My "Lost Week" fracas at Barbiturate Manor

A week-long barbiturate binge

Substances: Barbiturates (Oral)

During that summer, an old friend I hadn't seen in ages invited me to spend the weekend at her place in upstate New York. I followed her laberinthine directions to a large stone 19th century manor surrounded by several hundred acres of rolling feilds and woodlands, a zone of impeccible privacy where all manner of perverse activities were carried out. The place had been built for one of those Hudson River tycoons but was now going to seed, and had become a sort of "commune" for 20 or so of the strangest people I had ever met, including my friend. I put the word "commune" in quotes because the word conjures up images of idealistic hippies strumming guitars and so forth- definitely NOT what this place was about. It was peopled by an odd mix of washed-out club-kids, trust-funded addicts, vampiric Manhattanites, and so on... a sort of latter day Warhol/Velvet Underground scene. I have no idea if it is still in "operation", and I have no desire to find out.

Anyway, when I arrived, my friend met me at the ponderous gates and showed me to her room... a lovely but battered oak-panneled place she shared with another young woman. My friend was wearing a filthy old muu-muu stained and pinhole-burned, a cigarette dangling from her mouth. Her face seemed puffy, slack and pale. I soon discovered the reason: in her room was a monsterous vat of barbiturates, which she referred to as "Gorilla Pills". I never really found out where they came from, what their trade name was or why she had so many- some questions are better left unasked when you know that vague answers will ensue. People wandered in and out, snaking handfuls from this recepticle. Nobody seeming to mind, or seeming to have much to say about anything, for that matter. Being the adventurous type, I decided to give myself up to the experience and pop a few.

My muscles relaxed, I began slurring my words, and noticed a lack of coordination in my movements coupled with a profound lack of concern about this state of affairs. We went out to the mansion's stone deck and sat around, smoking bomber joints of kind bud and catching up on old times.

I had planned to leave the next day but somehow was convinced to stay another day, and another... each morning we would gobble a few barbs, smoke up, and spend the rest of the day in a sort of slack-jawed comatose bliss. Refueling from the pill-vat would take place when necessary. Other people here were doing other drugs, no doubt, but due to my sedated condition curiosity about them and anything outside my immediate feild of vision was muted. There seemed to be alot of money floating around the place, and each night we would have these massive banquets either outside on the lawn (unmowed and waist-high) or in the old, mouldering dining-hall. They were elaborately orchestrated gourmet meals, cooked by several speed-freaks who were into the act of preparation but not eating. My own appitite was also subdued, but I did manage to munch on some of the delightful snacks.

Driving was out of the question, so I remained a victim of my own inertia. I discovered that orgies were taking place here, as well as strange art- projects and music, but my own sexual and intellectual appities were so blunted I didn't have an urge to take part. Mostly I sat around with my friend a several other of her friends, having vapid, spacy conversations about current events, hairstyles, the weather, how high we were.

After 10 days of this madness I managed to tear myself away. From that day forward I have never eaten another barbiturate or, indeed, any type of chemical, being so shaken by the experience that I remain clean and sober. I later heard my friend was hospitalized for barb addiction and corageously fought it off at much risk to her life. Several others I met there are now dead. My friend now leads a much healthier life. I hope this convinces those of you who are curious not to indulge in the slippery slope of barbiturate use.