Delighting in the herbage

I started smoking pot when I was around 12-13 years old.  I started doing a lot of things and a lot of things were happening at that age.  Pot was introduced to me in an odd sort of way with 2-3 parts belonging to it.  My first brush with this mysterious herb the other kids were just starting to wonder and whisper about was presented to me on top of a huge moss and tree covered boulder (not really a mountain at all.  It was like a big huge old rock just kind of chilling there in the woods with growth on it).  It was me and my group of friends and this one fat kid that brought the stuff.  It was dry and flaky but “wanna try it, yah?”

We tore up a page from the Bible.  We had nothing else and someones older sibling had said once that Bible paper was just as good.  One boy laid a line of this dried out brown/green flaky stuff that looked vaguely familiar to my anxious and eager yet confused young min along the inside of this paperd.  None of us knew how to roll it.  They just put it in this ridiculously unevenly torn corner from a page in the Bible, twisted it like a used up Blow Pop wrapper and lit it.  I don’t think anyone even licked the paper.  But wouldn’t you know less than ten minutes later a bunch of 11-13 year old kids were laughing in the woods like we just found the purest green in the history of nature!

A day later my mom called me out.  She handed me my journal, it was one of those black and white composition journals, and she asked me about this weed thing I wrote about.  I probably gave her the generic kid-to-parent answer, I was most likely reasonably predictable, “I have no idea what you could be talking about.”  She showed me my journal and I’m assuming forced me to talk about it.  My mother always wanted to talk things out, which was cool, but kids know what their parents can handle more than the parents themselves know.  We had a lot of “family meetings” but nothing that really mattered was ever spoken.  This time, however, was different.  Turns out, I left my journal on the coffee table in the living room.  Who knows what I was thinking? I have no idea.  I guess I was out on the couch writing about my smoking pot for the first wooooo!! and then just stopped, put the journal down and moved on with my day.  She came around, picked up my journal and read what I wrote.  That night, her and my stepdad rolled my sister and I a couple joints and we all smoked.  That was the first time of many, many times.  I don’t recall ever really getting high that time but I did learn that I hadn’t smoked pot before.  But I did smoke oregano.  Ha! Rookie mistake.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThe third part of my intro to Mary Jane and her succulent greatness, her sticky bosom and her tasteful natural odour that drags my feet and blows my mind, was that first real time.  I’m talking about that REAL first time.  That one that changes your entire perspective on everything. That time that you finally connect with things that have no words and only feelings.  When you realize….this is why they say you’re high.

My sister and I were sleeping over at a friends house.  Her mom was a welfare mom and let us do whatever we wanted.  Our friend was trash and she was skanky, but we liked her.  She was free.  She wasn’t like us; she had no rules, no boundaries.  She taught me a lot of things, oddly enough.  She had no furniture so we slept on the floor.  Her lamp was just a lamp with no shade.  I had pot my stepdad gave me.  She knew how to roll it. We smoked a joint on the top of a picnic table behind her building.  It was relaxing but in a kids way.  I felt older, I was already a veteran cigarette smoker, now I was smoking pot past midnight, outside and with no parental guidance. .  I got really blown.  Anyone that has ever done any type of drug has heard or most likely said the same line: chasing that first high. At least with pot, it’s a really incredible thing to go through.  Everyone always said I was “so hippie” so you could imagine my relationship with Mary Jane has always been a bit loose yet paralyzing in the fact that without her, I really don’t know who I am.

I laughed a lot, we were anyone, we were anything.  I couldn’t feel my feet as  we crossed the parking lot in front of her building.  I remember the sky seemed so clear and the air crisp and I wasn’t thinking, just moving and smiling and laughing.  We went to my boyfriends apartment, knocked on his bedroom window.  We convinced him to come with us.  He was younger than me by a year or two; when you’re 13, a year or two is like 10 years in grown-up years. But  we did nothing wrong.  At home, I was fighting to keep my virginity in tact as much as I could so I was not sleeping with my boyfriend at 13, no way.  We laid together on the floor of my friends bedroom with everyone else and we just talked.  I have no idea what we talked about, not sure it ever mattered, but I remember laying there with my boyfriend who I really thought I loved.  He wasn’t my first kiss but he was my first real kiss.  He laughed like a chipmunk.  I thought it was adorable.

I have been smoking pot for a very long time.  Mary Jane and I now have a very weathered relationship.  Since I had my stroke 2 years ago, I find myself wondering if she played a part and if so, how?  As weathered as our relationship may be, as many times as I have tried to drop her, I always pick her back up, kiss her wounds and heal her so she can heal me because without her I am wounded.  That doesn’t sound sane at all.  I don’t believe people who say you cannot become addicted to pot.  You can, I know it’s true because I am addicted and I have been for over half my life.  I’ve quit only 4 times that I can recall, maybe more.  And everytime I quit, something bad happens to me.  I become emotionally unstable weeks-months after the “detox” period.  I gain sleeping issues in that it doesn’t happen.  Creative blocks, verbal stunting.  Two times I became pregnant…I have two kids.  Do I believe quitting played a part in the cause of my stroke?  If so, it’s maybe in a preventitive way.  But, I’ll never smoke synthetic again, that’s for damn sure.

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