Strolling Through Hypnagogic Hyperspace
|Name||Dosage||Route of Administration|
|Gaboxadol Hydrochloride||12 mg||Intranasal|
|Gaboxadol Hydrochloride||60 mg||Oral|
Gaboxadol is a structural derivative of the alkaloid Muscimol, a constituent of the pharmacological cocktail in the Amanita muscaria species of mushroom. A powerful, yet non-reinforcing hypnotic agent (unlike benzodiazepines, which are often prescribed for insomnia), Gaboxadol never found its way into any pharmaceutical production line for a constellation of complex reasons.
In my previous report, I wrote that Gaboxadol is “beyond powerful”. That assertion has been reinforced numerous times during a month-long gradual (upward) dose titration. I embellished my experimentation with varying ROAs and uncanny combinations (very few of which turned out to be called for). This is an amalgamation of notes made under the influence and post-factum.
(The following part is a little bit woo-woo, so hang tight, as I’m trying to convey an idea.)
Every psychedelic substance has a unique “felt presence”, a pharmacological conductor of the orchestra of experience, with a distinct character. The Psilocin presence turns knobs and dials on my emotional control panel, as is its wont. The edible Cannabis presence welds together seemingly nonsensical ideas in a quirky layer cake of novel meaning, in very surprising ways.
Gaboxadol’s “presence” has an agenda, which it establishes firmly and uncompromisingly, and not in a gentle “tuck-into-bed” kind of way. The steadily amplifying somnolence will almost certainly land you into bed, memory and judgment intact. As the landing strip becomes visible in the distance, unbridled hypnagogic psychedelia ensues.
On an empty stomach, the come-up is less than 15 minutes. This stuff is permeable, much more so than muscimol evidently (due to the presence of the piperidine ring, as per my speculation). A light stiffness is clinging to various parts of my body, starting from the neck and trickling down. My notes on robotripping refer to this as “DXM neck”, just one of a few curious parallels between the physicality of DXM and Gaboxadol. Nearing the peak (30 min), even walking is quite DXM-like. Not quite a stroll through thick mud, but definitely not a fluid gait.
Gravity pulls in all directions, switching said directions rapidly; walking is not advised beyond this point. The visual periphery is infiltrated by flickering lights, tracers, but OEV’s aren’t noteworthy otherwise. The continuity of perceived time progression and spatial awareness is disrupted, crumbling into the jagged movement of a flea (more on this in my previous post). A single fixated-upon frame at any given moment appears to be part of a snapshot of spacetime already experienced. Immediately recent past is mistaken for the immediate future, which is mistaken for the present. Things appear to appear several steps ahead, in time.
Once the stimuli of the outside world are behind the veils of closed eyelids, the truly ineffable mind-fuckery blooms. A rapidly changing slideshow of random scenes contoured by yellow neon lines, each scene springing into the next with the lines unbroken. In between the scenes, or perhaps as a constant transparent overlay, hangs the Halo: an uncannily consistent aspect of Gaboxadol’s CEV gamut.
The rings of the Halo pulsate independently in a disorganized, white-noise fashion. At doses lower than 45 mg, only a faint rigmarole of rainbow lines can be seen against the backdrop of closed eyelids, without a discernible structure. Neither the slideshow nor the aggressive kaleidoscope fade, as I inadvertently slip out of consciousness.
Lying down, eyes closed. No rapidly changing scenes, no Halo, not a sliver of color on the horizon. I feel propelled forward — inside a tunnel, or some other kind of narrow space — amidst oncoming torrents of floating debris. This debris is, in fact, the collection of thoughts that form in the backdrop of this immensely aggressive propulsion. I can not only formulate a thought — I can see it dart past my subjective awareness. If a thought becomes salient, it is momentarily “swatted out of the way” by whatever is carrying me forward. Not only is my train of thought, therefore, completely hijacked — the train is replaced by an interstellar vessel carrying me through the asteroidal mist of my own thoughts. All of this is not even strictly metaphorical, and I am not just visualizing. I am seeing this moving caricature of my hijacked thought process, the bizarre tunnel flight that culminates in an easily predictable state.
Conclusion / Aftermath
H.M. described his Gaboxadol trip as “becoming a passive observer in one’s own mind” and a “dizzying sense of rushing towards the state of sleep”. While my own report may sound like a flowery paraphrasing of his recounted experience, I am in fact being absolutely genuine in my recollection, and I could not have put it into different words. With this substance, there is a clear dissociative aspect, but not between the body and mind, rather between the mind and mind. Thoughts are formed coherently somewhere behind the stage, while the spectator sees the curtain of consciousness falling, brought down by the creation of mushroom and man.