I Watched My Lover Die While We Were Tripping, and It Haunts Me to This Day

In 2023, I was 15 years old. I was struggling with addiction, in and out of psych wards, and nothing seemed to be working. I was a mess of medication, mania, and despair. Then, while in a hospital, I met my first love. He was 16. He and I spent as much time together as we could. I never knew I could have feelings as strong as I did. We were both very bipolar, on medication, and had just survived attempts.

We bonded in a way that felt cosmic. To this day, I have never clicked with someone like that. He lived a state away from me, so when we got out, I wasn't sure if he would even contact me. But he did. And we hit it off again. Soon, he asked me out. We devoted all our time to each other, and I planned a visit. My father drove four hours so I could meet him.

The Love

As you can imagine, we couldn't keep our hands off each other. I was so in love. He was a brilliant and extremely talented guitarist, hilarious, a genius, and very insane. But the only fly he could hurt was himself. He would frequently talk about offing himself, and then he started talking about us doing it together. He didn't mean to sound grim. It was a combination of his illness, his angst, and his love for me.

When we hung out, the addiction in me slowly crept back in. I was so high on young love that I didn't even want to use. I had been relatively sober the whole time we dated. But for some reason, I wanted to do LSD with him. I thought drugs were cool. My world revolved around getting high, and I wanted to include him.

He seemed fascinated by my addiction—not romanticizing it, but intrigued. He had only smoked weed before and maybe a few cigs. Some nights we would spend hours on the phone, and I'd tell him all my acid stories or coke endeavors. One time, he told me his favorite movie was Requiem for a Dream. I told him I never saw it.

The Plan

After our visit, I got home and immediately launched a manic idea. And any bipolar person knows that ideas become reality quickly. We were going to do acid together. It was the perfect drug, not lethal, eye-opening, relatively cheap, and it would be a great bonding experience.

As the days went on, I realized I couldn't wait till our next visit. We could just get it from our own plugs and do it on the phone. Another decision I will regret. He talked to a guy who knew a guy and got someone on Telegram. I just went to my regular dealer, $15 a tab, per usual. But somehow, my boyfriend's guy charged him $60 for 10 tabs of acid. Anyone who has done it knows that it is an insane deal. Who even needs 10 tabs? Three at most is enough. But I was so clouded by addiction that I didn't think twice.

The Night

It was a Wednesday night. A school night. But we decided to take it anyway around 10 PM. I took my three gel tabs. He took two. We were chatting and joking. An hour went by, and he felt nothing. Then another hour. He asked me something that still rings in my ears to this day:

"Should I take all ten?"

Being manic and high, I told him he could. And I watched him shove the whole sheet under his tongue.

Maybe another hour went by. I have no real sense of time at this point. But I remember him ranting about how I was his world, how he would do anything for me, how he had never loved someone so much. Then he started slurring. And drooling. And laying on the couch, staring into the camera.

My trip quickly turned into paranoia and anxiety. I was hearing voices, and it went south quickly. I just wanted a break from the call to recuperate and be by myself for a few minutes to calm down. I told him I needed to use the bathroom and I would call him back. He said, barely coherent, "Don't leave me, baby. Don't leave." I assured him I would be right back.

I never saw him again.

I went to the toilet and then looked in the mirror. Huge mistake. I stood there for maybe minutes, maybe hours. I went back into my room and had the most horrific trip of my life. I began calling him again and again. I texted. I even emailed his brother. I was seeing demons, police helicopters, walls caving in. I was drenched in sweat, paranoid about him. I was sure I would die that night.

Then it was 7 AM, and my mom came in to get me up for school. I was still awake, still tweaking. I went to school. He still wouldn't answer. He obviously wasn't asleep; he had school too. And I was sober enough to get help.

My dad picked me up after I spoke to the guidance counselor. He brought me home and sat me down.

"He's passed."

They found him drenched in a pool of water on his back next to the couch.

I went back that same day to the very psych ward where I met him. They accidentally put me next to his old room.

I still haven't recovered. As the years go on, I try to explain his death to myself. Was it fentanyl? Was it his Lithium and the LSD mixing, causing serotonin syndrome or seizures? Was it just taking all 10 that did it? I will never get answers. I feel like a murderer. And on top of this, it is such a terrifying way to pass. He must have gone through absolute psychological torture in his last hours.

The Healing

It's been over three years now. I think about him daily. The guilt, the grief, the unanswered questions they are all still there. But I have also changed. I am sober now. I have stayed out of hospitals for two years. I have learned to live with the weight of what happened, even if I haven't learned to let it go.

I don't know if I'll ever forgive myself. I don't know if I should. But I know that I loved him. And I know that he loved me. And I know that in his final moments, he was thinking of me.

That's a burden and a gift. And I carry both.