Two Hits

It was Friday when my friend Quincy texts saying "the package has arrived :)" Driving to his place after work, the sky stretches above, a vibrant blue canvas adorned with fluffy clouds that look like they're watching. The palm trees lining the sides of the highway are lush and green, standing rigid like soldiers at attention. There isn't another vehicle in sight, the weather and solitude are perfect. Like the world is holding its breath.

This is the moment of peace I've been craving. Hiding in the bathroom stall at the accounting firm where I work has become a daily ritual; my little sanctuary from the chaos of the outside world. It's the only place I can be alone, the only place I don't have to pretend. In there, I can let the mask slip. I can stop forcing the smile, stop pretending I'm okay, stop acting like I'm a functioning human being. I can just exist, just breathe, just try to remember what it felt like to feel something other than this constant, crushing weight. Accounting might not seem like a difficult job but mix in a shitload of anxiety with clinical depression, and it's like playing life on hard mode with your hands tied behind your back and a bag over your head. Every number feels meaningless. Every calculation feels pointless. Every day feels like I'm going through the motions, like I'm a robot programmed to look human, to act human, but with nothing human left inside.

Walking around the office with everyone staring at me makes me want to vomit. It's like the floor is lava and one wrong step could be the death of me. I hear the whispers and the little things they say about me when they think I can't hear them. "He's weird" seems to be the one I get most often, but sometimes I catch other things. "Something's wrong with him." "He gives me the creeps." "I wouldn't want to be alone with him." The more I try to avoid attention the more that seems to be drawn to me, like I'm a magnet for judgment. I miss working from home, at least then I was safe. I could wear and act how I wanted. I was free. I spend so much time in that bathroom stall at the office it's a wonder I haven't been fired yet.

A shiver runs down my spine at the thought. Don't think about getting fired or losing your job and your house and everything you own and being thrown out on the street and starving to death before having your body eaten by rodents; that's not productive. What would your therapist say? "Let go, let go, let go" Breathing in, my chest feels heavy. I wish I could set this weight down. But the weight isn't just anxiety. It's the depression too, that constant heaviness that sits in my chest, in my gut, in my bones. It's the exhaustion that never goes away, no matter how much I sleep. It's the numbness that makes everything feel distant, like I'm watching my own life through a window. Breathing out, I try my best to let go. That's a Monday problem. I put the thought on a shelf.

Cruising along with the windows down, my tie dances in the wind. The late afternoon air caresses my skin, it's warm but not humid, typical for June in southern California. I extend my arm out the window, air pushes against my hand, moving it up and down, reminiscent of a surfer riding waves. The radio is off. There are no sounds but the symphony of the road and the steady hum of the car's engine. With each small bump, the anticipation builds, growing stronger as I draw closer to Quincy's home. Or maybe it's dread. Sometimes they feel the same.

Approaching the entrance to his trailer park, the sky has transformed into a composition of pinks, oranges, and purples. Easing off the accelerator, I make a right turn, passing a sign that reads "Sunny Meadows Park." A group of kids on BMX bikes attempt to challenge me to a race, pedaling furiously beside the car. One by one, their energy wanes as I continue down the main strip without them.

Oh to be an innocent and carefree child again. It would sure be nice not to have any responsibilities and have parents take care of everything. My parents are gone now; both tragically died in a car crash a few years ago. A drunk driver, head-on collision. They were on their way home from dinner, celebrating their anniversary. The police said they died instantly, that they didn't suffer. I try to find comfort in that, but there's no comfort to be found. Just emptiness. Just the void they left behind.

Life was hard before but now every day is a struggle. The depression hit me like a freight train about three months after the funeral. At first, I thought it was just grief, just normal sadness. But it didn't get better. It got worse. The world lost its color, its meaning. Food lost its taste. Music lost its melody. Everything became gray, flat, meaningless. I stopped calling people back. Stopped answering texts. Stopped caring about anything. Getting out of bed became a Herculean effort. Showering became optional. Brushing my teeth became a victory. The smallest tasks felt impossible, like trying to move through quicksand. My therapist calls it clinical depression. I call it being dead while still breathing.

It was shortly after their passing that I had my first full on panic attack. I was at the grocery store, standing in the cereal aisle, and suddenly I couldn't breathe. My heart was racing, my vision was tunneling, and I thought I was having a heart attack. I thought I was dying. The paramedics came, checked me out, told me I was fine. But I wasn't fine. I'm still not fine. Everyday I live in fear that one will be triggered and I'll be turned into a melted weeping fetus on the floor. This isn't any way to live. I have to make a change even if it means taking drastic measures. Hence the package.

On my left, amidst a yard cluttered with debris, stands Quincy's mobile home. There are scattered pieces of a disassembled lawnmower, a dry rotted tire, and a ladder, among other things, all engulfed in overgrown grass. Dark green ivy climbs the side of the home with roots that emerge from the ground and the siding like veins. His home is highlighted by overflowing trash cans that should have been taken to the landfill weeks prior; it is definitely a feeding ground for pests. His property embodies the stereotypical trailer park scene, in stark contrast to the meticulously manicured yards of his neighbors. I pull into the driveway and park next to his rusted Oldsmobile. The car looks like it's been dead for years, like a corpse left to rot.

Before I can even reach for my phone to let him know I have arrived he bursts out of his front door, swinging an aluminum baseball bat wildly in the air, his eyes shut tightly, accompanied by his dog. "Get out of here demons!" he shouts. The way he swung the bat looked uncoordinated and reminds me of a kindergartner playing tee ball, consistently missing his target. His black lab Layla is leaping and barking excitedly in sync with his fervor, as if she too could perceive these imaginary beings.

Laughing, I step out of the car, used to my friend's eccentric behavior. He grins ear to ear, his eyes peeking out from beneath his curly dirty blonde hair, magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses. He drops the bat with a resonating "ping!" and it bounces on the ground as he comes over with his arms stretched wide to greet me with a hug. My muscles tense, ready to flinch, but I force myself to relax. This is my friend. My only friend. I can't afford to lose him.

"How's it going broseph?" He greets me with a tight embrace, playfully ruffling my hair as he pulls away. His hands linger a moment too long. "I can't believe you're going to do Acid for the first time! I never would have guessed it in a million years!" He's beaming.

I try to smile, feeling a bit uncomfortable from his display of exuberance. The smile feels like a mask, something I'm wearing rather than something I'm feeling. My face muscles ache from the effort. "I'm actually looking forward to tonight," my voice betrays a hint of apprehension. I can hear the tremor in my own words, the uncertainty that I'm trying so hard to hide.

"Going to a funeral or something?" he said, eyeing my attire with a slight smile. I glanced down at my outfit, still clad in a crisp white button-up shirt, black tie, slacks, and dress shoes from work earlier that day. I couldn't help but laugh, feeling totally overdressed compared to his torn jeans and baggy tank top which revealed his tattooed arms.

"Nah." I said a bit awkwardly, unable to come up with a more clever response.

With a smirk, he said, "Awesome. Well, let's go inside! Walk this way." He playfully turned around, imitating an orangutan by curling his arms overhead, palms facing outward, and squatting down. He was clearly amused by his own antics as we approached the entrance to his home, and from the looks of it, not the first time he'd done this. Was he always this weird? Or is it from the years of drugs he's done? Or is it something else?

A brief shudder ran through me thinking I might end up like that. At least he seems happy, I thought, in an attempt to console myself. But the thought doesn't help. The anxiety is still there, a low hum in the background of my consciousness that I can't quite tune out. I consciously nudged the anxious thought aside, refusing to allow it to gain a foothold in my mind.

There are plenty of horror stories circulating about how psychedelics had permanently transformed individual's personalities. A report of a person believing they'd turned into a fire truck for example, served as a reminder of just one of the many potential pitfalls. But those are just stories. Right?

The haunting tale of Syd Barrett from Pink Floyd is that he had a psychotic break and developed schizophrenia from excessive use of LSD. Who knows how much of that he was already predisposed to? But it appears that the influence of acid helped to tip him over the edge of his sanity. Regrettably, he eventually turned into a ghost of his former self and a shell of a man, truly a tragic loss of a talented artist. But that won't happen to me. At least that's what I am telling myself.

On the other hand, deeper down, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy towards Quincy. I longed for the carefree spirit and innate enthusiasm that seemed to come to him so effortlessly. I secretly wished that I possessed such a zest for life. Or maybe I just wished I could stop feeling so much, stop thinking so much, stop being so aware of everything that's wrong with the world and with me.

Influential figures like Jimi Hendrix and Steve Jobs described LSD as one of the most meaningful experiences of their lives. Witnessing the remarkable success they both attained and their life stories inspired me to want to further delve deeper into the recesses of my own psyche, uncovering the hidden depths that lie below. But what if there's nothing there? What if I'm just empty? What if I look inside and find nothing but darkness?

In my quest for answers, I stumbled on several medical studies suggesting that LSD could hold promise as a treatment for anxiety disorders and depression. Holding onto hope, I believed that this powerful substance could bring about positive and transformative changes within me. But hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can kill you.

After both my parents tragically died, my anxiety reached new heights. But it was the depression that really got me. The way it hollowed me out, made me feel like a shell of a person. The way I'd wake up in the morning and feel nothing. Not sad, not angry, not anything. Just... empty. Like someone had scooped out my insides and left me with nothing but skin and bones and a brain that wouldn't stop thinking about how pointless everything was. The way I'd look in the mirror and not recognize the person staring back. The way I'd go days without eating because I couldn't muster the energy to make food, or the will to care if I starved. The way I'd lie in bed for hours, unable to move, unable to think, just existing, just breathing, just waiting for something to change, knowing it never would.

The depression came on slowly, insidiously. It crept in like fog, filling every space, making everything gray and meaningless. The yearning to break free from this rusty cage grew so strong that I was willing to venture into uncharted territories, even if it meant risking my own sanity. Even if it meant risking everything. Because what did I have to lose? I was already dead inside. What's the worst that could happen? I'd die on the outside too? Sometimes that thought doesn't even sound so bad.

Although I have my two older brothers, I have always felt like the black sheep of the family. Living far apart, with one in Idaho and the other in Montana, our visits are few and far between. Since the passing of our parents we hadn't had much communication. Quincy was really my only friend at this point in my life. The only person who seemed to understand, who seemed to care. Or at least, the only person who pretended to.

Quincy swung the door open to his home and he casually kicked off his black boots once we got inside. Laces already undone. "Tying your shoelaces is a conspiracy perpetuated by 'The Man', man. It's just a whole waste of time if you ask me." I can't quite tell from his demeanor if he was joking or not. But there's something in his eyes, something that suggests he's not joking. Something that suggests he believes every word he says, no matter how crazy it sounds.

The inside of his home looked like he had just thrown a frat party the night before. There were empty beer cans strewn all over the kitchen counter and floor. The kitchen table hosted an assortment of dirty dishes, a swirling cloud of gnats buzzed persistently in the air. Trash was scattered haphazardly throughout both the kitchen and living room.

Only a narrow metal strip on the floor served as a feeble divider between the two spaces. Where the linoleum transitioned into a stained and neglected beige carpet. The carpet obviously had never been cleaned once since he'd lived there. The wood panel walls added a touch of nostalgia, as if the house had been frozen in time since the 1970's. A putrid odor assaulted my nose that reeked of a combination of mildew, a dead mouse, and spoiled milk, which fortunately, I quickly desensitized to. Or tried to. But there's something else underneath it all, something I can't identify, something that makes my stomach turn.

I followed him into the living room, brushing away the crumbs from the worn faux leather couch. The maroon cushions, cracked with age, welcomed me as I sank down. Layla, his dog, leaped up to join me as he disappeared down the back hall into his bedroom. Moments later he reappeared with a small wooden box adorned with intricate carvings and set it gently on the coffee table in front of us. The carvings look like eyes. Hundreds of eyes, all watching. Settling into his favorite orange and black plaid recliner adjacent to the sofa, he noticed me looking at a framed photo he had on the end table between us. It was a photo of Quincy smiling with his arm wrapped around a pretty brunette, who I instantly recognized as Jennifer.

It's funny how things worked out with Jennifer. After she and Quincy ended their relationship, I started dating her about three years later. She introduced us last summer; Quincy was cool enough that we continued to hang out and eventually became good friends.

He noticed me looking at the photo and picked up the frame and chuckled as he looked down at his cherished memory. "Oh Jennifer," he said to himself. A sense of longing dulled the spark in his eyes for a moment. It was the first glimpse of sadness I had witnessed on Quincy's face throughout our year-long friendship. Up until that point I assumed he had the emotional depth of a goldfish.

"You know the first time I tripped on acid was with her?" Quincy's voice drew me into his recollection.

"Really?" I replied, my curiosity piqued, hoping to glean some pointers that may be helpful on my first journey.

"Yeah man, it's so crazy because during the trip I had this mind-blowing vision of the future. I could see images of Jennifer and me getting married, crystal clear. I could practically touch my tux and feel the fabric of her dress and everything. It felt so real, you know?" He paused briefly, still looking at the photo with a slight grimace. "But we only ended up dating for six months after that. That's life, I guess. She was a free spirit that couldn't be tamed." He chuckled to himself again, still looking downtrodden, failing to hide his true feelings.

I could attest to that statement. After she and I broke up, not even a week later, I saw her making out with a guy at the mall that she swore was just a friend.

"I still see her from time to time," he said as he set the photo down. The way he says it makes my skin crawl. "So what'll it be?" he said returning from his reminiscence, his face lighting up once again. He opened the small wooden box.

"I think I just want one hit."

"Only one? Well… I should let you know these are pretty weak as far as acid goes. You should take two."

"Two hits? For my first time?"

"Yeah man, you should definitely take two. I want you to feel something," he said with a devilish grin. "Otherwise you won't get the full experience."

"I don't know, that kind of scares me," I said somewhat meekly.

"I'll even give you the second one for free."

"No, I'll pay you for it," I said, feeling bad. Maybe he needs the money. Or maybe I'm just trying to maintain some sense of control.

"No, it's a gift from me."

"No, I insist on paying for it."

"Just take it!" he snarled.

I was taken aback by this display of anger. The sudden shift in his demeanor hits me like a physical blow, my body recoiling slightly, my muscles tensing. I knew Quincy had a temper but it was usually never directed towards me. My heart is pounding now, so loud I'm sure he can hear it. My face feels hot, flushed with embarrassment and fear. "Okay, I'll take it." I said, slightly lowering my head, like a dog with its tail tucked. The words feel wrong in my mouth, like I'm tasting something bitter. Like I'm agreeing to something I shouldn't. Like I'm signing a contract I haven't read.

"You'll be fine dude. Just go with the flow. Don't fight it. Accept whatever comes and if you need anything or start freaking out you have my number," he said calmly. But the calm feels forced. Like he's trying too hard.

"Cool, thank you my friend. I really appreciate it." I said, genuinely grateful and a bit more at ease. Or telling myself I'm at ease.

Quincy handed me the carefully wrapped doses in aluminum foil. Then he pulled out a joint and lit it and set the box back on the table. He passed the joint to me and I hit it a couple of times before passing it back to him. The smoke tastes wrong. Like it's been laced with something. But that's probably just paranoia.

"You need anything else? Pills? Coke? Molly? I have some Special K if you want it." He hit the joint. "It's totally awesome." He added, his voice sounding raspy, speaking with the smoke still inhaled into his lungs.

"No thanks, I'm good for now. Maybe next time." I said, as he breathed out a huge plume of smoke with a long exhale.

He handed the joint back to me and I hit it again, the smoke was curling between us as he launched into a story about an altercation he had with his neighbor earlier that day. As he is telling me the story I started to space out and became lost in my thoughts which often happens to me when I smoke weed. His voice is almost a murmur in the background. I began trying to envision what I would experience later that night.

"I swear I'm going to kill that mother fucker one day." Quincy said, snapping me back to the present moment. I handed the joint back to him realizing that I'd been holding onto it for quite some time. The words hang in the air like a threat. Like a promise. But he's just talking, right? Just venting. Right?

"Well I should get going before it gets too late." I said, standing up to leave. Quincy and Layla got up along with me.

"Alright man, well be safe and remember don't hesitate to reach out if you need anything." He walked me to the door and turned on the outside light for me. By this time the sun had nearly set and it was dark outside. I zigzagged my way through the debris in his yard back to my car, grateful he had turned on the light so I didn't stumble over anything.