“Trippin’ Ain’t Easy”

Trippin’ Ain’t Easy

Today, I want to talk about bad trips.

Let’s get right to it — bad trips do exist.

And they fuckin’ suck.

I’ve got to be blunt about this one because, while I can name a million reasons why mushrooms are phenomenal — and yes, the breakthroughs are legendary — mushrooms are unpredictable. You never really know what you’re going to face once you enter that realm.

In five years of consistent mushroom use, I’ve “died” more times than I can count.

I’ve seen myself in a casket.
I’ve had visions of being lowered into the ground.
I’ve experienced the cliché death sequence — the white light, the surrender, the feeling of what it’s like to actually die.

But today, I want to share the most memorable — and most terrifying — trip I’ve ever had.

November 2024: The “Routine” Trip

I remember it vividly because it wasn’t that long ago. Once you’ve tripped enough, you start to recognize the rhythm of psychedelics. Every trip has its own personality and message — tailored to your mindset in that moment — but no one is exempt when it’s time for a “bad trip.”

This one started like any other night.

I was in a good mood — or at least, I thought I was. Nothing heavy on my mind. No unresolved drama. I figured it’d be a light, creative, reflective trip. But that night, the mushrooms had other plans.

Flashback: Death by Poisoning (2022)

Before I go deeper, let me rewind.

The last bad trip I had before 2024 was two years earlier — I called it Death by Poisoning.

I was at a woman’s house, and after she made me something to eat or drink (I can’t remember which), I suddenly felt my throat start to close — slow and tight, like a gentle vice.

As I was “dying,” I heard a voice say,

“That’s what you get — you’re just like your father.”

It hit deep. I was still carrying childhood pain from my parents’ divorce, and I hadn’t seen my father from age twelve to twenty-five. That trip forced me to face baggage I didn’t even realize I was still dragging.

But even that didn’t compare to what happened in 2024.

The Countdown

That night, I took one 4,000 mg (4 g) mushroom chocolate — a brand I’d used for months. The early phase was smooth. The music hit my soul. The visuals were soft and comforting.

Then, near the end of the trip, something shifted.

I sat up in bed, took off my headphones, and noticed that with each breath, it felt like a clock was counting down — like every inhale was one less I’d ever take.

And if you’ve ever tripped before, you know: the hardest thing to do is remember to breathe.

Your breath is the gasoline for your body — it keeps you moving through the waves. But when the visuals, sounds, and sensations overwhelm you, breathing becomes almost impossible.

Every breath felt heavier.
The panic set in.

And the more I panicked, the worse it got — as if every freak-out cost me two extra breaths off the clock.

Ego in the Driver’s Seat

My mind spiraled.

I thought maybe the bar was poisoned, maybe the company sold a bad batch, maybe someone made a bootleg version. My brain ran wild.

And just as I hit full panic, a small voice cut through the chaos:

“Just breathe.”

It was ironic — almost comical — but it was the last thing I wanted to hear.

“How the hell am I supposed to breathe,” I thought, “if I only have a few left?”

Then my ego jumped in.

“This is your fault, Jermy. You’re about to die. Everyone was right — this mushroom shit is weird. It’s gonna kill us.”

I started believing it.

It felt that real. I even tidied my room — thinking, at least if I die, the place will look clean when they find me.

I scrolled through my phone, ready to call someone and confess:

A psychedelic is about to kill me.

Then another voice cut in — calm, grounded, familiar:

“Don’t panic, Jermy. Remember, you’re on a hallucinogen.”

That snapped me out of it.

I obeyed. I drank water. I sat down. I breathed.

The Inner Dialogue

As I calmed down, I realized there were three of me in the room — my ego, my inner voice, and the observer watching it all.

That’s when I knew: this was a test.

I sat back and listened as my ego panicked, cursed, and complained — about things that weren’t even real.

But the more I centered myself, the quieter my ego became.
The more I surrendered, the more control I actually had.

It took everything in me not to freak out.

But when the vision finally faded, I exhaled — the deepest breath I’d ever taken — and survived.

“Jermy Just Died.”

I thought it was over.

I was ready for my afterglow — a smoke, a drink, time to reflect. But then I “got a phone call.”

I answered:

“Hello?”

A voice replied,

“Hey… did you hear the news?”

I asked, “What news?”

And they said,

“Jermy just died.”

I froze.
Tears fell.

Then the mushrooms began replaying memories of my life — all the good I’d done, the joy I’d shared.

The voice said again,

“Jermy was such a good man.”

I wept like I’d lost a friend — not realizing that friend was me.

It was the cry I didn’t know I’d been holding for years.

It emptied me.
Cleansed me.

That night, I released every ounce of pain I’d been carrying.

The Lesson

I took a full month off mushrooms after that. I was shaken to my core. I swore I was done.

But over time, that trip became the most sacred one of all.

It taught me how to recognize God’s voice in the middle of chaos.
It showed me that not every voice in my head deserves my trust.
It reminded me to be gentle — that my inner critic had been too loud for too long.

Now, when that voice shows up, I ask,

“Are you here to harm me or help me?”

That single question has become a practice.

Because sometimes, the scariest trips are the ones that bring you closest to the truth.

Final Thoughts

Trippin’ ain’t easy.

But the journey — even the dark ones — are part of the rebirth.

Bad trips remind us who we really are when everything else falls away.
And sometimes, dying in the vision is how we learn to live again.

Epilogue: Faith Between Breaths

I used to think bad trips were punishment.

Now I know they’re conversations — the kind you can only have when your soul’s tired of pretending.

That night stripped me of every illusion I had about control.

And what was left wasn’t fear — it was faith.
Raw and real.

It was me, breathing again — grateful to still be here.

— Jermy