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goodbyemaryjane · 1 year

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an anecdotal account of weed addiction

part of the reason I could get so addicted to THC was because of the set of positive myths surrounding it. First, that it is not addictive and cannot be abused. Second, that overuse is not harmful because it won't acutely poison you the way many other drugs can. And third, that there is no such thing as weed withdrawals: it's all in your head.

This is my experience: I was not in control of how I was smoking. I felt like I needed to smoke before I did just about anything. I needed to be at least a little bit high all the time, or the cravings would be all I could think about. I would get anxious, restless, like an animal pacing around in its cage. I wouldn't be able to eat or sleep. It was just my little ritual, yeah? Have a bowl before I go. I'll just smoke a blunt before I go. I'll just take a few hits before I go. Slowly, the world outside my room seemed more and more anxiety-inducing, and weed was my only true refuge.

It hadn't started out that way, at first I could wait to just smoke at night, but by the end I was waking up early to get baked every morning, heading back to get high before lunch, and I needed - absolutely needed - to have enough in my stash to stay high until I fell asleep.

I had been getting high and crying about how I was an addict for maybe a week before I quit. I had realized what I was doing wasn't healthy, I was spending all my money just to stave off sobriety, I was behind in school, I was plotting ways to hide how much I was smoking and vaping from my boyfriend. I needed more and more to get high, to even feel normal. I felt trapped.

One day, I was skipping class. I'd thrown up in the morning again. (Later I would link this to prodromal CHS, but that's another post.)

I was listening to It's Gonna Be Okay, Baby by MUNA in my bed, the world swirling around. I had just bought more yesterday. I had smoked as much as I liked in the morning. I should be happy, right? Am I too high to feel happy?

Until the moment you wake in the deepest of pain that you've ever been in

And you admit you've gotta quit him

...

You're gonna start to call friends

You're gonna start to call yourself an addict

I thought about leaps of faith. I thought about what it would take for me to get clean. I had been planning - hoping - that I could quit for a little bit by then. I had bananas and saltines in my dorm cupboard, easy things to eat with no appetite.

I thought about it. I wanted to do it today. I didn't want to wait anymore.

I got up and put all my weed and implements into a bag, and then another bag, and I taped it all shut. I walked to my locker in the art building across campus. The building is closed between midnight and 7am - even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to break on the first night, even though I didn't have it in me to completely get rid of my weed yet.

I spent all day journaling and waiting for the withdrawals to kick in. I was so exhilarated by the fact that I was actually doing something about my problem, I didn't care how much my body felt like it was full of bees. Or how my thoughts raced, or how the tiniest thing could make me cry. I just thought about how I wanted at least 24 full hours under my belt so I could call my Mom and tell her, I'm doing it, I'm really doing it, and I'm so sorry - and havd the authority to say that.

Letting go felt amazing. I had been gripping so tight, holding on so hard to the idea that I was in control, I could control this, I could fix this by using more...

When I quit, I decided not to view the buzzing in my body as anxiety. The excess energy was just my body burning the drug out of me. It was just a physiological process. The night sweats were just my body getting it out. I would be better in a week.

Instead of struggling, swimming upstream against sobriety, all it took in the end was for me to let go and allow the current to toss me around for a while. I remembered swimming in the river as a kid, that moment when you don't know which way is up and you just have to save your energy and let the water spin you over, push you down, then let you bob back up.

I told my boyfriend and all my friends; they stayed with me when I didn't want to be alone.

After two days, I went into the clay studio and finished my unfinished projects. I felt peaceful for the first time in ages. I could work on my pottery for as long as I wanted without heading off to top off my high - I didn't have to live my life on a two hour timer. There was a patience and focus I hadn't felt since I first relapsed six months prior. I was free. I called my mom; she told me she knew something was wrong but she didn't know how to help me; we both cried in joy.

On the third day, I went to see my boyfriend. We kissed and kissed, and I felt so much more aware of everything in the room. The light, his eyes, the morning birds, my love. I told him my addiction was only reason I had so much trouble spending the whole night before, and he was relieved of the wondering.

I went back to the art building, a fire inside me. I destroyed my silicone bong, cut to little pieces, and sealed those pieces in a one-quart mason jar. I blasted blasted The Bitch is Back and grinned while I soaked a Ziploc full of flower in paint solvent, entombing it in the caustic liquids disposal barrel.

After four days, I ate an orange and I wanted it. It tasted incredible. I tore into it like a feral animal. My natural hunger was coming back!

After a week, I could sleep without taking Advil PM to coax it along. I slept over at my love's room and got to stay all morning, wait for him to wake up, get breakfast together. Finally! And I was eating full meals, wanting them. I felt stronger. I felt like I was becoming someone other people could rely on.

After two weeks, I was sleeping through the night, not waking up before sunrise anymore. And I was dreaming again, sometimes. I used to keep dream journals... I'm starting that again now.

That is how I learned, once and for all that these myths were myths. There were physical effects of withdrawals. On day three, I think, I threw up on the carpet of a quiet Chapel. Oops.

Smoking all the time did have consequences. Not "reefer madness", but real things. It made me anxious and then became the only way to temporarily relieve the anxiety it had caused. It made me obsessive, made me emotionally fragile and prone to despair. It made it hard to travel or do new things, since I always needed a plan for how I'd get some. It harmed my lungs; I coughed up grey goo for months after quitting. It harmed my digestion and disrupted my natural signals of hunger. I had no appetite unless I got high, and eventually even that broke down, making food into a constant struggle. (Look up Cannabis hyperemesis syndrome.)

I am a "real addict". I'm not here to compare struggles with anyone with a different drug of choice, just to say that my addiction was real, and the depths of despair I felt when I couldn't think of anything but getting high were real too.

I know this was a long post but I wanted to put my story out there, just in case it could possibly help someone still suffering, or inspire understanding in people who have never experienced this.

I'm almost 3 months sober and I'm thankful for that every single day. I hope you got something out of reading this. Thank you.

#goodbye mary jane #weed addiction #marijuana addiction #recovering stoner #stoner #stoner memes #cannabis addiction #drug addikt #cannablr #cannacommunity #tw disordered eating #stonergang

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quillyjohnson · 10 months

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