15, LSD & a Wild Ride: My Unfiltered True Story of a PCP Mix-Up

I grew up as a straight-edge kid—the one who wore anti-drug T-shirts and preached about the dangers of weed, convinced it made people lazy and stupid, even though I’d never touched it myself. I didn’t see, smell, or smoke weed until I was 15. Back in high school, there was a canyon about a ten-minute walk from campus where kids snuck off to get high and do things they didn’t want their parents to know about. One day, some friends invited me along. That was the first time I took a hit out of an apple pipe, a tradition of sorts. I immediately erupted into a violent coughing fit. Afterward, we walked to Carl’s Jr., and I had no idea that this moment would mark the start of a reckless pursuit of unpredictable highs.

Not long after that first puff, my parents decided I needed a change. It wasn’t just about the weed—it was about my slipping grades. They pushed me to transfer schools, hoping I’d find a better crowd and focus on my academics. In hindsight, it only made things more complicated. At my new school, I made friends quickly, and it didn’t take long before I was taking bong rips with them after class. One day, my friend Jose asked me if I’d ever tried acid. I told him no—I wasn’t actively seeking it out, but I was desperate for approval. If doing acid made me fit in, I was open to the idea. I had always been terrified of psychedelics. I’d heard horror stories about people taking LSD and never coming back, their brains permanently fried. But curiosity won out over fear.

Through a mutual friend, Jose and I found a dealer willing to sell to us. We arranged to meet him behind the subway near school. I handed him $30—money my parents gave me for food after school, though I had started skipping meals to save for drugs instead. He handed me two pills, one pink and one blue. I hesitated, confused. I had always thought acid came in tabs or liquid drops. When I asked about the pills, he called it "synthetic acid." Being 15 and naive, I didn’t question it. I pocketed them and walked away. I never saw him again.

That night, I spun an elaborate lie for my parents, telling them I was sleeping over at a friend’s house for a movie night. Jose and I headed to another friend’s place—her parents weren’t home, so it seemed like the perfect spot. I was always excited to go to her house. I had a massive crush on her and secretly hoped I’d lose my virginity to her before high school ended. In my mind, taking acid made me seem cool and experimental, like the kind of guy she’d be impressed by. We hung out, cracking jokes, until we finally decided it was time. Neither of us had any idea what we were in for.

We took the pills and left, deciding her house wasn’t the right place to trip. At Jose’s house, we put on South Park, figuring it would help keep us grounded. Then the high hit. Hard. My body felt like it was being dipped in a frying pan. My vision exploded with colors I had never seen before. The trip escalated fast. We couldn’t sit still, so we left and walked to a nearby park. The neighborhood was quiet, the streetlights stretching endlessly down the road. There wasn’t a soul in sight, but even if there had been, I wouldn’t have noticed. By the time we got there, the drugs had completely taken over.

I lost control. I started screaming at the top of my lungs, running in circles, throwing myself down hills. I was tweaking. This wasn’t just acid—this was something else entirely. I was trapped in a bad trip, spiraling into insanity, and I was lucky to escape without lasting damage. For hours, we ran, shouted, and eventually huddled in the park’s bathroom stalls, waiting for it to end. But it didn’t. As the sun began to rise, we stumbled back to Jose’s house, hoping to sleep it off. I had been awake and high for nearly ten hours straight. I had forgotten what it felt like to experience daylight sober.

Back at Jose’s house, we were desperate for sleep. Without saying a word, Jose took a few sleeping pills and passed out. I was left alone, still trapped in my mind. Panic set in. What if this was permanent? What if I was stuck like this forever? My breathing quickened. My heart pounded. I needed to shut my brain off. Desperate, I grabbed a bottle of pills from Jose’s counter—Motrin. I had no idea what I was taking, but I was willing to swallow anything if it meant knocking myself out. I took a handful. Instead of sleep, my body rebelled. I started shaking, seizing on the floor, South Park still playing in the background. My heart was racing, my mind running in endless loops of terror. I thought I was dying.

I had no choice. I reached for my phone. My contacts were limited to close family, but I was too scared to call my parents. Instead, I sent a barely coherent, encrypted message to my sister-in-law. Somehow, she figured it out. At 7 a.m., she found me wandering the sidewalk, staring blankly at the sky, still high out of my mind. She yelled my name, and I shuffled toward her like a zombie. Before I could get into her car, she asked bluntly, *“What did you take? And don’t tell me weed, because I know this isn’t weed.”*

All I could say was, “Acid.”

She sighed and told me to get in. I explained what happened, still unaware that what I had taken wasn’t just acid—it was laced with PCP. She assumed I was just exhausted and starving, so she took me to Jack in the Box. The idea of eating sounded great, but my body wasn’t ready. I forced down a few bites of a taco, shoved some curly fries in my mouth, then pushed the rest away. I was too fried to function. At the time, my brother—a federal officer—was living in a downtown apartment with her. He had no idea what was going on. My sister-in-law played it cool, quietly making up the pull-out couch so I could sleep. I crashed for a few hours before she woke me for lunch. My body felt destroyed. Every muscle ached from the running, the screaming, the thrashing. I could barely keep my head up.

We went to a sandwich shop, and I passed out in the booth. My brother, confused, knew something was off but didn’t ask questions. Instead of taking me back to their apartment, they drove me home. My parents weren’t there. They were in Mexico, set to return that night. I thought I had gotten away with everything.

I was wrong. That evening, as I sat at my desk playing *World of Warcraft*, thinking the chaos was behind me, I heard my parents arrive. From my window, I watched them greet my brother and sister-in-law. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I didn’t need to. My mother’s face told me everything. They knew. I saw the disappointment hit them like a truck.

I ran back to my desk, trying to act normal. It didn’t matter. Moments later, my parents stormed into my room, demanded my phone and computer, and ordered me downstairs. I thought I was getting off easy. Then I walked into the living room. Both of my older brothers. Both of my sister-in-laws. My parents. An intervention.

At the time, I was furious at my sister-in-law. I felt betrayed. I had trusted her, and she told them everything. But it didn’t take long for that anger to fade. Looking back, I know she saved me. That night changed everything. It forced me to rethink my relationship with drugs, psychedelics, and the people I surrounded myself with. It would be eight years before I touched acid again—this time, responsibly, with vetted sources. Who knows where I would have ended up if I had never reached out for help? Maybe I’d be the one selling drugs to kids behind the subway.