After deciding to quit weed, I steal my mom’s antidepressants; but I can’t fly enough, so now I’m back on the grass: a try

Then I text my stoner cousin saying I think I’m a smoker now; which took me a while to bend over, mainly due to asthma. But there were those years that I kept remembering. The years I hibernated and forged what is now called the start of my career. Which isn’t incorrect – I’m still not where I want to be – but I find it funny considering the beginning is now a decade long. But those years I’m referring to, where I reviewed myself and Book #1; wrote book #2; and defended a draft of book #3 for a degree that I never wanted to get, doesn’t exist as an accomplishment in my mind. I only remember them as I lay on that torn brown futon that still haunts me because it reminds me that if I hadn’t been there for three years, I would never have known the difference between a desperate ambition and depression.

Before lying down in both, I didn’t believe the weed was working on me. I had tried all forms of it – the blunt, the bong, etc., but had never felt it in my body, so I thought it wasn’t working right; everyone just kept reveling in that “heads up” that never seemed to translate to my brain. Then the edibles were recommended to me. I’m learning how to make my own – mostly brownies – and learning that excess is the only way to enjoy cannabis; and by enjoyment, I mean not constantly wondering if depression is a thing for now, an Accutane thing, or a forever thing. I know the answer. But I get so high it lasts for days. I get so stoned that I vibrate constantly. I remember that my body breathes. Still nothing in my head, but my mouth swallows everything it can find. Hunger sustained me in more ways than one. Like I said, I was stoned for three years straight. I haven’t made any friends. I didn’t go anywhere. I barely moved unless it was time to take a shower and/or take a shit. I mean, once I tried to look BlacKkKlansman three times in a row but always forgetting to pay attention. It’s a long ass movie. In fact, this movie is just not good, so nvm. I was once teaching an introductory creative writing class at 10 a.m. and the brownie hit and I stood at the whiteboard for 10 minutes with an Expo marker in my hand trying to figure out how to write properly word repetition. And it’s life that left me. No one believes me when I say I fight all day and the earliest memory of quitting is probably around seven years old. So I don’t really know how I did anything; I guess I’m just lucky that overproductivity is a symptom of something and somehow all this evidence of my progress explains why it’s nearly impossible for me to be properly diagnosed.

After so much excess, I stopped. This is also a common practice that I have. I am bored. I felt like I was starting to need weed to function or have a conversation with my family; and both things reminded me of my father – who is a completely different person who I otherwise dislike. I stop. I begin. There’s no balance and it’s been a problem forever. But even with insomnia, depression, anxiety and all that, two weeks ago I finished book 4 and I’m now about 30,000 words into book 5. It’s a novel I think. None of this is a flex, I swear, I need help. But no one is listening. Even when I write everything down. But in closing, I remembered that I had 1 ½ blunts left from my best friend’s Blunts N’ Brunch birthday extravaganza the weekend before, so I went out on the patio and lit them all up. listening to the slowed-down, reverberant version of “Hold On” over the internet on an hour loop. This is after driving to Dallas and leaving my mother’s house with capsules of Sentraline and Buspirone; but I don’t doesn’t steal enough for the good effects to start working, so instead I constantly feel nauseous, like I’m regurgitating my hereditary mishaps, and the Buspirone immediately gives me murderous nightmares, so I hide them from myself- even in a backpack in my closest and standing for 72 hours straight. I don’t write anything. Writing and not writing is starting to feel like self-inflicted punishment; especially since I told myself that I don’t didn’t want to spend this year heartbroken or stoned but you know… plans change. I know how to adapt. And doing the raw life seems somehow elitist.

For 4/20 my best friend took a trip to San Antonio with a zip and for four days straight we just ate food, watched flavor of love, drive to Whataburger and smoke. That was before I hid the antidepressants and she saw the container and asked me what’s in it. I’m not lying, but I’m not saying they aren’t prescribed to me even though everyone already knows how my mom has been giving out her pills for years, for free. Anyway, she looks at me pitifully when she calls out my name like I’ve never mentioned my tendency to sit in dark rooms for weeks. She holds her blunt between her middle and ring finger, which seems odd to me, but she’s a pro so I don’t ask questions, I just nod my head to let her know she heard what she heard. Maybe someone will finally start to hear me but all she says is “Kendra…the only drug you need to calm your mind is this” which is rich, considering we made mushrooms together a few months earlier. In short, she holds what she has in her hand towards the sky like a symbol and I say nothing, but before she leaves, she makes me write in my diary to be at her birthday in two weeks; tells me the party is of course weed-themed; that she gave me a shirt with a cannabis plant on it and everything. I tell him I’m quitting weed. I never know if signs are signs or just tests. Either way, at the party, she treats all of her guests to kool-infused help and pre-rolls.

So while I’m on my terrace smoking these pre-rolls alone – like really alone – I don’t know a single soul in the city where I live, and I prefer this life to all others – I think of what not smokers are so generous; they never want to do it alone if they can’t. I never wanted to share my edibles, mostly because I felt like I needed them to get through my day, but now my days are kinda mine, which I’m grateful for, so when I breathe in, something thing going on in my head. Not to be too stubborn, but there is a sense of clarity that overrides the high. The one who encourages me to slow down…of my own free will this time. That it’s safe enough to finally do it now. A line that reminds me of my favorite line from one of my favorite writers where she says, “I’m willing to accept the loss of everything I love if it means I won’t be mad.” One that reminds me that there has never been a more accurate statement about my life. Whoever tells me that silence won’t kill me so I turn off that perfect song and sit in the wind and convince myself that it’s okay to want and learn to love and appreciate things. I coughed a lot every time I tried to smoke. Like a cough until the tears come – because again – asthma – but I notice how non-existent the reaction is that night; how i like the way i feel. How I welcome the heat. How I finally figured it out, I think. I feel the calm that everyone claimed is the catalyst for their creativity, which I complained I didn’t feel every time my dad handed me a blunt and encouraged me, that was all I had need to be versus constantly looking for the thing that would make me last; how weedy is how he tried to bond but i rejected it because i thought it was another reminder of something else he loved more than me. I would never have grown up if I had accepted all his offers, so I don’t regret my refusal. & not growing in the sense of “stripping myself of all joy”, but growing in the sense of “you will never be perfect”. I can’t explain what I mean by that, but my cousin texts me back It looks like the doorway to an asthma attack but cool, it’s your life to which I reply, Girl, if I die, I die and send him a picture of my doobies.

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