This is one of the custom blogs I do for my Facebook friends. I asked
“I kind of want to blog about some event from my life (sexual firsts, most embarrassing, near death, drug experiences, feminist ah-ha moments, etc) but I’m having trouble picking. Facebook friends, which ones would you like?”
Hanna asked for drug experiences!
I am really bad at doing drugs. Not in the way that my parents are bad at it, I’m not about to be institutionalized, or anything. In fact, my baddness at doing drugs centers on my complete inability to relax and do drugs. There’s a reason I suffer from disordered eating. Anorexia and bulimia are control issues. I like to be in control. Of everything. Because when I destroy myself, I need to be fully conscious.
Not that I think that all drug use is self-destructive. Just that my personal experience with drug addicts has left a really bad taste in my mouth. So the few small times I actually did do drugs, it was usually with the desperate feeling that I absolutely did not care what happened to me at that point. Unlike my nonchalant and spiritually chilled out brothers and sisters of the Y generation (that’s what we are, right?), I know bad things will be happening, and I know they’ll be happening to me. Which is basically why the vast majority of my drug experiences end with me under a bed with a massive headache.
But there is, my one amazing, incredible, unreal drug story to end all drug stories that makes up for every other lack-of-fun bone in my body.
The time my neighbor’s brother gave us PCP because he thought it would be funny.
I had a neighbor who’s older brother was always in and out of jail, and during one of his “out” times, he gave us about 2 bowls worth of weed laced with PCP. I know this because he later told my neighbor what a funny prank he’d played. Hilarious.
So we went to the park, smoked our weed, and instantly got as high as I have ever fucking been. Higher than I will ever likely be again. I remember looking straight at the sun and watching it track across the sky. Weather that is what was actually happening, or something I hallucinated, I’m not sure. I was also hearing extremely loud death metal from every direction.
Meanwhile my neighbor was convinced something was growing out of his head. At first, I tried to reassure him that there wasn’t, that he should relax and enjoy the music, but then I started to see it too. We argued over weather or not it was a necessary part of his head until we got back to his house. Where I hallucinated that his living room was full of beer cans like some kind of aluminium ball pit for grown-ups.
As I was curling up in the bottom of the beer-pit, I started to fall asleep, and as I did I became convinced that I was seconds, inches, a hair’s breath away from the most intense, amazing pleasure I would ever experience. This was the face of God, this was the meaning of life, this is the reason so many people do PCP. And then my neighbor kicked me in the leg because he was sure that he could fly.
So I watched him hop around on 1 leg until, all of a sudden, 5 hours had passed and I had to get out of his house because his dad was coming home from work.
Friends, never lie and tell your other friends that your parents are ok with your pot smoking. Because they will show up at your door high out of their skulls in an attempt to hid from their own parents who are absolutely not okay with pot smoking.
At that point, I still thoutht I was just really mega stoned. So I decided to go to the house of a kid I barely knew, but who brags constantly that his whole family smokes pot together and it’s an amazing bonding experience. It took me a really long time to travel to his house because I kept blacking out and waking up in a heap on the sidewalk about 10 feet away from the place that I woke up the last time. It was like I was traveling in stop-motion without ever taking a single step.
As soon as I got to this kid’s door, I know that he was lying about the family pot-bonding because he hustled me into his room like a stolen porno mag. Later, I was told that he basically had to drag me as my fine motor skills were completely not working. I then proceeded to lie on the floor of his room and watch him play video games for at least 4 more hours, which seemed like 20 to me because they were happening in slow motion. Even the video-game sounds were elongated. It was horrifying. I was convinced that I had broken my brain, but I was absolutely unable to do anything about that but roll slowly back and forth across the floor.
Finally, I had to go home. It was the end of the day, and even this guys neglectful as fuck parents wouldn’t tolerate a weird passed out girl spending the night on the floor. So, about 12 hours after I disappeared to the park to smoke a bowl, I rolled back up to my apartment, still high as FUCK, told my mom I had a stomach ache and immediately got into my bed. Where I hallucinated a a raging party happening in my room, and the only way I knew there weren’t really people there was because they were shimmery and walked through the walls.
The next afternoon when I finally woke up, I WAS STILL FUCKING HIGH. It had worn down enough to where I was mostly just sedated and shakey, but I didn’t fully recover until the third day.
So the moral of the story is that PCP is not fun. Stay off that sherm, children.