD on a different day could produce a completely different effect the next. Not knowing what to expect was part of the draw for me, but it was mostly the great appreciation for seeing things that were not supposedly there. Now, most people could just relax, enjoy the show, and the company of others, but acid for me did not allow relaxation. I could not stay in one place for more than a few minutes, nor could I stay around anyone for too long. My very first experience with acid taught me to leave open a lot of options for moving around and getting away.
The first LSD I ever took was generally considered as an extremely potent kind compared to most acid called Windowpane. It is clear and comes in a sheet like thick paper which is divided up into small squares. The recommend dosage was to take half of one of these very small squares. Even most of the experienced users only took half, but I, being of sound mind and body, took the whole thing.
This was on a warm October Friday night, about a month after my overdose on barbiturates. I was living in Guernsey with my grandparents. Several of my friends and I were at a outdoor party outside of town by the Slue (the same slue that I had drowned in about six years earlier, but a little farther East). Jimbo, one of our fellow partiers, had purchased a hundred lot (or a full sheet). As per usual custom, he throw a party with it. I had heard about this acid party about a week before and I was expecting my cousin Russell to show up later from Torrington. He had a lot more experience at this than I did, so I was expecting him to fill me on the finer points of tripping. However, by the time Russell had gotten there, I already had a half of an hour head start on him. So, wanting to catch up, he put his in his eye instead of taking it orally.
We caught a ride with Jimbo to the Slue in his red, 1972 340 Duster. I wasn't sure if I had started tipping yet, not having been there before, but "Diamond Dogs" by David Bowie never sounded so good. However, as per Russell's usual, he took off to chase girls and other drugs before explaining any of what might happen to me. The effects were already starting for me, but I did not really know until latter what those effects where.
While everyone was doing there thing, I stood by the camp fire. Feeling 'normal', watching the flames, I was wondering if I was tripping yet. A joint was handed to me by one of the other's by the fire. All I could do was roll it between my fingers. I did not know what it was nor could I recognize the sensation of having some thing in my hand. It felt like nothing I'd ever felt before. I was trying to describe it to myself. This was not due to the fact that I not held a joint in my hand before, but some misconnection between my hands and my mind. I was sorting through my ever increasing list of possible explanations, with complete joy and innocent wonder, when someone next to me spoke.
"Hey! What are you doing? Don't bogart that joint, Man."
Her voice not only startled me from my solitude, but sounded strangely offensive and condescending. Reluctantly, I handed it back over to her. I walked to the other side of the party were Russell was sitting on the ground, leaning against the tire of an old blue, Chevy pick-up truck. Their were some other 'heads' there, a couple of girls and a friend of mine, Bob, who were talking among themselves. Of course, Russell was working on one of the young ladies no doubt trying to persuade her to see the many wonderful benefits of having sex with him. I just stood near by, having a conversation with myself. Not sure what I was feeling or if I was taking a trip yet, I began to feel like I knew most of the answers to life. I just couldn't quit hold those thoughts in my hands yet.
"Hear! Take a hit off of this, Man," Bob demanded as he jammed a bottle of whiskey into my shoulder. Bob was, a tall thin, greasy-haired gas station attendant who was about three years older than myself. He was a senior and had his own car. I would spend some of my evenings at the gas station, smoking Camels, discussing life as we knew it, and waiting for him to get off work so we could drink wine or smoke pot.
Strictly by a physical reaction, I took the bottle, with out looking at what it was or thinking about what I was doing, and took a very large drink. The warm whiskey bolted down my throat. As I brought my arm and the bottle down from my face, the top of my head blow off. My face was completely engulfed in an intensely bright fireworks show that shot endlessly into the Heavens above. My entire body and sight were completely surrounded by an exploding volcano of brilliant reds, yellows, and oranges that shot above me with dizzying speed, exiting with a vengeance. It was as though my head was stuck inside of some huge Roman candle on the 4th of July, exploding with the eternal fires of beautifully colored Chinese gun powder. Fortunately, I was able to pull the top of my head back on and halt the eruption. I quickly gave the bottle back, noticing that it was whiskey, something I'd acquired a nasty taste aversion to from my first ever getting drunk and puking experience a little over two years ago. Without having any negative stomach reactions or saying a word to them, I walked over to stand near the fire again, and the hell away from everyone else.
The camp fire provide a unique warming experience for me. Moreover though, it provided a very interesting light show on the eight foot cliff above the slue just across the still, dark water from were I stood. The gleeful shadows from the dancing flames, the delightful reflections across the smoked glass water, and the surreal echoes from the parties conversations began to speak with me in a dialect that only I could understand. There were fantastic, floating shapes of burnt orange that flickered and danced before me. Their mesmerizing show had me pleasingly entranced and completely detached from the noises and yelling behind me. The dancing spectacles from the flicker of the flame began to move in rhythm.
The orange patterns began to change into large connected diamonds with pale black outlines. The orange diamonds slowly began marching from my left to the right like a carousel at the county fair on a moon lit night. There size began to diminish. Their rows increased as they picked up the pace of their flowing movement until it spun like a spinning top. The speed and the colors of this motion drew me in as I began to float over the water into the dark sky above it. My body was light as if experiencing zero gravity. My mind care free and open to all of the Wonders of the Universe. The final frontier known as outer space called me to journey where no man had gone before. The distant plants, the bright stars, the Heavens were all breathing, full of life and love, each one, a beautiful, exciting sentient being. With soft voices of love, fun, and understanding, they beckoned me to explore their vast beauty, far from any pain or misery that was thought to be my reality. It was just me, peace, tranquility, and all of the Wonderful Knowledge of the Universe with all of it's splendor and glory forever and ever. As I floated along, I gave myself completely and willingly, with grace and the ease of a million daily unconscious breaths, never to return.
"Tiiimmmm," an accusingly joyful voice yelled in my ear, while the drunk person slapped me on the back, nearly knocking me down into the cold, stale water.
"What 'er ya doooin'?"
I did not turn to face them or say a word. I just walked over to where Russell was and told him I had to leave. He understood my sense of urgency as I turned and started walking away. We left the party and did not return. Sadly, I would never again return to that final frontier.
We walked and talked and he explained to me everything that I was thinking and feeling, giving me full instructions on how to enjoy acid. Before the trip was over, I experienced many wonderful colors and confusing body sensations. I found it very difficult to explain or vocalize anything, although I knew all of the solutions to the World's problems. I smelled and tasted color, saw sound (music by Emerson, Lake, and Palmer from my stereo speakers) and had a Pringles eating contest. During this contest, I tried to explain to Russell that I was experiencing da ju vo and had seen this particular moment in a dream, but could not even come close to making this simple description. However, all of this tremendous beauty and wonder paled in comparison to my trip into space at the Slue.
Sleep would not find me until late that next evening. Throughout the day after the party, I tried very hard to remember all of those great thoughts and ideas I had, but they where gone. The World would not be saved that day. The memories of all the mixed senses sensations where and are still very vivid in my mind, but there is no way I can explain them to anyone. Those of you who have taken your own trips without leaving the farm, know what I mean. Maybe some day, if I learn telepathy, I can take you who haven't on a journey to the center of my mind and you will understand.
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TRIPS : PART II ... FUN, SOON ...
LSD, some opiates, and other hallucinogenic have an interesting perk: it's often never as 'good' as the very first time. Many addictions, and overdoses, stem from this fact. That never ending search for that wonderful first time experience can become an obsession. None of my numerous other LSD experiences were as 'good' as that first one. It wasn't from lack of effort on my part. Some did, however, come close and were very entertaining.
My second trip was on something called Orange Wedge. It looked like a vitamin C tablet and was not particularly 'good,' I mean potent. Russell and I had went to this particular party on a cold Saturday night in an even smaller town close to Guernsey, Fort Laramie. This town had a total population of less than three hundred. We were in a small trailer house on the north edge of town. I did not know the person who lived there, nor most of the people there. As far as great effects and hallucinations, they just never happened. Is was like a complete opposite of the first time. Of course, that had to do with the quality and quantity. At any rate, I was just setting in the living room on a bean bag chair enjoying my own company not really paying much attention to the others who where drinking beer and playing cards. I was, however, enjoying the music.
"Have you heard this?" Russell asked. He was setting on the couch next to me, smoking a cigarette. In the back bedroom was a couple doing the horizontal bob, or some other way, but more importantly was the Eight-track player.
"No," I answered. We shared a common interest in the type of music we liked, as did the rest of my cousins, Bruce included. This was the same Bruce from the drowning at the Slue thing and Russell's older brother. He wasn't there though, because he did not approve of us taking chemicals, especially cheap acid. Smoking pot and drinking was OK, but none of that other stuff.
"It's the new Aerosmith album."
"Oh," I answered, not really knowing who they were.
"Well, actually, it's been out for a while. Less than a year. It's pretty good."
"What's it called."
"Get Your Wings."
I just sat there and listened. That was pretty much me at that time, though. I just wanted to set and listen to music and think. I wasn't much into chasing wild women as Bruce and Russell were, but I did occasionally. The eight-track tape played all the way through several times. I remembered one song in particular that is still one of my favorites, a cover of an old blues tune, "Train Kept a Rollin'." While I sat there listening, think about nothing and everything, a car drove by.
"Oh, shit!" a person looking out the window yelled. "It's your parents!"
I looked to my right to see who he was talking to and noticed no one there. Everyone had ran out of the house, except for Russell and I, and the two in the back room who probably didn't miss a beat. Everyone from the kitchen table was gone as well, including the proprietor of the house and our ride back to Guernsey. It 's about seventeen miles to Guernsey, plus cold, dark, and snowing.
"What a bunch of Fuck-ups," Russell announced with his usual candor. That was his favorite term for people he thought were stupid or did something stupid, which was pretty much everybody.
"I guess people in Shit-kickerville don't see many cars." I have no idea when he looked to see for sure(if he did). What he was implying was true, though. It was just a car passing by and possibly no ones parents at all; at least one's not interesting in this particular soirée. So, we just sat there, listening to Aerosmith.
After a short, time, someone Russell knew came by and gave us a ride back to Guernsey. None of the people every did return before we left, but the eight-track and the two in the back room were still going. We sat in the attic of Grandmas' garage without heat for several hours, listening to Blue Oyster Cult on my eight track, smoking cigarettes, not saying much.
On my next trip, I took three hits of Purple Microdot. Along with them, I shared a bottle of wine between three other people that had a hit in it. They were friends of mine from Guernsey, with no cousin Russell from Torrington. After consuming the 'electric wine', my friend Gerald and I took an unauthorized ride in his father's truck. Riding along, I noticed that I could not feel my legs or buttocks against the seat. When I put my hands down to check both my legs, the truck seat and mine, I could feel them both in my hands. After the short ride in another snow storm, I went home to get some sleep.
As I lay there in bed, I saw a huge, Chinese-type dragon walking toward me. He was green and blue, about five foot long, and about three foot tall. He slowly ambled toward me, his thick short legs moving awkwardly, yet rhythmically and deliberate. His crouching back-end strutted to and fro with his thick, long tail swinging in time. As he nonchalantly approached me, I could see his long, forked, red tongue slowly move in and out of his mouth. It moved like a Hawaiian hula dancer imitating the tide in slow motion, her arms flowing in rhythm with some special melody that I could feel, but not hear. He got right next to my bed, close enough for me to touch him. As I reached out to give him a friendly stroke on the back, he took off with blazing speed. He moved so quickly that all I saw was a blur of blue and green. He hit the closed door, shattering into millions of tiny dragons. They quickly multiplied, covering the entire ceiling, floor, and walls.
"Whoa! I better get some sleep. I've got school tomorrow," I said aloud and rolled over to sleep.
I would latter do some blotter acid, again on a school night. I had every intention of setting in "the attic" alone, listening to music. However, several people showed up at different times, so, I ended up leaving with some friends.
There was seven of us in Spot's ( a friend who's real name is Robert and is Gerald's older brother) red 1966 Impala SS 396. Santana was playing on the eight-track. There was very little conversation. All of us were tripping, of course, as per the usual custom. We were driving out to the lake when a deer darted across the road in front of the car. It stopped on the passengers side of the road about twenty-five feet from us and looked at us.
"Stop!" Gerald yelled to Spot. Gerald reached into the glove box, producing a small handgun, and jumped out the front seat. He took aim and shot at the deer. The deer fell immediately to the ground.
"Shit! Shit! I thought this had blanks in it?" Gerald asked in complete surprise.
"It does," Spot answered. "You better go over there an see what happened."
Gerald got to within about five feet of the fallen deer and it leaped to it's feet, running off, scaring Gerald sober. Latter that afternoon, as we were driving back from the lake, one of Spot's tires fell off the car.
We were on the bridge just before entering town on the main highway. I was in the back seat by the passenger side door, the same side of the car the tire fell from, when I felt the car drop. As I looked out the window, I saw the same colorful sparks I saw from the whiskey deal, only not as beautiful. Several in the car panicked, thinking we would be busted and go to jail. More mass hysteria. Some ran, some stood around and complained, I helped change the tire.
How many more times I tripped on 'crazy' after this, I'm not really sure, maybe three or five more times. Each time, I was hoping to duplicate my space voyage. Increasing the dose or trying different types was interesting, but it just became futile after a while. All I wanted was to see the pretty pictures. Some how, I'd forgotten the need for isolation. I failed to recognize that this particular drug of choice had run it's course, losing it's charm after the first try. Instead of dropping it then, I kept at it with a vengeance until it became very negative and harmful ( a habit I would retain for my entire drinking and drugging career). The experiences had started to change or maybe it was more like losing the good and increasing the bad. My negative social behavior had gotten worse. I had become paranoid. The wonderful hallucinations had stopped and I was developing feelings of dread, especially on my last two trips.
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TRIPS : PART III ... BECAME VISES, ...
After I moved to Cheyenne to live with my parents, I tripped twice more. However, any of the fun and glamour stayed back in Guernsey. The first of these two was on a cold Saturday night in December.
I was sixteen, a junior in high school, had a full time job, and my own car that I was paying for myself. I had my own room in my parents double-wide trailer house that we had only lived in since late August. Working six days a week and being the new kid in town did not provided me with much social time with fellow class mates or for any after school activities (school sanctioned or otherwise). In fact, I had only a few acquaintances until I got my car in November. After I got my 1968 Dodge Charger R/T, it seemed as though I had tons of 'friends.' What few friends I had were one's I worked with or some from Guernsey who had moved up here around the same time as me.
Spot and Gerald were two of those friends from Guernsey. They were brothers and they shared a trailer house where I spent most of my limited free time. This was the same Spot who owned the red Impala, although not any more. I guess they called him Spot after the pet under the stairs in the Munster's house, that and he was a very large person. Their trailer was close to mine, about two blocks away. It was just behind the restaurant where I worked nights as a cook, which made it real convenient for me to make a quick stop on the way home after work. We did a lot of different things together, but it always included drinking or smoking pot. However, on this night, we had something a little different planned.
They had purchased a hundred lot of Purple Microdot. This was the same acid that Jimi Hendricks was supposed to have stuck under his headband before doing shows. A little trip without leaving the farm was in order.
One of their rooms was empty except for the stereo and a few beanbag chairs. This was the "music room." It was the third room in the house from the front. The first being the kitchen, the second the living room, the next a bedroom, the next a bathroom, and the last another bedroom. I did my two or three hits and settled in for some melting on one of the beanbags in the "music room." Black Sabbath's "Master of Reality" was to take me to the promised land, but a friend of Spot and Gerald's who dropped by had other plans.
Buck's idea of tripping was similar to Russell's, chasing wild women. He felt that was what everyone else should be doing as well. His plan was to show me that the music was just a trick and that my method of travel was petty. He would then humiliate me into being a man and chasing wild women with him. He put his plan into motion by removing the needle from Master of Reality, then replaced it with another record.
"Look, see. These songs are all the same," he began informing me while "Green-eyed Lady" by Sugarloaf began playing.
"They all start out, then they have this part in the middle that is different and slower ant it makes you forget about the song and then it starts playing the same parts as the first, making you think the song started over again." His voice was thick with condescension.
"You need to listen to real music and go out and get some chicks." He took the Sugarloaf album off, put on ZZ Topps' Fandango, and went back into the living room.
I had no reply, none that I wanted to verbalize anyway. Why would I? This was the first I had ever seen of this person, never met him before in my life. I suppose I could have thanked him for the music 101 lesson and oh, by the way, that part in the middle is called the bridge, there, Smart Guy. Sometimes, the bridge is used to insert a guitar solo, but we're among friends here and there's no need to be technical. Same shit I would get from Russell at times about what a man is supposed to be and about how getting laid is the one and only, single most important thing in the World. Admittedly, it was very important to me as well, but it did not consume all of my time and my thoughts. Not at this point in my life, anyway. The most prominent thing on my mind was this guys bumming my high, so walked out into the living room. The mood was gone for a quite trip to finding the final frontier. It was replaced by a slight feeling of contempt and the growing sensation that everyone thought I was stupid, spaced-out, and not a human.
We all sat in the living room, listening to ZZ Top. Buck danced his macho man dance in his seat. He bounced his body up and down, without leaving his chair, to the beat of the music. His legs jerked up and down to the music with his feet never leaving the floor. He would give us his alpha wolf stare, showing all of us boys that he was the big dog and this dog would conquer, rape, pillage, and maim all in the village. Sometimes he would growl and bark to the others, making it known to all his sexual intentions. His repeated demands that we should go some where and find some chicks began to become very old and tiring. Gerald was willing, Spot and I just wanted to enjoy our trips in private. When the album was finally over, so was Buck's patients, so he got up and left, without Gerald, Spot, or myself, to go deflower virgins.
The three of us returned to the music room and listened to some Bachman-Turner Overdrive. We tried to enjoyed some conversation, not all of it being with each other, but it was to no avail. The time drew long and cumbersome. The mood was foul. The energy in the room that Buck left behind keep me from any chance of enjoying myself. I began to become agitated and tired. The album, "Four-Wheel Drive," was now over. Since I had to work the next day, I felt the need to get some sleep and retired to the back bedroom.
Time went by very slow as I lie there on the bed trying in vain to sleep. What possessed me to think I could sleep is still a mystery to me. It's a commonly known fact that sleep is impossible when a person is tripping. Russell and others had repeatedly pointed this out to me. It had been proven to me on my first trip, but here I was, trying it anyway. The fact that this particular drug and sleep do not coincide only helped to increase my agitation. Besides, I wasn't even tired, nor did I feel like sleeping.
Muffled voices from the front of the trailer began to assault my ears. Voices that trudged through four rooms and eight walls. It appeared to be more than just Spot or Gerald's voices marching toward me. It sounded like Buck was back from the village with his trophies. Soon, the voices had no trouble getting through the walls. They became increasingly noticeable that they were talking about me. Yeap, they were talking about me alright, in a tone that was very disturbing to me. The voices were no longer channeling themselves through my ear canals, but directly inside of my head. Every word became clear. Along with this clarity came the no longer hidden intentions.
I was not only the topic of their conversation, but the source of their amusement. Words like 'fag' and 'pussy' and 'fuck-up' struck my heart like a dull, serrated steak knife. My agitation quickly changed into fear. Panic was just around the corner for me as my intuitive senses warned me of their intentions. The evil voices expressed their sadistic pleasure, threatening my sanity.
Panic and fear kept me from leaving that room. Confusion and shame kept me lying on the bed.
In my minds eye, I could see them all standing around me in a circle as I lie there, paralyzed by my emotions. At any moment, the mob would strike, hitting me with their fists of disgust, kicking me with their boots of contempt.
"What's going on?" I asked myself aloud, setting up on the edge of the bed. Trying to collect myself into a man and not a wounded insect, I got the idea to go to the bathroom.
Timidly, I walked over to the door. The panic and fear almost became overwhelming as I reached for the door knob, but I pulled the door open. The hallway was bright and full of smoke. The air was warm, not cold like in the bedroom. The voices became muffled again. There was no Buck or the thousands of others I had heard earlier. It was as if I had opened the door to my mind and walked outside of it into the real world. My muscles were no longer in the firm grip of paranoia. They moved easily as I walked into the bathroom.
How long I stood there at the toilet with myself in my hand, waiting for something that did not need to happen happen, I do not know. What I did notice though, was the voices. The cold and the darkness were back upon me. Laughter was all I could hear. Laughter that was directed toward me. I sudden realized that I was standing with my penis in my hand. Somehow, I knew that it was the source of their laughter. Then, through the corners of my eyes, I could see that we were in a dark, damp field of dirt and dust in the middle of Hell. I was standing here with the toilet and my thing hanging out. The evil demons in human form were all there again, surrounding me, joking, pointing their dirty, wretched fingers at me. I looked down without moving my head to see that my penis was now very small, barely noticeable through my fingers. The only way I could be sure it was there at all was the sensation in my finger tips. That sensation told me it was still shrinking, pulling all of my body into tight little knots of pain and fear. After realizing again that I did not have to urinate, nor did I before I came in here, I put it back in my pants. My bell bottom Levi's seemed transparent now and three sizes to small, exposing every single part of my extremely small anatomy. Fear of more laughter and joking at my expense griped my body, freezing my muscles, keeping me from turning around to walk-out of the field.
I could not, would not, make any eye contact with these hell spawns for they would take away my soul and any chance I had at not being the town clown. Confusion flooded my mind like a swooning river of muddy, dark, dirty water, keeping me lost and unable to move. That water blasted by me so quickly that I could not grasp a clear or unclear thought, keeping me from forming any sort of plan. Then, a thought was allowed to stop by for a moment. It reminded me that I had closed the door to the bathroom. Another thought briefly stayed with me. I turned to leave Hell to see if the hallway was the same as it was before I came in here.
The door swung open to the warmth and light, just as before. The voices were gone, but I knew that they all were still there, all of those who laughed at my expense, all of those demons in human form. I walked down the hall toward the front of the trailer without thinking about where I was going or why I was doing it. Leaving here with all of these evil people to go home to my own bedroom was my motivation. It would surely destroy any demons who dared to try and stop me. As the front room where they dwelt got closer and closer, it became painfully obvious to me that my blue jeans were way to tight. My extremely small and non-functional penis would be seen by all. They would know. They would all laugh. They would point their awful fingers, call me names, maybe even take physical measures to deal with the village freak. Somehow, I kept going and walked into the living room.
The room was bright. I noticed, without looking out the window, that it was no longer night time. How many people remained of the lynch mob was not obvious to me, I only saw Spot and Gerald. Only slowing down to a very slow pace, not making a full stop, not looking up, or making any eye contact with anyone, I told them I was going. I had a strong urge to cover my groin area and to run in shame, but I walked through the door to the open air.
The memories of driving home, getting to my car, or any details of what happened after I walked out the door are no longer with me. Then again, maybe there just repressed and I do not want to remember at this time. The full weight of what happened to me did not become clear to me until a few weeks latter, when I made one last attempt to find that final frontier.
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TRIPS : PART IV ...THEN, ...
After making my quite and somewhat unnoticed entrance into our house, I quickly walked back to my bedroom, closing the door. This was a snowy cold evening in January 1976, just a few short weeks after my last trip. I had gotten off work earlier than usual from my cooking job and made it home several hours before my usual time. Usually I stayed away from home, seldom came home this early in the evening, especially on Friday night. Non-school nights meant that I would party until after midnight, my curfew time. This night would not be a family night for me, however, because I had every intention of staying in my room all night. That didn't mean I wasn't going to party either. Before going home from work, I stopped at a friends' and picked up a little something.
I stopped off at Spot and Gerald's' for some more of the Purple Microdot. They had what was left wrapped in aluminum foil and placed in the freezer to extend it's shelf life. I was just going to take two hits, then hurry home to my room before it started to kick in, which gave me about forty-five minutes ( I always took mine orally, because I was afraid of needles. It took a little longer to take affect, but much safer.). Just go home, relax, listen to some tunes, and melt into tomorrow. However, a state of relaxation was not to be, nor was anything as romantic as melting.
With the door to my room closed, I put my plans into action. I put Ted Nugent in the eight-track player, pulled on my head phones, and sat at my desk. As the song "Strangle Hold" started, I began to perceive a hidden agenda in the music. The guitars and the sound effects started to pull me away from my body. It was if my conscious self had become detached from my body. This wasn't that groovy happy feeling I had on that first trip. This was just bad, evil, making me feel real uneasy. I was sinking down, away from the outer shell of my body into something or somewhere else dark. This was no pleasure cruse on the Starship Enterprise. Before any words were sung, I pulled the tape out and replaced it with another.
As Foghat played the album "Fool for the City" for me, I tried to shake off the blanket of confusion that was around me. Suddenly I become aware that "Slow Ride" was playing. The lyrics felt like they spoke to only me. They called me to come back into that space, that dark pit inside myself that I had been going to earlier with Ted. Nervous anxiety froze my motor skills. The words drew me deeper and deeper inside myself until I thought I heard laughter and people joking from some where inside this no longer hidden place. The jokes were at my expense, the laughter aimed at me, telling me what a joke my life was, eating at my confidence. Anxiety turned into panic and fear. I began to see blurred faces and sense people around me. They did not like me or the way I dressed. I heard words like "fag" and "fuck-up." I knew those words were meant to harm me. The music was no longer audible, just the laughter. It was as if an evil ceremony was going on and I was the subject for sacrifice. The music became clear to me and the tempo increased, heightening my fear to a stifling pitch. The headphones quickly came off.
My fear weakened slightly, just enough for me to use my motor skills. The headphones were set down, the Foghat tape was tossed aside, and the stereo was shut off. I got up from the desk, laid down on my bed, and stared at the ceiling in a vain attempt to calm down.
"This is ridicules," I thought to myself. "There is nothing going on. I just need to mellow out." The need to get up and go some where surged through me like a flash of lightening. My heart raced, stampeding my blood through my veins, causing my muscles to twitch and heave. My breathing rapidly increased, making the oxygen storm through my lungs as an avalanche storming down a mountain.
"But where am I gonna go." The thought of just walking, anywhere, grasped every nerve in my body. It made my head spin out of control. My heart roared with fear, pounding my veins into expelling every ounce of nervous energy to my flesh. The dizzying desire to escape this caged torment ran through me with ten thousand volts of confusion and anxiety. Every possible way to leave flashed through my mind, making me nauseous and cold. The pain in my jaw told me to stop grinding my teeth, but I could not stop it any more than I could stop the snow that was building up outside. The thought of my parents was the only thing keeping me from going.
Back and forth from my bed to the door I walked, arguing with myself about just opening it and going out.
"I wonder if they're still up. Shit, I can't leave. There's no way I could explain anything to them with them not knowing. Damn it!" My words only heightened my anxiety, until finally I walked out into the hall way.
There were no lights on, everyone was in bed. I walked into the kitchen and stood in front of the back door. Then, I noticed that all I had on was my underpants. When I took my clothes off was not an issue to me then, going outside was, though.
The back storm door was open to the screen door, exposing the snow covered porch and yard. Quietly placing my hand on the door knob, I realized I had no where to go. An avalanche of defeat rumbled through me, consuming any chance I might have at freedom. Feeling lost and broken, I walked slowly back to my room and closed the door.
The only thing left for me was to try and sleep. It wasn't going to be easy. It never was when a person was under the influence of LSD. Just a week or so before this night, I had tried to sleep while tripping on the same stuff with drastic results. However, I gave it another try, anyway.
With my head lying on my hard pillow, my back firmly planted into my bed, I stared up at the ceiling trying to convince myself to sleep. As I gazed at the ceiling, I began to feel myself slide into myself. The same as before, only this time, it was without any music or laughter from others. Just me and the silence, but we were not alone.
The longer I watched the ceiling, the farther away it got. It wasn't gradual, either. Somehow, time had changed for me. One minute seemed an hour, the next, less than a second. When I first planted myself on the bed, time drug by very slowly. Then, without my knowing how, why, or when, the ceiling was fifteen or twenty yards above me. A small tinge of fear crept up, filling my already frazzled nerves with more anxiety. Then, I noticed, with added fear, that I was no longer attached to my body. Somehow, it was floating about nine feet above me.
Looking up, I could see myself, lying on my bed. My body was just an outer shell. The real me was down below, somewhere. I was seeing myself from the inside looking out. I was not seeing the back of my head or my back, but the inside of my skull and ribs and stomach. I was looking at the ceiling through the eye holes of a life size, full body mask. The mask was, however, over eight or nine feet above me.
"How am I going to get back," I thought with another tinge of fear jumping through my body. Outside of those eye holes was reality, the real world as I knew it, sanity.
"There's no way I can jump that high." Another thought came to me, wanting me to look around for something to climb up on, but an intense feeling of panic stopped me. The feeling told me that if I looked away from my body, I would never get back. I would be lost here. Forever trapped in this place. Then, came the next thought.
"Just where is this?" Again, I wanted to look, but that feeling kept me from moving my head. My eyes strained to look around, but they could not move. There was only darkness with fog. Black fog, cold and damp. Faint voices, I might have heard. Possibly, movement, but I did move my field of vision away from my mask.
My fear became total and complete horror. It blanketed my entire existence like a flood of black, murky water. My muscles convulsed, jumping with quick, intense spasms. I could not make any voluntary movements. Each motion produced atrophy causing my body to slowly implode. A feeling of utter dread wrapped around me like a deadly constrictor, squeezing the life from it's pray. It's huge head slithered in front of me, facing me. The twenty-foot, black snake tightened around me, heavy with the promise of a fate worse than death. My eyes remained fixated on my mask wanting desperately, with every part of my essence, to return. Yet, I was powerless to move.
In the distance, through the darkness and the thick, black fog, a figure appeared behind me, to my left. It was a thing I felt more than saw with my eyes, but it floated slowly toward me, moving more to my left and less from behind me. Closer it sailed, but I would not, could not, turn to face it. Moment, by moment, it became clearer, easier to see. A black, flowing cloak, faceless under the drawn hood. Both arms of the robe extended outward, chest high, holding an old, large sickle. There were no hands holding onto the handle, no arms holding up the large, rusted blade. The feeling of dread and impending doom was all encompassing. My entire body froze with terror.
If I looked away or if I moved, I would be forever trapped down here. It would be an endless torment, worse that any Hell, worse than my deepest, darkest nightmare. Getting back to my body was my only hope. The fog began to part, moving away from this grim reaper as it got to within a few yards of me.
"Oh, God," I screamed in my mind, closing my eyes. Then, came another jump in time.
As if it were only a blink, I opened my eyes and found myself on my knees on the floor. Both of my hands were to the sides of my head, forcing my forehead into the carpet. Each hand tightly held an entire hand full of my long, brown hair with a grip so tight that my wrists ached. All I had on was my underwear. I had been fully dressed during all of this, but I do not remember putting them back on before lying on the bed after the little excursion to the back door or taking them off again before ending up here. Slowly letting go of my hair, noticing a dull pain from the attempts to pull it all out, I sat up on my knees.
I was now looking into the mirror that was attached to the door that lead into my closet on the other side of the room from my bed. Sitting there, staring at myself, I wanted to make since of it all, but I could not. Any more involved thoughts about it would surely pull me back into that place again. Being too tired and too scared, I crawled back in bed, finally getting to sleep.
To this day, I haven't a clue how I got back to my bedroom, into my body, or how long I was gone. Perhaps Divine Intervention. Where I was is no longer a mystery, but that's because I believe in the reality of all of this. Saying it was not real can't take away a person's experiences that has been through this kind of trauma. There are just as many people who believe these places are real, as those who don't. Take a trip there one time and see if you agree. Maybe, though, you shouldn't because often times some people don't come back.
Gerald would latter tell me that the acid was not very good. It had more of the effect of amphetamines that an hallucinogenic. The combination of the acid being old and cut with strychnine aided in this awful venture. I had some really nice stomach and thigh cramps to go along with my scattered view of reality. All of that next day, I struggled to walk and stand straight. Eating was out of the question. I was too tired to hold a thought for more than a few seconds, which was probably a blessing. It didn't make the day at work go by any faster, or easier, though. That was one of the longest seven hour shifts of my life, well, to that point anyway.
This was the end of drugs being fun for me, or even a vise, and begun what was to become psychosis for me.
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TRIPS: PART V ...PSYCHOSIS.

Acid would never again to be a part of my drug career. There were a few attempts to take some other hard drugs, "chemicals" as we called them, but they all had the same effect on me. Unfortunately for me, however, drinking alcohol did not produce these effects.
Each time that I would do any drugs, chemicals or smoke pot, I would get paranoid. Although it would not be to the extent of being totally lost, as before, it was very awkward for socializing. My paranoid episodes would keep me from saying or doing anything. Everything seemed like it had gotten larger. It made me feel very small, plus, I would get those muscle cramps and spasms in my legs. I would feel as though I had slipped inside myself and my body was just a shell again. This kept me from talking or getting up for any reason. Usually, I could see and feel that some of the others were behind their shells as well, in that same other dimension as me. They were all out to get me. Every word seemed to mock me. Every bet of laughter seemed directed toward me. Every glance (no matter from which dimension) in my direction burned into my heart as though it meant to kill the freak that sat disgustingly before them.
The part that made this psychosis was that it began happening when I was straight. Often, without warning, everything would get large and I would start to slip inside of myself. Then, I would hear laughter or whispers, feeling it was about me. Panic would start to race toward me. It would take all of my strength, sometimes, not to be totally consumed by this alter reality. Whenever I did take heed, really listening to the whispers, I thought I detected a theme.
Either straight or stoned, I began to feel that the whispers and laughter were directed toward my perceived small penis size. It was a carry over from the time in Spot and Gerald's trailer. There was and is no legitimate reason for me to be concerned about it. There is no way that any of them would know, even if I was very small. And, so what if I am or not. However, it became a huge problem for me, to the point of being an unhealthy obsession. My pants were now being worn a size or two too big, not tight as the style was at the time, as to not give any indications to anyone. They would some times hang down so low that I could feel my lower thigh muscles when I reached into my pockets for me keys. My anxieties about my penis size not only kept my pant sizes too big, but kept me from socializing.
I would not participate in sports or in gym class (something that was extremely important to me before) for fear of ridicule in the locker room. Dating was extremely risky for me, something I did not put much effort into, anyway. I tried to pick out the girls who I was sure would not make fun of me. Then, I would be disappointed in myself for not trying for the one's that I really liked. Sex was no problem once I was comfortable with them, however, I never discussed my feelings with any of them or anyone else at the time. There were many times when I would be in a situation were scoring with someone I did not know very well was imminent, but I would back down from it. Drinking would help keep this panic at bay, but it wouldn't allow me to over come these feelings of inadequacy. It would be ten years or so latter that I would even bring it up with any of my sexual partners. Only once did any complain about it, but that is a different story.
The paranoia of losing my sanity or getting lost in that place was still a huge issue as well. It often seemed that I was being coaxed or pulled back. Black Sabbath released an album shortly after that last trip called "Sabotage." It seemed directly aimed at my paranoia. Everything from the album cover to the lyrics spoke to me about getting lost in that awful place.
The cover has a photo of the band members standing and sitting in front of a huge mirror facing away from it with their backs to it. The images in the mirror are not a reflection of their backs (as it would be in 'real' life), but of them in the same position as they are in, just that they are inside of the frame looking out. On the back of the cover, they are facing into the mirror. Their reflected images are facing the same direction as themselves. It is a photographical representation of exactly how I would see myself when I would slip into the alter dimension.
The first song on the album's chorus is "I'm looking through a hole in the sky." It reminded me of myself looking up at my shell. Numerous other lyrics through out the album would pull me further into myself. The song, "Am I Going Insane" seemed to obvious to pull me down into myself, but it was full of irony for me, especially the laughter at the end. In the song, "Megalomania " , the lyrics start out by saying "I hide myself in the shadow of shame." Exactly where I felt I was at, even without the alter dimension and drugs. I would begin to slide down, allowing the paranoia to take me inside myself. Then, after I heard Ozzy sing that "the joke is on me," I would wonder how I got to be here and how I got to be a joke. Then came "it started something that I could not control," but what was it and why? Usually, I would just take the 8-track out of the tape player. However, it did not really help. I was already in that other dimension. A new tape never helped, either because they were all out to get me. Silence would not calm me down and was usually worse.
Of course, Ozzy or anyone from Black Sabbath does not even know me, nor was it their intentions to influence me negatively. That song is about social isolation and being an outcast. It was just my paranoia misinterpreting things, as it did with many other albums and bands. Besides, I love this album. If any thing, it helped me out of this. I have since listened to it enough (or any of the other material) to work myself through the paranoia issues with music.
A big part of the problem was that each time I would take drugs, or smoke pot, the anxiety would get worse. Within a years time, I had stopped doing anything but drinking. The paranoia would continue, though, without the influence of drugs, even years latter. Sudden anxiety attacks would thrust me back to that place. Telling myself that I was not on drugs nor had I been in years did not make those feelings of paranoia go away. They did, at least, become less intense and less frequent as time went on, but that fear of loosing it still comes up at times.
So, on a few occasions, maybe once or twice a year, this nice warm fuzzy feeling comes along. Smoking a little pot, getting a little mellow, melting to some tunes, and relaxing into a pleasant feeling would be perfect. All would be right with my world. However, I can't. Thinking that I have a good handle on things, thinking that it won't happen that way again, thinking that I had over come my fears and anxieties, I tried to smoke marijuana again. Twice in the last twenty-three years, but the paranoia still happened and on a very intense level. A clinical diagnosis labeled this as self-inflected, chemically induced, post-traumatic stress syndrome. To me, it's just a damn shame that I abused my privileges to the point of loosing them. The same lose of privileges would latter happen with alcohol, too. This was, though, my ticket out of drug abuse.