It definitely was relieving in hindsight, but I wouldn't wish it on anyone because of what happened next. I feel bad enough that my husband (who was tripping with me) had to sober up real fast to take care of me.
After I cried all my tears about my grandma, I went to the bathroom to wipe my face and pee, and I saw myself in the mirror. I looked like death. Like a horribly strung out junkie. My smeared mascara on my cheeks started swirling around my face like demons, and my eyes pupils felt like they were heavy, making my eyes sink deeper into my skull.
See, I was addicted to meth at the time and was in denial. I was on some during this trip, even though I had promised myself not to use that day to avoid exactly this kind of bad trip.
After that look in the mirror, there was no way to stop the paranoia. At different point, I thought I was having a heart attack, that my hands and feet were going to fall off, that my skin was turning purple and black and falling off, that I was going dig holes through my body (even though I had no urge to do so haha). I felt like I was going to pass out, and that if I did I would die. Towards the end, I just had to lay on the couch with a blanket, fearing that if I fell asleep I would die, that if I got off the couch my legs would collapse, that even if I survived this I would surely kill myself anyway.
Because the meth problem was a secret from my SO, I just kept asking him if I looked okay, if my hands were a normal color, if I looked like I was going to die. I knew some of it had to be hallucinations, but I'd been abusing meth daily for weeks and worried some of it might be real. I laid on that couch and completely lost touch with reality. I couldn't trust my own mind, so the only thing I knew was real was the hand of my fiance (now husband) clinging to mine. He dialed up 911 but didn't press call because that struck more fear in me than death. I didn't want to get police or paramedics involved. If I died, so what. I didn't deserve to live.
As the mushrooms wore off, I calmed down to the baseline shakiness of both meth and "surviving" a "near-death experience." Then the fake amphetamine cheer returned to replace the fear and guilt.
But when I sobered up (down?) later, the whole experience made me realize I was lying to myself about everything. I was burying my fear of succumbing to the same illness that made my grandma finally jump. I was lying to myself about my addiction. And lying to myself meant lying to my (future)husband, who I knew would love me and want to help, but would leave me first because he couldn't be with a someday-suicidal junkie.
So, in the end it was good for me and I'm "glad" it happened because it made me face my problems. But, like I said before, I would never wish the fear or feeling of total insanity from that trip on my worst enemy.
Also, if you actually read this fucking novel, thank you haha. Don't feel obliged to.