Smoke a little they said. It will be just as good as real weed they said.
I cannot describe how close to death I felt merely 5-6 hours ago. What physically was only probably an hour long, mentally felt like countless eternities of floating in and out of consciousness and existence. What first started feeling like a strong head high quickly escalated into a vivid hallucinogenic state. Patterns connecting patterns to patterns. Lines becoming shapes becoming prisms. Seeing the world in echos and reflexes. My eyes were seeing the present, my disconnected mind was processing the past.
I have never felt so scared and helpless.
My body and organs started to feel disconnected from one another. My heightened and stimulated senses felt like they were slowly dimming. Darkness and blankness and emptiness consumed me. My mind accepting the possibilities of death and non-existence. I was alone with my thoughts. Everything felt okay. Not in the sense that it wasn’t fucked. It was not fun at all. My brain was relaxed and okay in the sense that mentally I had given up fighting. It was over. I felt dead. My soul left my body. So I thought.
In the quarter of a split second, quickly rushing back to me like the emotions and feelings of a past life, I felt like reality was hitting me at warp speed. Like a rebooted computer, I had to relearn and reload my life. My physical connection to my body returned, I could finally feel my limbs and lungs connected to my conscious self. My gut wrenched. My mouth opened. My throat opened up. My body did not move. I felt dead anyway. There was no shame or realisation of what I had done. For what felt like another million years I slowly came to grasps with the fact I had just ejected my stomach contents all over my right arm and leg.
The shame returned to my minds vocabulary of emotion but felt like a new feeling altogether, like a child learning sadness for the first time. Reality was returning to my hallucinated mind like an old friend you never liked that much. Death was much more welcome than the truth of being alone sitting in my own vomit. I came to my senses and it was over. A bad fucked up dream that happened for real. Went to have a hot shower to wash off the feeling of acid on my skin. It felt good. I didn’t want to leave because I knew what was waiting on the other side of the bathroom door: Real life.
Still heavy under the influence my only words were, ‘I’m so sorry’. I knew the true meaning of sorry. Being regretful of acting out of your control. I don’t think they all knew how sorry I was. Not your everyday white lie sorry when you make a mistake with your significant other. Not a sorry you say when you’re running late and could have easily left earlier. I was sorry for being dead to the world. Not being able to connect to my physical being. Being in shame.
I left a life behind last night. I left so much bullshit on the floor of that apartment balcony. More than a puddle of chunder and spit. I shed an old baggaged soul like a snake sheds it’s skin to grow.
Fuck synthetic weed. It’s like a Goosebumps chapter that lead to death, and I was able to turn back the book and get another chance. I’m never going down that path again.