“I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.”
― Edgar Allan Poe
To keep in line with the festivities of today, I am sharing the authentic story of the first( and the second last) time I got “stoned”.
I live in BC, naturally, someone always has some pot; someplace always smells like scared skunks.
It was about three years ago, I wasn’t a naive teenager- the teen me was beyond naive and had descended to the dark pools of oblivious innocence- I was 23, and a morbid curiosity was bubbling in me about this funky-smelling herb.
Most of my friends smoked, and after a puff or two, they’d be transformed into a state of utter euphoria. Giggling as if all their life questions were answered.
What is this magical substance that melts the frowns? I must know! I mentally blabbered.
I have taken inquisitive hits here and there, but they never had any effects on my stubbornly sober mind.
So one summer night, we spontaneously decided to go big. And I mean literally a big bag of weed.
The three of us were preparing cookies for the potluck that we were hosting the next day ( I know, not the wildest of 20-year-olds), and credulously dumped a big portion of marijuana into the mix.
Then proceeded to foolishly consume one whole cookie each! In the continuing relentless rebellion, we also shared a fat joint.
And then it hit us, struck our nervous systems in a sudden blow, smacked all senses out of us, and slapped our thoughts raw.
Sitting under the starry night sky on our deck, my friend became lively, too lively. He was moving and talking in such swift exchanges of rapid motions and words that he became indecipherable. He was cracking with booming laughter, every few minutes he would be himself for just a few seconds, grab my arm tight, look into my eyes, and say, “Oh, it’s gonna come back soon, listen to me, put the cookie dough in the fridge, oh god, it’s coming back , it’s coming back…” and he would burst into the high-speed singing and dancing again.
Me? I was floating away, my mind levitating off my skull and sailing to a sea of sadness. I absolutely detested it. Relinquishing control fills me with horror, and being forced to lose control was sheer torment. I put my body on the bed, grabbed the edge of my pillow to remind me that I am still grounded, and did my best attempt to sleep the high away.
The next day, I was crushingly disappointed to find out that I was still mildly high. I just wanted my mind back.
During those two ghoulish days, no tinkle of joy spiked my blood, no big question was answered, no new levels of ecstasy were achieved, all I did was to impatiently wait for my sobriety to come back.
But at least I learned something about myself; I am a control freak, so drugs don’t bring out the best in me, only the beast.
P.S. If you are wondering what happened to our third friend, he was an experienced smoker so he merely chuckled and took care of us. Such a good sport!
Do you have any “once, when I was stoned” stories?