DOSE:

repeated

vaporized

DMT

(powder / crystals)

BODY WEIGHT:

190 lb

This is a story that I’ve been meaning to write. And now that I’ve lost a goddam tooth, I guess it’s time.

This is about DMT and me. I’ll start it by saying that it’s a wall of text. (tl;dr: Did too much. Got beat up. The Fairies Are Real.) The story starts back a few years.

I had tried it once before, in the 00’s, but it was a middling success.

My love affair with DMT began on the day after Christmas 2010, when my best friend gave me a dose. Boxing day. He gave it to me in a base pipe. He told me to smoke it slow and hold my hit as long as possible. Music-wise, The Knife was playing. (*I’ll get back to this first experience in a bit)

It wasn’t long after that that I had ordered my own MHRB and started doing some kitchen chemistry. Soon I had an unlimited supply. In the 4 years since then, I think I’ve done somewhere in the neighborhood of five hundred doses.

Yes, I realize that the number is unbelievably high. I know that I’m among a small set of enthusiasts. DMT is a profound experience. Most people do it once and feel that it has changed their lives, at least in a small way – for some, in a large way. But most people don’t want to do it again soon. Not every week. Not every day.

I did. I wanted to do it every every day. It was my favorite thing. It was my very favorite goddam ride in the amusement park of life. I love DMT. I love DMT. I love DMT. I did it twice a day or more for a long time. I have been to fairyland not once or twice, my friends. I summered there.

500 ish. I’ve tried to estimate how many hits I’ve done in different ways. Average doses over time. Total production times percentage personally consumed. Whatever. I’m really just guessing. It could be a thousand.

Size-wise, my favorite dose is around 70mg. I always measure, ever since I got a scale (but I don’t always clean the residue out of my pipe, and lord knows you don’t always get the perfect hit) but/so who really knows. Sixty? Ninety? Go big or go home. I fucking like fucking big doses. I didn’t meet their majesties until I did around a hundred, did I? (A hard meeting. I wept for a day.)

As for setting, I pretty much always did it in my own house, very comfortable. And as for set… well, some of you will know how it is when you prepare to take a hit of DMT… there’s a certain amount of anxiety involved of course. But underneath that momentary fear, I’m pretty confident in my ability to trip safely and come back.

At this point in this story, I think I should try to describe that singular experience that is n,n-DMT. Or at least, what it was for me. And I’ll begin with that very first trip. Christmas 2010.

My best friends were all in the room. It was my grandmother’s house. There was no furniture except an old brass and porcelain lamp painted with flowers. The five of us were all sitting around on the carpet. I don’t remember who went first, or much about the rest of the night, but I remember my own trip vividly. I saw, with my eyes closed, an unutterably beautiful mandala, kaleidoscopically twisting inward on itself, folding through Escheresque dimensions to become itself and itself, over and again. And occasionally extruding dental equipment. Picks, and drills, and instruments that you only see in a dentist’s office. Weird.

It was so beautiful that I could not open my eyes, even for trying. I mean I tried and I literally had to close them again immediately because of what was on the other side. Behind my eyelids was overwhelming beauty. Beauty so utterly strange and engrossing that opening your eyes to look at an ordinary room is a repulsive idea. The eyes stay shut, for god’s sake. Squinted shut. I may have been moaning.

Minutes of that passed, and finally I did peek through my eyes. My hands were so strange. Like wooden robot-hands. Like steam-punk from Ent land. Incredibly intricate, puzzle-like and bizarre, and when I finally got around to moving them... ooh that was groovy.

And that was my first trip. I left it in love with the band and in love with my friends, and in love with the drug. And in love with fairyland, because yeah… there are fairies there. Even that mandala was playfully intelligent.

For my friends it was an experience. For me it was the beginning of a career. My friend had given me a few doses for Christmas, and when I asked him to send me a few more, he did. And every time was magic. Sometime that summer I ordered my own root bark. I did a tek that requires lye, and it was a pain in the ass, but a huge success. I yielded almost 10 grams from my first extraction. (I later learned about lime/vinegar extraction, and things got much easier.) So now I had an unlimited supply, and no reason not to indulge as often as possible.

I’m going to put a row of hashes here. From here to the next row of hashes are just descriptions of some of my visuals.
##############################
1. The Acrobats: They are, after all of it, after it’s all over… my very favorites. I think. O I don’t know. O don’t make me choose. But the acrobats are great, anyways. They can turn inside-out and righside-left through a thousand angles at once. I can only describe what they do as doing tricks for me. They’re just like… “watch this?” no… “watch this!”
Watch This!!
watch this: wa
watch watch watch watch
thi
fuckfuckfuck
They’re gymnasts who dance and tumble for me, in their colorful costumes, and it always gives me the grins. I love them.

2. I already mentioned my first trip. It’s these spinning-through-four-dimensions mandalas, which occasionally extruded disturbing or amusing objects, like dental tools or babies. I observed them as if from afar at times, and at other times I was totally immersed in color and motion of an abstract variety. I experienced this type of visual many times. Each time the predominant colors were different. I mean, the colors were always incredibly nuanced and varied, but the overall dominant color would be different. My very first trip was dominated by toothpaste-green. Others were sunset-orange, mirror-silver, tango-breadfruit… whatever. Colors you can’t say right with your stupid, clumsy tongue. Colors that have names only angels can say. Spinning and revolving around each other in patterns that take Tibetan monks years of sand-fidgeting to create, animated at 99 frames per second, dissolving through dimensions other than the obvious ones, and fucking with you. Fucking with you. You think of something, and shit, there it is again. It’s a playful thing. This incredibly intricate, ever-shifting, rapid-mutating mandala is responding to you. And I could just lay there. Lay back with my arms behind my head, experiencing all that beauty with my eyes closed. And slowly it would become less vivid and less involved, and eventually I would open my eyes, but for those 15-20 minutes, dear lord. What power beauty has.

3. The Shadow-Puppeteers: They give me gifts. I haven’t seen them in a long time. I used to always see them. They would just be like “Here!” “Here!” “Here!” “Watch this!” “See me!” “Love this!” “Here!” “It’s special!” Damn I loved them. Whenever I saw the puppeteers I was in a very defined, dark, open space. The puppets came before me in distinct planes, like puppets, but in involved dimensions. Offering me gifts.

4. The temples: Every once in a while, usually while on a really big dose, I was allowed into certain temples. Incredibly intricate and awe-inspiring environments which evoked a powerful feeling of the sacred. The ones that stand out most strongly in my memory were like temples, dominated by enormous statuesque presences. Being in the presence of these elevated fairies, on more than one occasion made me weep. I met the great dragon once. I met the King and the Queen. No bull. I swear I met them. I wish to god I could remember what they told me.

5. The Open-Eyes: I almost always love closed-eye visuals too much to open up. But sometimes I have and oh lord. I have seen forests of purple vines stretching endlessly down a suburban living room, I’ve seen a living white latticework strung with intelligent lace on my ceiling, and once on the side of mountain, smoking DMT with a girl I knew, we both saw the spirits that inhabit trees.

6. The dots: Sometimes I just see a grid with dots bouncing around. The scene is flat. But the dots have personality. You can’t help but laugh at their antics. Once or twice I’ve had one of these dots land on my tongue. It’s an incredibly odd and disconcerting experience. It's an uncomfortable tactile hallucination, a lump on your tongue for the duration of a DMT trip. Stuck there. Or somewhere else in your mouth, like a grain of sand, like an oyster pit. It’s uncomfortable, it sucks, and it’s happened to me at least three times; it goes away when the trip is completely over – 20 minutes or 30.

7. The social-trip: Doing it with another person. A lover or a friend. It totally motivates you to make with the openings of the eyeses and marvel at their fairy face. I love showing this drug to people so much. Every single person is happy and grateful. Every single person I’ve ever shared this with has loved it. Dozens of friends and strangers. I’ve never had someone have a bad trip in my home.
##########################################

That's a good sample for now. Each one of those 7 categories represents 50 trips or more. Except, of course, that every trip is so unique that it doesn’t fall into any category. And there were dozens of unique one-offs, too. Like a trip that stands out in which I believed that I had been abducted by pirates, and was their captive for years or decades or untold ages. It had plot. I was taken and I lived among them for a time, slaving. There was another where I was talking by skype to a friend (who was taking DMT at the same time, with me). When I let the hit out of my lungs there was a fairy woman on my computer. I had no awareness or comprehension that this was my friend who was talking to me (she hadn’t got a great hit, and she’s the type who’ll fuck with me a little) I believed that I had found a magical website that allowed me to directly converse, in English, with one of the fairy people. I had the most incredibly beautiful, hilarious, loving conversation with her. Eventually I was winking with my friend about my fairyland-phone, but it came to me slowly. (Yeah, maybe I felt a little stupid.)

And then, of course, there’s my last trips. The bad trips. The trips that ultimately lost me a tooth.

It happened one day last summer. I did a hit. Maybe around 70mg. I don’t remember really what it was, but that was the dose I had dialed in as my favorite. I’m pretty proficient at it so I probably got it all in one or two. And I was there. I was in a temple. I was in a profoundly holy place. It was lined with… god no… I can’t describe it. It was… a profoundly holy place.

The king and the queen were there. Two entities who I’ll always remember by those titles, because they simply feel right. They were lords of the other world. They were important; you savvy? And they told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was no longer welcome in fairyland. That I shouldn’t come back. That I should never do DMT again. And that’s where it gets hazy. They told me why, I think, but I don’t remember what they said. I wish I could remember them.

I was, however, an addict. I always will be an addict in my secret yearning heart. People say DMT isn’t addictive. I was addicted, and I showed all the classic behaviors of an addict. I went back to it again and again, after it started to hurt me. My trips became punishing ordeals. I felt terrible. I had no pleasing visuals at all. I vomited on a couple of occasions (which I’d witnessed in other people but had never happened to me). Mostly I just felt bad. Emotionally horrible. Everything in my life that is wrong came to me embodied, and punched me in the gut. Psychically speaking. Metaphorically speaking.

Metaphorical, at least, until my very last trip. When they actually, physically damaged me, in the real world. I hadn’t smoked in perhaps two months. But my supply was laying around beckoning and eventually I did it. I had broken my last pipe with a resolution after half a dozen bad trips in a row, so I had to buy a new one. I loaded a conservative 50mg, and in 2-3 hits, I went off. I broke through, and I was in a different place than I had ever been before. It was like a saloon-cum-labyrinth of double wooden doors intersected with blacktop roads. And bad guys were coming down the streets and through the swinging saloon doors. Bouncer-thug-murder-cops were coming to finally teach me that the fairies meant business. That I had really and truly been 86d. I ran from them and struggled against them and in my mind I hid and fled as best I could, and finally I did escape them, by opening my eyes. I told you I was always a CEV guy. It didn’t occur to me to open them earlier.

So I open my eyes, and the murderers are gone, and so is my goddam tooth. A crown, actually. It eventually cost me $2000 to replace. I honestly don’t know what happened. In the real world, I mean, in the physical, materialist world that I think our corporeal bodies, crowns included, must exist in. I must have just bit down on it so hard that it broke off, and then swallowed it, while my eyes were closed. I don’t think I thrashed against something and broke it, because my face was fine. I don’t think I spat it out because it was a huge chunk and it never showed up. I must have bitten it off by clenching down so hard, and then swallowed it.

Or maybe… Or just maybe I got hit in the jaw by a fairy. Just maybe one of those baddies I met reached into my damn head and broke off my damn tooth. Maybe I got hit by the toothfairy.

Afterword:
I’ve talked to a lot of other people about it, and never met anyone who has had this experience. Nobody gets kicked out of fairlyland. Then again, nobody pulls back the veil so often.

Oh.. I feel like I should have mentioned another unique experience I’ve had. The pee-trip. Has this happened to anyone else? Three or four times, after doing DMT, and I mean a good half hour, even an hour after, I would go to urinate and experience a full-blown recurrence. I mean I would break through for the second time, literally just from peeing, just standing there with my dick in my hand. Weird, right? How does that work?

Anyway.

It has been about six months. I haven’t smoked DMT since that night. I had to send my whole supply to friends, because I knew I still couldn't trust myself. I miss it frequently.

There’s nothing else like it. I like tripping on other things too. But other psychedelics all last too long and they’re not intense enough. DMT is so nice in that respect. I can go beyond bananaland and an hour later I can go out in public. Or go again.


[Reported Dose: "various doses including microdoses and going up to 100 mg"]

Exp Year: 2010-2014	ExpID: 107218
Gender: Male
Age at time of experience: 36
Published: Mar 25, 2021	Views: 5,106
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DMT (18) : Various (28), Entities / Beings (37), Addiction & Habituation (10), Retrospective / Summary (11)