Dimethyltryptamine (DMT) is what makes certain mushrooms more fun than others. Ingesting pure DMT is nothing like eating psilocybin mushrooms; it’s a million times more intense. But that was just another Tuesday night at the base in those days.

Todd had a big chunk of pure DMT. He chipped a small amount off the gold colored, crystal-looking rock, mixed it with butter, and put it in the microwave. Once in had melted into liquid form, he sucked it up with a plastic syringe and handed it to me, “Insert this up your ass. It should hit you quickly,” he said.

I went into his bedroom, lay down on my back on the cushy carpet with my legs in the air, and emptied the syringe. A few minutes later, I lost self-consciousness—in the most literal sense. I simply was not aware of myself. What I remember is a visual of dark greens and blues. It looked like I was in between the sheets of a tightly made bed, facing the fold. Near the far corner of the fold was a being. It didn’t say or do anything. It just existed. I wasn’t scared. I didn’t feel or think anything. It was purely visual.

When I came back to reality, it took me a minute to get my bearings. I looked at the clock. Only twelve minutes had passed. It felt more like hours or days, or like time hadn’t existed at all. Then it hit me that my inner voice was not present during the elapsed time, something that had never happened before. No matter what drug I was on or how bad the trip was, I always had my inner voice to soothe or guide me. I’d tell myself, “The walls aren’t actually moving” or “Bruce Hornsby’s head isn’t really four feet around—it’s just the drug.”

Todd had tried to explain what it would feel like, but he couldn’t have prepared me for what I experienced. The first dose he cooked up for me exploded in the microwave. The second one was made in a sloppier fashion. Todd believed in my ability to handle large doses, so he had a heavy hand when it came to me.

When I regained my senses, I rushed into the kitchen, “It’s too much, don’t mix her up as much!” My use of the English language was extremely simple.

“You should see your pupils; they’re huge,” Todd said with a smile. I didn’t care about my pupils, I cared about our friends. But it was too late; they were already tripping.

Losing my inner voice had shaken me to the core. I didn’t speak to Todd or our friends for the next two hours. I sat silently in the bathtub, reflecting on what I had just experienced. I wasn’t sure if I would rush to do that again, but I was glad to have done it once.

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