Saturday, November 12, 1994

Just got off work. Hot damned day, no shirt on, my mind awash with disjointed negative thoughts and emotions careening by at 10,000 miles an hour, coursing through my being. When my thoughts travel this fast or in this fashion, mental control is tenuous.

About four years ago, a bunch of us took some powerful psyllocibin cubinza mushrooms that generated a wild ride (for me) on the tip of a stylized 1930’s art-deco pen, zooming along a landscape of steel and rivets, with an unnaturally glowing blue sky, with mountains in the distance that never got any closer. The image itself wasn’t necessarily bad at this point, and when all was quiet, the vision hummed along and was very satisfying. But when there was noise (which occurred frequently, as there were five others tripping with me), the trip was turbulent, me veering from left to right and back again, white knuckled, hurtling along the chemical panorama on this crazy pen, praying for absolute quiet, not only for enjoyment, but for the sake of my sanity. Love and hate took on very real directions, and the whole episode etched itself onto my mind, probably forever. The experience got really bumpy when the rivets sprouted thorns, but this is unimportant now. This time around, everything ended fairly well, considering no one, especially me, freaked out bad enough for the cops to come calling. My thoughts always travel this fast on a pretty regular basis, without the aid of mushrooms.

I called Mom after my first therapy session to tell her that I’d gone. Her somewhat chilly, cautious response was "I hope this isn’t something that goes on for years." Yeah, well, I hope so, too. Therapy is a dirty word to my parent’s generation. But if they could look into my head, they’d want me to go.

Therapy is a step in the right direction. Ana tells me it can be very liberating, venting whatever you feel, saying the unsayable. She’s encouraged me talk to myself when alone, and while this has been helpful, I must be careful where and when I speak freely to myself, and not to get too wrapped up in the overall significance of what I say aloud. After all, to vent is to vent; nothing more, nothing less. Turn the valve yourself. Ease the pressure.

I must slow my thoughts. I must take control of my thinking. I must slow down. I must..