I would like to talk with you about my marijuana addiction. Actually, I am in the process of shedding this addiction like a tree shedding its leaves. Sorry for the terrible cliche but it is mid-afternoon and I am tired.
I would like to think that I am no longer addicted to marijuana but I still think about getting high each and every day. Last night while watching an episode of the marvelous show The New Pope, I was craving getting stoned out of my mind while watching a scene filled with nudity, sex and drugs. How I will miss those degenerate evenings of getting as high as I could while engaging in all sorts of lascivious sexual acts. But, oh well. All good things must end. My life was falling apart. Literally.
Today is day what without weed? Let me consult my calendar. Day 19. That is pretty good but I assume it is just the beginning.
I am telling you about my addiction, or my attempt to no longer be addicted to marijuana, because no one else cares. No one checks in on me to see how I am doing with it. This may be because I have only told a few people that I am stopping the grass. But even they fail to check in and see how I am doing. Such is the nature of human beings- we really only care about ourselves while pretending to care about others when there is something in it for us. If there is nothing in it for us- out of sight, out of mind.
So I am writing this to you instead. You being a nebulous reader. I need to talk about this with someone and Zoom Marijuana Anonymous meetings just doesn’t appeal to me. But it may soon if this drudgery gets any worse.
It has been hard. Very hard. I don’t recommend it to anyone, quitting marijuana that is, unless you have a good therapist or meditation practice or will of steal to guider you through. For awhile there I was high all day, every day. I was even waking up in the middle of the night and getting high so I could try to interrupt the ascension of my insomnia.
At one time I loved getting high. There were few more pleasurable moments than acquiring a new batch of marijuana. Oh the smell of that fresh green! I would lite up and everything would be swell again. I was in love with the high in the same way an arrogant bastard is in love with the illusion of himself/herself. But I had to quit. Every building at some point must lose its scaffolding if it is not to be torn down by the city it stands in. It just looks too ugly to keep up. Marijuana had become my scaffolding and it was not a good look. I laughed too much and talked too enthusiastically. I forgot everything. I wrote and read terribly. I tolerated too much bullshit. I could experience no pleasure without being high. Even a walk to my car was too banal to suffer without my beloved pipe in my pocket.
So here I am, sober and free of the marijuana servitude. But it is not fun. Not fun at all. Life is much less supreme. I want to sit on my bed with my hand on my crotch and watch episodic shows while itching my anus. I have no desire to fuck or even yack on my dandy. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Walking and reading (activities I once loved) are drudgery and I am not sleeping any better. My mood is more slacking and my motivation even less robust. I am as interested in doing things as our current president is in peace. Nothing is happening for me. When I was high all the time I had many more things going on. More of a will to live.
So why do this to myself? Especially when the end of the world is near.
I don’t know. Marijuana stopped being fun. The paranoia was taking its toll. One evening I jumped headfirst off the boat (and into the water) I was living on and almost gave myself a heart attack because I was convinced FBI agents were coming after me for posting negative rants about Trump on Instagram and Facebook. I was neglecting my responsibilities (which I still am) and I was doing my work high. That is not good considering the kind of business I am in. This was causing me to hate myself.
(Hating oneself is a real thing. I didn’t believe it at the time. But now that I do not hate myself as much I can see how real it was.)
Basically I was dependent on marijuana to be in a better mood. The lovely plant had become my dependable scaffolding but it is scaffolding I don’t want anymore. So I quit the weed in the hopes that I would eventually reclaim some semblance of my pre-weed, more prolific self.
And what would reclaiming some semblance of myself mean? Maybe it will mean that I will do more of the things I want to do. Maybe it will mean that I will get more fit. Maybe it will mean that I will live less out-of-alignment with my values (whatever they may be). Maybe it will mean that I will have healthier relationships. Maybe it will mean that my comprehension skills will improve. Maybe it will mean that my depression will subside. Maybe it will mean that I will get myself out of the mess that I was and still am in. Maybe it will mean that I will at the very least get a good night’s sleep, a few nights in a row.
So far it doesn’t mean shit because I don’t feel any better. But the bullshit posts online that I read suggest that I should keep going. That after six months or a year I will be so elated that I quit. I will live in a way that I could never imagine now. So I am believing people that I do not know and would not want to know in this attempt to get some semblance of control over my life back. Some feeling of control over myself even though I am well aware that all is chaos.