Roger Raffee's Blog - Posts Tagged "mental-health"
Being Politically Correct
Would I try LSD again? Hell no. I don't crave flying that high for so many hours again. It was fun a few times (OK, maybe it was a lot of times), and I actually learned something useful that improved my life, but I was lucky. I know people that tried it and got different results.
If they could make an LSD, which you could come on to in the same way, but then stay high for 20 minutes, and come down with no repercussions or lingering psychosis, then I'd be all for it. I'd probably take it a couple of times a day, some days. It would probably help most of us live better lives. Too bad it has to last 18 hours and drive a lot of people crazy.
My friend Chris and I dropped some L, about four o'clock in the afternoon one Saturday. We were probably sixteen or seventeen years old. We got in Chris's car to head off to a dance, about eight miles away, at a college auditorium. We got fascinated by the lines in the road, and followed them for a long time, laughing and tripping on how the lines came flying at us as we drove along. Chris said he was having a hard time controlling the car, keeping it in a straight line. That made us laugh so hard that we decided to get off the road and find out where we were.
We parked the car, still in the city, and got out to find people to ask directions. We got separated and lost each other. Finally, after some searching, we were overjoyed to find each other again, like two long lost adventurers in the jungle. We found someone who gave us excellent detailed instructions on how to get to the dance, which we promptly forgot and then spent an hour arguing over.
We got in to his car and the first decision was whether to turn right or left. I said left, but Chris said right. We parked the car again to spend another hour arguing about that. Then, finally, I acquiesced and we turned right.
We drove through the city. Every stop light was a momentous decision in our lives. Do we go straight? Turn right here? Or left? This continued for hours. We finally were getting close. I knew it. I could sense it. We stopped and asked directions again. This time we understood them. We finally got to the dance around midnight, just ten minutes before they ended it. I got to dance with a girl. Success.
I can't say it was a terrible experience. I was actually having fun, even though it was about the most frustrating experience I have ever suffered through.
When we finished with the dance, we had to figure out how to get home, something that would have been ridiculously easy if we hadn't been high, and we still had ten hours more to go of being high.
We made it to the beach, where we became fascinated with running up and down hills in the dark. That was fun. I mean it, it was really fun.
Chris dropped LSD a week or two later, without me. He got so high, walking around, that he wanted to rest and get off the street. He was walking by a hotel and saw an open door. This fascinated him. He walked over to the room and saw nobody there. He called out, and nobody answered. So he went in and turned on the TV. Something came on that blew his mind. If was the Flinstones, an episode with the Great Gazoo. Nothing could be more fascinating while on acid.
The maid came to the room and asked what he was doing. He showed her the Great Gazoo. Isn't that amazing, he asked her. An alien visiting the Flinstones. She called the manager, who called the police. The police came and asked what he was doing. The program was over. It was time to leave. He told them his business was finished, and he was going home. They arrested him.
The cops asked him what he was watching on TV. Chris told them how an alien from another world came here to make friends with the Flinstones. Later on, when his head was clear, nobody would listen to him when he tried to explain to them how great the Great Gazoo really was, except for me. Chris snuck out of his house a couple of days later and came to my place to tell me what happened.
"Makes perfect sense," I told him, "except that you blew it. You're no longer in the club, dude. You've lost your club privileges. No more acid for you. You knew that the two most important club rules are don't get caught, and never admit anything."
Chris smiled, embarrassed. He admitted he screwed up.
"Don't worry, " I said, patting him on the back. "You'll be fine."
A couple of months later, his family, a court agreement, and high priced psychiatrists convinced him he needed to start taking large doses of human tranquilizers. He gained about 60 pounds and rode around the neighborhoods on a bicycle, smiling like a zombie who just got fed.
I tried to talk him off the tranquilizers, but his zombie mind was convinced he needed them, so his family could control him and keep him from doing what was bad for him.
The wild friend I had, with the zesty personality, who surfed stoked and enthusiastically with me, was gone forever. It wasn't the acid that ruined him. It was his family's paranoia and horror, that he had eaten acid, and the drugs they then convinced him to live on, that killed him.
Did he really die? As far as I was concerned he did, because the guy I knew never came back, and the last I saw of the zombie was him riding his bike, a hundred pounds heavier, with no recognition at all when I waved at him.
I had to force him to come to a stop. He was annoyed.
Don't you know me anymore? I asked.
"Yes," he said, in his zombie voice, with a thousand yard stare. "I remember you but I have to be at home in fifteen minutes to take my medicine."
If they could make an LSD, which you could come on to in the same way, but then stay high for 20 minutes, and come down with no repercussions or lingering psychosis, then I'd be all for it. I'd probably take it a couple of times a day, some days. It would probably help most of us live better lives. Too bad it has to last 18 hours and drive a lot of people crazy.
My friend Chris and I dropped some L, about four o'clock in the afternoon one Saturday. We were probably sixteen or seventeen years old. We got in Chris's car to head off to a dance, about eight miles away, at a college auditorium. We got fascinated by the lines in the road, and followed them for a long time, laughing and tripping on how the lines came flying at us as we drove along. Chris said he was having a hard time controlling the car, keeping it in a straight line. That made us laugh so hard that we decided to get off the road and find out where we were.
We parked the car, still in the city, and got out to find people to ask directions. We got separated and lost each other. Finally, after some searching, we were overjoyed to find each other again, like two long lost adventurers in the jungle. We found someone who gave us excellent detailed instructions on how to get to the dance, which we promptly forgot and then spent an hour arguing over.
We got in to his car and the first decision was whether to turn right or left. I said left, but Chris said right. We parked the car again to spend another hour arguing about that. Then, finally, I acquiesced and we turned right.
We drove through the city. Every stop light was a momentous decision in our lives. Do we go straight? Turn right here? Or left? This continued for hours. We finally were getting close. I knew it. I could sense it. We stopped and asked directions again. This time we understood them. We finally got to the dance around midnight, just ten minutes before they ended it. I got to dance with a girl. Success.
I can't say it was a terrible experience. I was actually having fun, even though it was about the most frustrating experience I have ever suffered through.
When we finished with the dance, we had to figure out how to get home, something that would have been ridiculously easy if we hadn't been high, and we still had ten hours more to go of being high.
We made it to the beach, where we became fascinated with running up and down hills in the dark. That was fun. I mean it, it was really fun.
Chris dropped LSD a week or two later, without me. He got so high, walking around, that he wanted to rest and get off the street. He was walking by a hotel and saw an open door. This fascinated him. He walked over to the room and saw nobody there. He called out, and nobody answered. So he went in and turned on the TV. Something came on that blew his mind. If was the Flinstones, an episode with the Great Gazoo. Nothing could be more fascinating while on acid.
The maid came to the room and asked what he was doing. He showed her the Great Gazoo. Isn't that amazing, he asked her. An alien visiting the Flinstones. She called the manager, who called the police. The police came and asked what he was doing. The program was over. It was time to leave. He told them his business was finished, and he was going home. They arrested him.
The cops asked him what he was watching on TV. Chris told them how an alien from another world came here to make friends with the Flinstones. Later on, when his head was clear, nobody would listen to him when he tried to explain to them how great the Great Gazoo really was, except for me. Chris snuck out of his house a couple of days later and came to my place to tell me what happened.
"Makes perfect sense," I told him, "except that you blew it. You're no longer in the club, dude. You've lost your club privileges. No more acid for you. You knew that the two most important club rules are don't get caught, and never admit anything."
Chris smiled, embarrassed. He admitted he screwed up.
"Don't worry, " I said, patting him on the back. "You'll be fine."
A couple of months later, his family, a court agreement, and high priced psychiatrists convinced him he needed to start taking large doses of human tranquilizers. He gained about 60 pounds and rode around the neighborhoods on a bicycle, smiling like a zombie who just got fed.
I tried to talk him off the tranquilizers, but his zombie mind was convinced he needed them, so his family could control him and keep him from doing what was bad for him.
The wild friend I had, with the zesty personality, who surfed stoked and enthusiastically with me, was gone forever. It wasn't the acid that ruined him. It was his family's paranoia and horror, that he had eaten acid, and the drugs they then convinced him to live on, that killed him.
Did he really die? As far as I was concerned he did, because the guy I knew never came back, and the last I saw of the zombie was him riding his bike, a hundred pounds heavier, with no recognition at all when I waved at him.
I had to force him to come to a stop. He was annoyed.
Don't you know me anymore? I asked.
"Yes," he said, in his zombie voice, with a thousand yard stare. "I remember you but I have to be at home in fifteen minutes to take my medicine."
