On October 1st 2013, I smoked some weed. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was laced with an unknown substance. I had a horrific experience. I may have been on the roof at one point. I was all alone, and I live in the middle of the woods, so no one knows what all actually happened.

Well, a few weeks later, I ended up in the hospital for it. I acted deranged enough that they put me in the quiet room. I was only in the hospital for about a week or two, but I was forever fucked up by that experience. When they let me out, I had to stay with my grandparents because I couldn’t handle being at home for various reasons regarding details of the bad trip.

During that time, I lost control of myself, and I very violently murdered a few of my family members, and I got put back in the hospital and back in the quiet room by myself.

Now, that last part never happened, but you can imagine how fucked up I was that I believed that I did that. And it still haunts me as if it actually happened because it felt so real. I can still feel my cousin’s little neck in my hands and the cracking it made when I killed him, even though it never happened. I can still see the horror on everyone’s faces as they tried to pin me down. I can still feel my back against the carpet as they held me and cried.

It took about a year, but I got a hold of myself, and I slowly started to be able to differentiate between my vivid imagination and reality again, and I haven’t had trouble with it since. But occasionally, I stop and I wonder if I am indeed still sitting in the quiet room, just imagining all of this.