Author's Notes:
The first chapter is a little depressing, so be warned.
If you want to just read about the psychedelic experience, go here.
Index:
Suffering Artist
One would assume from my work that I have been using drugs for a very long time.
However, the reality was that my art and writing became the ticket to my eventual psychedelic experiences.
I wanted to be an artist since I was eleven years old. It was simply the only thing I was good at, and it did not get me bullied by classmates. I was also very much into storytelling, having been an avid reader of the great English classics and X-Men fanfiction (the superior literature).
During my adolescence, art became an exercise of imagination, while writing became a constant source of torment. I had images in my head, visions and scenarios that I couldn't properly execute due to a lack of skill and experience. Online advice on writing simply said to pigeonhole my stories into three-act structures and hero journeys, but the ideas I wanted to write about didn't abide by those standards. It took me a decade to realize and fully embrace the unconventionality of my work, only then my storytelling began to flourish.
By 2017, my family became more and more dysfunctional to the point that I gave up on writing and focused on honing my artistic skills. I sold my paintings at art markets to save money as a safety net in case of emergencies. I was deep in my depression by then, crying nightly in my sleep when I lived with my friend.
By 2019, I have dropped out of high school, ran away from home at sixteen, was discovered by police and finally taken into custody by my biological father who I hadn't seen since I was nine years old. So, a tad bit has changed.
By 2022, I was physically and mentally wrecked from overworking to sustain myself as an adult. Money was slowly dwindling and I couldn't imagine a future past the next month.
I cashed in the little money I had to go to therapy. My therapist encouraged me to go see other people, so naturally I went on Tinder.
I fell in love with some American white boy with a cringey New Agey name. We had a picnic on a rooftop, kissed in the dark against the city skyline, I ran after him in the rain on one of our dates, I thought I found someone I actually liked. Obviously he ghosted me for the next four months and only messaged to ask if he could come over my place when he's in town. Bummer.
On my 20th birthday, I made a cake while I was drunk and set my oven on fire. But the cake was fine. I made a wish:
If it didn't get better by my 21nd birthday, I will kill myself.
I didn't kill myself, of course, so the wish came true.
Since I saw no future, I decided if I was going to die within the year - I will spend the rest of my (one year of) life doing things that was fun. I bought an accordion, I started smoking tobacco from a pipe, I collected cheap tarot cards, I worked on a story idea for a video game I was trying to develop on Unity 2D.
The artwork and ideas from that game, eventually led to the characters of my graphic novel, The Afterdeath.
And that led to me to the love of my life.
Stupid Tinder!
A. and I met online on Dec 1, 2022. The first thing he said to me was,
"I'm so intrigued by your artwork. Never seen anything like it. Tell me about yourself."
By Tinder standards, that was a good start.
Most men skim over the pieces of art I had at the back of my profile. I was already jaded from my recent heartbreak, I just wanted something chaotic and stupid.
But the more A. and I texted, the warmer my heart felt. We spoke about Mozart, Dostoevsky, Sufism, nerdy things people generally keep to themselves while they're dating. It was Wednesday, almost midnight when we decided to finally arrange a date for Saturday. He gave me his number, I observed the +1, "Oh, you're American."
"No. Russian," he replied, almost offended, "This is surreal. Didn't think my night would go this way. Wow, really looking forward to Saturday. You're a full time artist? Mean you stay up crazy late?"
I texted back, "Yes hah, I have a very weird sleep schedule. As long as I feed my cats morning and evening, all is good."
"Show me some more art if you don't mind."
"What would you like to see?"
"Something surreal. Different. Unconventional."
"Alright then!"
He replied with, "Wow. I love it. Like a modern Bosch ... do you ever engage in, um, creative type substances?"
"Hahaha, I smoke tobacco through a pipe but most of the weird stuff comes when I'm sober. I've always been weird lol."
"Me too! God I love weird. Since I was a kid it's been a carnival in my head. I might like certain serious stuff sometimes. The Timothy Leary variety. Opens up some very big creative doors you didn't know were there. Once in a blue moon."
"I've never tried anything other than weed, I'm actually quite curious about LSD. Cos I'm already pretty 'out there' when I'm sober, so I wonder what happens when I'm not."
"Are you now. Hmm. I wonder if I have any rare pharmaceutical grade version of it. Hmm. Not sure. They don't like that stuff here," he texted with a smiley.
We decided to move forward the date to Friday.
***
The next morning, I woke up to poetry:
Good morning, my queen of forever.
Let's pretend that we've never known another.
And that love is yet discovered and caresses unknown.
And there is only you and me and nothing.
Ah, Friday is going to be awesome. Naturally, I would've felt like this was all too much. It's too good to be real. But I didn't care, I really needed a win. In fact, at that point I didn't even want a win anymore, it just would have been nice to receive a blessing.
We had a call on Thursday night.
"I'm a bit sad," he said, "I like you more than I should already. And if I come to love you it will be worse. What have you done?! Stupid tinder."
"Oh I feel the exact same way."
"What to do indeed. Well, let us carefully plan our future breakup and learn from our mistakes until the next disaster. I'm already in pain. Dammit."
I laughed, "Let's not be too negative. Whatever happens, I'm sure it'll be memorable."
"Yes," he agreed.
The Three-Day Date
The idea of getting picked up by a stranger in his car is truly a Grade-A beginning for an episode of a true crime podcast, but as we have established earlier - I was fine with dying.
I spent Thursday and Friday morning cleaning the house. Cleaning a depression house in one and a half day(s) is a rare achievement. The orange dress I wore had a stain down the skirt, it also happened to be the most expensive piece of clothing I owned.
"Can I bring you anything," he asked in text, "I'm not doing flowers and chocolates."
"Haha, just bring yourself." Now I'm starting to sound like the murderer here, but I added, "I do like chocolates though."
"Milk or dark?"
"Dark but milk is nice too."
As I smoked behind the house, I heard car tires rustling the gravel in front. I ran up to A. and hugged him. I closed the gate and got into his car. A bag of chocolates nestled gently under the front seat.
"So where to now?" he asked.
"I dunno," I shrugged, "Let's go to your place."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, why not."
On the drive to his place at the wealthier neighborhood of MK, I couldn't stop staring at the profile of his face. He resembled an ex of mine that I was with for three years (who I thought I was going to marry, then he cheated on me during the Covid pandemic). Honestly, I wasn't sure if the resemblance was a good thing.
A. noticed me staring, and smiled, "All good?"
"Yes," I said, quite relaxed. We had a conversation about body odor and chemicals. Then it was his turn to stare at me, though not too often because he was the one driving. He let out a sigh, his gentle hand placed on his chest, "Man, I feel so comfortable with you."
I nodded happily, "Me too."
We held hands in silence. At a traffic light, just a U-turn away from his neighborhood we started kissing. Then we arrived at MK and he took me to a restaurant for a late lunch. The late lunch turned to dinner at a Japanese restaurant.
A. was taking deep breaths at times, I asked if he was okay. He joked, "I feel like I'm on acid! I'm melting!"
***
A. being a businessman sat me down to talk about money. I said I'd be happy making 5k a month because I was making 0. I was uneasy due to the fact I was burnt out. Not being able to work and provide for myself was a source of shame.
He said no, you should be aiming for 20k. 20k?! Yes, at least 10k if you want to travel. Insanity. We discussed business ideas over sushi, possibly selling gallery art. I asked if he was part of the mafia, he laughed.
"With this face?" he gave a goofy grin. "Even if this thing between us doesn't work out, at least you'll be able to live comfortably-
-I want you to have a good life, no, I NEED you to have a good life."
My eyes were tearing up. I felt intimidated, no one ever placed that amount of trust and belief in me. Let alone tried to fill my head with big ambitions. But deep down, this was something I always wanted. To be able to prove my abilities, to be able to shine. So I agreed to try, A. was happy.
We joked about silly things, planned ideas for Christmas, he recited "There's a Platypus Controlling Me" from Phineas and Ferb. I burst out laughing. We returned to his apartment, and curled up in bed.
"I love you," I said in a soft whisper, surprising myself.
He replied, without hesitation, "I love you too."