bellinda
Member
- May 29, 2023
- 27
December 7, 2022. I remember that day clearly. DXM is my favourite drug, I had 900 mg worth of pills. At the time, I didn't know that the fatal dose was 1.5g.
I remember that I had enough of life at that point. I've withstood harsh benzos drug withdrawal and survived thanks to medical intervention, and yet I was still high every day, mostly because I was evading depression caused by my dollar an hour job that stripped me of 12 hours each day. My job was my only source of income as well as my source of drugs which is why I withstood the pressure.
In my room, I had a secret storage of drugs, it was so massive it would've lasted me months to get through, and someday, my aunt just stole all my drugs from me without asking. I panic because I am about to leave the country since my stupid fucking dad is about to kidnap me and I was too retarded to realize it. It was too late for me to do anything about it, I didn't even have time to panic. Yet, the psychosis started kicking in.
Suddenly I have this endless paranoia that everyone is stealing my things, and it eats me up. My awareness of my depression becomes amplified by the fact that I cannot escape it this time. All I see is darkness, literally. I am hallucinating a black haze everywhere, I cannot see colours, only a black smoke. I no longer have an awareness of time, I did not know how many days have passed, whether it was a sunday or a thursday, day or night, whether I was in my bedroom or in my kitchen. All I knew was that I was withering away, constantly having nightmares about people entering my room and poisoning me as I sleep or take away even more of my things. I am far from functional.
And there it happened, I had enough of living. I couldn't take it anymore. So I initially swallow 600 mg, that is about 40 pills, excited to escape this miserable reality. Then I think about it more, why not take it further? Why not enter heaven? Whether I survive this or not, I will feel happiness once more. And so, the number of pills I swallow total to 60 pills, or 900 milligrams of DXM.
Suddenly, I felt enthusiastic. I put on my best clothes, I wear some makeup, what was supposed to be the last day of my life was my happiest day ever. I go out for a walk, I'm socializing with everyone, making friends with every person out there. Then 4 hours hits, which is when the drug takes effect, so I head home. My parents can tell something was off about me. I was struggling to walk, I was exhausted by communication, laying down after my father forced me to write into his phone what medicines I take and why (he sounded like he was talking through a radio underwater, his phone was surrounded by a black haze, and the screen was sweating).
My brother comes to my room to call my name, I do not notice that am becoming less responsive. He tells me to go to my mom. He comes again, I am dosing off but not aware. He comes again. Reality becomes less clear. And soon, my mom enters my room, she yells my name, I look at her, and I blackout. That is all I remember during that time.
Apparently, during this time, my parents freak out, because not only am I blacked out, I am blacked out with my eyes and mouth wide open. They carry me downstairs and call the ambulance, who promptly take me to the hospital. I stay there for too many hours. Weirdly, I do not remember any of this despite of walking up several times during the whole imbroglio. But you know what I really liked? So many blood tests later, they could not detect ANYTHING in my blood, and yet everyone thought I was going to die. Boy do I wish I did. Mayhaps the next time I get my hands on this stuff, I dose appropriately and actually die.
So I finally wake up. I assume that I am in my bedroom. "What a trip!" I think to myself as I look at the blue walls and the strange people surrounding me, "It looks so real.". I close my eyes and see my bedroom, I see the voodoo man (from the princess and the frog) giving me an introduction to reality.
"Welcome to reality!", he exclaims. "This trip will be so advanced that you won't be able to tell the difference between hallucinations and reality!". My room is absolutely beautiful, it is surrounded by steampunk gadgets making fun steamy gadget noises.
I open my eyes again, I see this man approaching me, he yells "Do you know where you are?". I look around a bit, still amazed by the very realistic trip. I close my eyes again, enjoying the scenery, then open my eyes again. And there he is, yelling at me and asking again.
"I'm in my room.", I respond.
"No! No! You are in John Smith Hospital!", he yells. (made up name)
Then it hits me, I'm not really able to move my body. I notice that I am on a plastic hospital bed, my dad is right beside me crying (as though he ever had the rights). And I'm surrounded by doctors.
I speak up and realize that I sound funny, my body feels funny. It feels like I can control my body like a puppeteer. Every movement feels like I am lifting a string that lifts the part up. I take it as an opportunity to explore the high. "I am in the hospital", I say, very monotonously, and yet I still sound very funny. I try sitting up. And I succeed, "I am seated.". This high is really exciting.
What happens after that doesn't really matter, it's too many details to be relevant anyways, I'll share if anyone's curious, but I don't think it matters. They kept me in the hospital for 4 days for psychiatric evaluation tied to the bed like a fucking loony. Literally attached to a piss bag. I avoided eating because I did not want to shit myself. I fucking stank and the doctors and nurses treated that as a hallucination.
There were several funny moments I've had such as seeing my face for the first time in days, I thought it was bleeding, and kept asking the doctors if my face was bleeding. Another funny moment where I thought how I sounded so funny that I asked the doctors (monotonously) why they weren't laughing at me. "My voice is so funny, why are you not laughing?", they just stood there looking at me concerned. I was also so high that I bragged about every drug I did to the doctor. Blegh.
900 mg obviously would not kill me or anyone. But it rendered me addicted to suicide for a while. "Once you look at death it's hard to want to go back."
Drugs seem great as a short term solution, but it isn't. In the long term, it really fucks you up. You don't go back to ground 0, you crash even lower than you ever had.
I doubt I'll try to kill myself in a while since I'm not currently suicidal, but if I ever do, I'll be sure to post about it before I attempt, and if I failed, there will be an update, if not, then I'd have left to heaven.
I remember that I had enough of life at that point. I've withstood harsh benzos drug withdrawal and survived thanks to medical intervention, and yet I was still high every day, mostly because I was evading depression caused by my dollar an hour job that stripped me of 12 hours each day. My job was my only source of income as well as my source of drugs which is why I withstood the pressure.
In my room, I had a secret storage of drugs, it was so massive it would've lasted me months to get through, and someday, my aunt just stole all my drugs from me without asking. I panic because I am about to leave the country since my stupid fucking dad is about to kidnap me and I was too retarded to realize it. It was too late for me to do anything about it, I didn't even have time to panic. Yet, the psychosis started kicking in.
Suddenly I have this endless paranoia that everyone is stealing my things, and it eats me up. My awareness of my depression becomes amplified by the fact that I cannot escape it this time. All I see is darkness, literally. I am hallucinating a black haze everywhere, I cannot see colours, only a black smoke. I no longer have an awareness of time, I did not know how many days have passed, whether it was a sunday or a thursday, day or night, whether I was in my bedroom or in my kitchen. All I knew was that I was withering away, constantly having nightmares about people entering my room and poisoning me as I sleep or take away even more of my things. I am far from functional.
And there it happened, I had enough of living. I couldn't take it anymore. So I initially swallow 600 mg, that is about 40 pills, excited to escape this miserable reality. Then I think about it more, why not take it further? Why not enter heaven? Whether I survive this or not, I will feel happiness once more. And so, the number of pills I swallow total to 60 pills, or 900 milligrams of DXM.
Suddenly, I felt enthusiastic. I put on my best clothes, I wear some makeup, what was supposed to be the last day of my life was my happiest day ever. I go out for a walk, I'm socializing with everyone, making friends with every person out there. Then 4 hours hits, which is when the drug takes effect, so I head home. My parents can tell something was off about me. I was struggling to walk, I was exhausted by communication, laying down after my father forced me to write into his phone what medicines I take and why (he sounded like he was talking through a radio underwater, his phone was surrounded by a black haze, and the screen was sweating).
My brother comes to my room to call my name, I do not notice that am becoming less responsive. He tells me to go to my mom. He comes again, I am dosing off but not aware. He comes again. Reality becomes less clear. And soon, my mom enters my room, she yells my name, I look at her, and I blackout. That is all I remember during that time.
Apparently, during this time, my parents freak out, because not only am I blacked out, I am blacked out with my eyes and mouth wide open. They carry me downstairs and call the ambulance, who promptly take me to the hospital. I stay there for too many hours. Weirdly, I do not remember any of this despite of walking up several times during the whole imbroglio. But you know what I really liked? So many blood tests later, they could not detect ANYTHING in my blood, and yet everyone thought I was going to die. Boy do I wish I did. Mayhaps the next time I get my hands on this stuff, I dose appropriately and actually die.
So I finally wake up. I assume that I am in my bedroom. "What a trip!" I think to myself as I look at the blue walls and the strange people surrounding me, "It looks so real.". I close my eyes and see my bedroom, I see the voodoo man (from the princess and the frog) giving me an introduction to reality.
"Welcome to reality!", he exclaims. "This trip will be so advanced that you won't be able to tell the difference between hallucinations and reality!". My room is absolutely beautiful, it is surrounded by steampunk gadgets making fun steamy gadget noises.
I open my eyes again, I see this man approaching me, he yells "Do you know where you are?". I look around a bit, still amazed by the very realistic trip. I close my eyes again, enjoying the scenery, then open my eyes again. And there he is, yelling at me and asking again.
"I'm in my room.", I respond.
"No! No! You are in John Smith Hospital!", he yells. (made up name)
Then it hits me, I'm not really able to move my body. I notice that I am on a plastic hospital bed, my dad is right beside me crying (as though he ever had the rights). And I'm surrounded by doctors.
I speak up and realize that I sound funny, my body feels funny. It feels like I can control my body like a puppeteer. Every movement feels like I am lifting a string that lifts the part up. I take it as an opportunity to explore the high. "I am in the hospital", I say, very monotonously, and yet I still sound very funny. I try sitting up. And I succeed, "I am seated.". This high is really exciting.
What happens after that doesn't really matter, it's too many details to be relevant anyways, I'll share if anyone's curious, but I don't think it matters. They kept me in the hospital for 4 days for psychiatric evaluation tied to the bed like a fucking loony. Literally attached to a piss bag. I avoided eating because I did not want to shit myself. I fucking stank and the doctors and nurses treated that as a hallucination.
There were several funny moments I've had such as seeing my face for the first time in days, I thought it was bleeding, and kept asking the doctors if my face was bleeding. Another funny moment where I thought how I sounded so funny that I asked the doctors (monotonously) why they weren't laughing at me. "My voice is so funny, why are you not laughing?", they just stood there looking at me concerned. I was also so high that I bragged about every drug I did to the doctor. Blegh.
900 mg obviously would not kill me or anyone. But it rendered me addicted to suicide for a while. "Once you look at death it's hard to want to go back."
Important note to add: I didn't find death, I found nirvana. But if I stayed living like that I'd really have destroyed myself, because eventually, you become more tolerant. And the issue with drugs is what when you see a beauty so impossible and surreal, it's hard to be able to live normally again. This depressing life becomes a thousand times more miserable and painful. And when you can't achieve that nirvana again because of tolerance, you realize that you lost your only happiness.
Drugs seem great as a short term solution, but it isn't. In the long term, it really fucks you up. You don't go back to ground 0, you crash even lower than you ever had.
I doubt I'll try to kill myself in a while since I'm not currently suicidal, but if I ever do, I'll be sure to post about it before I attempt, and if I failed, there will be an update, if not, then I'd have left to heaven.
