What it means to me.

I’m off the wagon. I know that off the wagon is the correct usage because I know the origin of the expression. Old-timey do-gooders would go around town, round up all the drunks, and load them onto a wagon to take them to a church basement to sober up. Some of the drunks were so far gone they would literally fall off of the wagon on the way, and presumably stay drunk forever. I was doing well recently moderating my behaviors to work in my favor. What tipped my balance this time? I can’t say. I must have gotten greedy. I wanted it all. I started smoking every day again which is too many days for me. I do know that there is no wagon coming for me. I am on my own to reign in the horses.

The problem is it helps me. Truly. When I am high, I feel like a normal person with normal problems. Where I once struggled with debilitating anxiety, I put things into a healthier perspective. Being high helped me learn to balance my own needs with the needs of others. I started making art again. For me, it has been a spiritual medicine. My vice unlocks me from the freeze state I find myself trapped in so often. But it also hurts my neurons, as I understand it, and that can cause some real-life drama of the mind. So I am in a constant battle between allowing myself to feel like a normal human being for a few hours and breaking my brain. You’d think it would be an easy decision, but my brain works so hard I sometimes fantasize about shutting it down and waiting around for a part to come in.

I chose to feel normal twice yesterday. I am working hard to live a solid life. I’m trying to raise my kids with strong values and follow my own passions so they’ll emulate that behavior instead of aiming for some concocted goal I have for them. I volunteer. I do a sh*tty job, but I show up! I think about writing my novel. I’ve gone back to school. I’m keeping up with my freelance work. And I write every Sunday. I feel like I deserve it, is the thing. It’s my ego. Here’s this one thing I found that breaks me out of the mental cage I live in all day every day, the thing that brought me back to creativity, reconnected me to my body, and helped me to start living authentically, and it turns out its not good for me specifically. Other people (like lots of other people) can do it all day every day with no adverse health effects and I have to limit it to a few puffs a week? It feels targeted is all I’m saying. I’m kind of mad at God about it.

I don’t talk to anyone about the struggle I am in with a drug that is a punchline for so many others, not even a therapist. I don’t know that I can shape the words. But still I try, for you. For me, really. That’s the joke of this whole thing. As you spend your time reading to discover me, I discover myself. I am openly trying to figure myself out and its working. Might as well take a crack at solving my own substance abuse. I’m stubborn and foolhardy is a good start.

When I am sober, I feel restricted and blind. I hear a chorus of screeching objections to each of my own thoughts. I feel responsible for the feelings of every other person that will hear or see me. Every move I make feels consequential. My head is full of voices that tell me I can’t say what I feel because its not genuine, or its privileged, or its too stupid and I should be embarrassed for myself. I should be ashamed. I slip into that role very comfortably. I was born to absorb shame. Maybe that’s why I think its the right place for me, because I’ve been of most use there.

When I am high, I don’t think shame is the right place for me. I feel how I imagine “normal” people feel. I feel at ease. Sure, it used to do for me what it does for so many others; I would say silly things, watch movies, and relish a good snack. Those days are long gone now, but you know what? It’s still worth it. The ease of existing without feeling crushed into shame is enough. It doesn’t give me superpowers or anything, it just grants me the freedom to exist here on the planet the same as anyone else. I feel free to think. The direct connection to my creative expression is a bonus. I find that the line I need comes out naturally if I quiet the critical buzz with a puff of smoke first. Creativity feels easy. Fun. I don’t feel like I’m failing everyone with every letter I type. I enjoy the hobby instead of hating myself for having a dream. It goes from being really f*cking hard to pleasant. It’s night and day. All these people who tell you: the fact that it’s hard means its worth it–hey man, I hear ya–but i think we should pick a different word. Because I don’t want my hobby to feel hard. Invigorating, maybe. Compelling. Challenging. I’ll even give you strenuous. But I don’t think a hobby should feel hard, and I know a real quick way to soften it. I actually enjoy writing when my censor isn’t alarming constantly.

I’m working on getting rid of the shame for good. Well, the shame that never should have belonged to me, at least. I’ll always carry my own, because I’m not willing to put that on anyone else. But the bullsh*t that some construct told me I should be ashamed about is out the window. And the stories that I heard about myself as I was growing are being rewritten. Right now the author is in between therapists, so we’re probably going to go through a few drafts. A hit of softness helps there too.

It’s not my long term plan. I do need to keep an eye on my brain health. (Health is not a construct.) But I don’t think it’s that bad, right? AND, I have a self-abusive habit of restricting my own pleasure for fear of… religious persecution, I think? I haven’t fleshed that one out all the way. Could that be what’s happening here? Am I bargaining now? I mean there aren’t too many downsides. Just the brain thing. I get distracted easily, I guess. I can’t drive anywhere. Sometimes I get low, and have to take a little nap. The brain thing is a pretty big one. I love my brain.

That’s the tricky thing about desiring a private life as well as an authentic one. I want to balance what I share and what I keep to myself, but I don’t want to lie. The truth is that for right now, moderation seems to be the path I’m able to follow. I am at my best when I use my chosen drug mindfully, and when I feel in control of that choice. Sometimes being at ease now is worth one less week in the nursing home at the end, and who better to make that call then me?

That’s where I always get tripped up. I doubt myself. Chronically. I used to think of myself as a very easy-going person, but now that I look back on my life, nothing about it felt easy for me. Why did I keep insisting it was? I felt scared all the time. I felt like all of my decisions were life or death because everyone on the internet kept telling me they were. Pot has helped me realize that only death is as serious as death, and by definition everything that is not death is not as serious. That kind of thinking is invaluable to someone as anxious as me. Pot thoughts. As weird as it sounds, contemplating my own death fortifies my bravery as I chart my course for exploring life. I know its possible a wave is going to come over the side of the boat and slap me in the face, but if you’re not dead then you’re still alive. And if you’re alive you can keep going. Accepting that we don’t get second chances motivates me to place a pin in the map, and to hold myself accountable to navigate my chosen channel come hell or high water. I don’t think I should give up the source of all that tenacity without serious contemplation.