I'm Sorry About Last Night

Yes, it was a bad trip

To everyone who is still here, thank you — especially to those who left a concerned comment, emailed me, or otherwise got in touch to see if I was okay.

To state the obvious, I had a bad trip last night.

I started writing out the full story of what happened. I don’t have time to write it all tonight, so I moved it to another draft.

First of all, my kids were always safe. My husband was out of town, but my brother, mother, step-father, and mother-in-law were all there for dinner. I’d taken very small doses of psilocybin and ketamine earlier in the afternoon and meditated in the bedroom while my baby napped. There’s a lot of back story to my mindset, but maybe it doesn’t matter. I was mostly sober by the time my family arrived, but very tired due to lack of sleep (three-year-old and three-month-old, no husband all weekend) and because I’m pretty sick with a cold. I accepted a hit off my brother’s weed pen and it was much stronger than I expected, so I went to lie down in my bedroom while my kids played with their grandparents.

That’s when I went insane. I thought my husband was telepathically communicating with me. Obviously he wasn’t. I was hallucinating. This escalated, with “us” “talking” about crazier and crazier things, getting into Covid conspiracies (“a worse pandemic is coming!”). I freaked out when I came to dinner and started warning my family.

Then I remembered our cell phones might be listening to us.

I thought I had killed us all.

And the only way to save us, was to tell as many people as possible the truth as quickly as I could. They can’t kill you if you tell people why they are going to kill you.

So I went to Substack.

And you saw what happened.

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I have so much more to say, but I haven’t processed everything, I’m embarrassed and confused, and my kids need me. I need to go to bed.

This is my worst trip, but I’ve had other bad trips before. I’ve experienced mental illness before, even mild psychosis.

I can’t promise this won’t happen again. But I will try not to let it happen again. For one, I’m staying away for weed for a long time, if not forever, after this. And certainly not messing with any of my brother’s way-too-strong vapes ever again.

Some people unsubscribed and I understand why. But many more of you stayed, and I’m grateful. And some of you tried to find out if I was okay, which is above and beyond.

Mental illness is a hard thing. I know I’m not completely well. Whether it’s genes, the head injury I had when I was one, childhood trauma, substance abuse, or all of the above (probably all of the above), it doesn’t really matter.

I’ve dwelled too much on trying to understand why I’ve always felt a little broken. Why my brain is wired a little funny.

Regardless of how I became the way I am, it’s my responsibility to heal. Magic mushrooms were one of the ways I thought I was doing that, but maybe I’ve taken it too far. (Or maybe it was all the weed; I really don’t know).

I scared myself last night. I scared my family. I disrupted my husband’s trip (he still got the certificate). Worst of all, I scared my children, who didn’t know what was wrong with me.

I love my husband and children more than anything.

I desperately want to be a good mother.

I’m sorry to you, readers, and maybe I owe a better explanation. But once I start in on details and back story, there’s just so much there, and maybe more than I’m ready to share.

I am going to return to content like I used to write. I’m still working on the essay I promised as a follow up to Friday’s controversial post.

But I need some time to heal too.

I hope you’ll stick with me. If you want more of an explanation, I’ll try later. But right now, my baby needs me.

Thank you,

Meghan