I first got stoned in high school, probably on the day that I told my parents I was spending the whole afternoon in the library. Instead, I hitchhiked with two friends to a free concert in the park. Joints circulated freely among the crowd. I felt alive and giddy and daring, and I took a small hit each time I was handed a doob. Pot wasn’t nearly as strong then, and I wasn’t sure whether I was actually stoned, or just intoxicated by the excitement of the day.
In college, I smoked for fun at parties, but my favorite way to get high was late at night, alone, while writing in my journal. Or, in rain or sun, on a solo trail walk in the woods. I loved the way my mind felt opened up, my insights and perceptions intensified, and my writing seemed sharper, my words more chiseled. Sometimes, I’d get stoned when I had a paper to write for a class, just to see what insight or nuance or felicitous phrase arose from being in that different state of mind.
Or, I’d get stoned with my good friend Elena, and we’d debate philosophical issues in great depth and detail, punctuated by trills of wild laughter. Although I haven’t enjoyed pot or seen Elena in decades, the memory of her silvery giggle still brings me a smile.
Eventually, though, I began to feel that I “should” be fully present in my life as I strove, as a young adult, to make my way in the world. I had a notion that using a substance to be “disconnected from reality” was perhaps not evil in itself, but in some deep way had become out of alignment for me.
My boyfriend (who happened to be a friend of a friend whom I’d first met when he strolled by and invited me to share a joint during one of those solo trail walks) agreed. We were both serious about something we called “waking up” — a mysterious but longed-for process that we thought must somehow involve greater presence, awareness, and confidence. So, in my early twenties, I quit using marijuana.
I’m not sure that I acquired any new awareness. In fact, in retrospect, perhaps less. But at least I was undistracted by the minor logistics of pot—getting it, paying for it, ensuring a supply, having smoking materials, deciding when and with whom to indulge, and how much to use. And I did prove to myself that I didn’t need that artificial crutch in order to have a meaningful relationship, work, go to school, and make decisions about my future. This in itself was mildly freeing.
Alas, though, the next time I tried pot, a decade or so later, its influence was not benign: it made me feel excruciating anxiety. My mind didn’t open up—instead, it ran around and around in a tiny miserable hamster cage of repetitive, self-doubting thoughts. I hated it, and couldn’t wait to come down.
Sadly, cannabis has never again had the same pleasing effects that it did in my teens and twenties. (I do sample it every so often, just to make sure.)
And I miss it. Not cannabis itself, but the doorway it can offer to a different way of thinking and different thoughts. The chance to step off my own well-worn mental paths and enjoy fresh insights. To perceive the beauty—or ugliness—of the world with new eyes. To experience a sharp clarity that is quick and of the moment. A quirky perceptual acuity that is elusive in ordinary life.
And maybe I want not only that doorway into a different mental realm, but I’d also love to have a quick back door out of everyday reality sometimes. A reliable way to ditch the seriousness of life and enjoy something that feels, at least for a few hours, fun and free.
These doorways were cannabis at its best, for me. I don’t get high now not because I won’t, or “shouldn’t,” but because I can’t. Cannabis just doesn’t work for me anymore.
This is one of life’s disappointments, though it’s somewhat assuaged by having been invited to help manage a cannabis-themed company that encourages “higher thought” in the best senses of the word—stoned or non-stoned.
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