Citation: MMX. "Walking Through An Already Opened Door: An Experience with DXM (exp9624)". Erowid.org. Jan 23, 2018. erowid.org/exp/9624
Finding God through A Cough Syrup
I'll admit that at first I was indeed a skeptic. In fact, having been a stoner for the larger proportion of my life, it was difficult for me to believe that one could achieve the 'shamanic experiences' described by so many even reputable website boards.
I had been completely clean for exactly 57 days before I decided to do DXM. After an unfortunate run-in with the ultra-friendly local police department that landed me in jail on quite a number of charges (D felony for a chalked ID? Please), I decided to put down the cannabis for a while. Ok, so I didn't really decide to stop, my license was suspended for 6 months, that's not the point. The point was, I wasn't leaving the house, so I wasn't smoking. Conclusion: I was not smoking. I had somewhat forgotten what being high was actually like, and just like any true stoner I desired to reach that state of mind again. However, I had promised myself that since I had already gone for a month, I would try and make it until my birthday, still two months away (November 13, send me a card with cash).
Blessed be God in his eternal glory! He hath shown me the way! While browsing the vaults of a reputable website I found DXM and did some preliminary research. Deciding that it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon without a single cloud in the sky, I called up my pal Slav and we went out to the supermarket. At this point, it was just decisions, decisions: Robitussin or Pathatussin. Pathatussin, of course. Being the economically minded young men that we are, we picked the cheapest shit on the entire shelf. For those interested, an 8-fl. oz bottle of Pathatussin that contains 15 mg/tsp. DXM will only run you $5.19 -- and don't forget that there's no tax on grocery items in New York -- Hooray!
Moving right along, I ingested 6 ounces of the delicious grape flavored liquid in direct violation of the directions on the bottle indicating to ingest no more than 4 tsp. daily. Slav, as the designated driver/babysitter/documentary cameraman, drove me around, and I was waiting to trip. For the next hour, we waited patiently for something to happen. The first thing that we decided to do was to go to Rockland Lake State Park and walk around. Why? Well, they fired me the same day that I got arrested thanks to the asshole detective calling up my employer and informing them of my deeds. Needless to say I was really pissed about that. After about a half-hour of walking around I started to notice the brightness of my surroundings. I could tell that my pupils were slowly dilating as the chemicals began to flow through my bloodstream. We walked through a Korean picnic shouting various obscenities in their native language, scavenging for a soda machine, which mysteriously had disappeared since my arrest. Being the constant targets of theft and vandalism thanks to the lovely demographic of the park, I was not surprised that God decided to rip all the soda off the face of the Earth when I wanted it. 'Fuck this' seemed to be the concurrent thought between the two of us. On our way out, a funny thought occurred to me -- maybe I should shit in my old bossís truck! Well he drove away before I got a chance, but I realized that I was starting to feel giddy after waiting about an hour. He put some extremely fast paced dance music on, and all I wanted to do was dance. But first and foremost, get a drink.
We stopped at 'Nicky's II' who happens to offer some fine ol' Italian combos and pizza, and each bought a fountain soda because it was all we could afford. I continued to sip on my soda as we left the pizza place and went for a drive through Blauvelt State Park and subsequently through the delightfully quaint village of Piermont. My giddiness began to turn into a slight stomachache and a hot sweat. I didn't have dry mouth, but I couldn't swallow. The more and more I drank the worse it got. Finally, as we were going through Main Street Nyack, I couldn't take it anymore and I threw up all over the place right across from the Helen Hayes Performing Arts Center.
Suddenly, everything felt better.
For the next three hours I was in a total state of oblivion. My eyes were the only things connected to my brain. Slav decided to go to some girl's house, and I was in no condition to argue. I met three peopleís faces but I don't remember their names, and I stared at a cloudless sky that seemed to stretch into the infinity that was the horizon. I pondered momentarily the parallax effect and how theoretically using non-Euclidean geometry two parallel lines could intersect. Somehow I was able to see it and it all made sense. I started to see two lines getting ever closer and closer as they were actually farther away and suddenly they dove off into infinity when they finally touched. Then, my thoughts stopped completely like two freight trains colliding head on. Without even being able to delineate the point at which it happened I lost all of my senses. When I tried to walk up a flight of stairs I realized that my legs were actually made out of a dense rubber and I was worried that they would snap in half at any moment. Walking down the stairs, well, I needed some help, but that's a different story.
Someone said something, about some topic, and I'm not even the slightest bit sure what it was, but I remembered responding. I was able to talk on the subject for what seemed like five minutes, as if I was an orator well versed in this enigmatic topic. I couldn't believe that my sentences could even be coherent for the simple reason that it was elucidated at that point that my very existence and I were both completely incoherent. My only working sense was my sense of sight and even then it was as if I was trapped inside a 'magic eye' book from so long ago, where three dimensional forms all seemed to blend into their background and lose their face to the simple box like construction that the book produced. I could feel my eyes drifting off into perfect parallels, generating that interesting double vision effect that many drugs seem to bring. It was more than a simple lack of hearing, it was as if every word that I heard was translated through the babelfish into Esperanto or a complete gibberish that was totally indecipherable to man. Music was great, as it is with any drug. My response to the beautiful electronica was to dance, and my response to the loud hardcore music was to scream. My sense of smell and taste were totally gone, and even if they weren't, there was nothing to taste and not a hint of a pollutant to taint the beautiful fresh suburban air. Perhaps the most interesting response was my sense of touch, including my sense of balance. I found my skin to be totally numbed, in a manner similar to that of nitrous oxide, and I found my sense of balance to be confused, as if I was rocking back and forth on a rowboat in the ocean.
It wasn't much like alcohol, I must admit, it was more like suffering anterograde amnesia. Everything forgotten as it occurred. That's simply the best way to describe it. Memory was lost in favor of a complete null space, as if the digital record in the mind was wiped and written over eight times with 0 for every bit. The whiteness of the house amazed me, for it was so white. The railing on the stairs was forged from iron, this was true. Constructing the rest of the events, however, proved to be more of a challenge. Slav's friend hit on me quite consistently, this I also remember. I'm not narcissistic, many people find me to be attractive, and I find most of them to have bad taste in men.
Once nightfall set it, I worried about making it home before my curfew, wondering how I would handle myself when I confronted my parents. Sure enough, before I knew it, I was home, walking through the door that I had walked through stoned 1000 times -- and it was like I was a first time smoker again. I could feel the metaphorical beads of sweat rolling down my forehead and over my cheek, and I could taste them as they passed by my lips. I made direct eye contact with my mother as I entered. 'Stay calm,' my inner monologue commented, 'you've done this a thousand times.' It was different. I went upstairs to put my excess cough syrup away in my safe, and I bumped into a wall in the kitchen. Not good, I thought. I walked downstairs again. Well, I wouldn't really call it walking. When you're that obliterated, feeling like a single atom in a vastless universe, it's not really much of anything more than dumb luck that you don't completely die then and there by just falling out of a window or getting run over by a Mini-Trans bus.
I sat down to the computer, listened to some techno, stared at Winamp visualization plugins (amazing, absolutely amazing), and looked at some Salvador Dali and Pablo Picasso paintings. As the effects of the DXM wore off, I still was rather contented. Energetic, yes, and unfortunately this interfered with my sleeping, but still contented.
For the first time in my life, I had truly cheated on my one love, marijuana, and found another lover. I had a funny feeling at that moment that it would not be the first time that I would cheat on my love. The door was already opened; I only walked through it.
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