Alireza Zarafshani — Unsplash

In bed last night I thought how my hair and clothes must have reeked of weed on the school run. I also smelt of patchouli oil and sage from cleansing the house. What a combination!

I was hyper-aware of myself on that walk to school — rushing to get there on time, still looking glazed, my pilot jacket on, hair blowing all over— do I look eccentric? Odd? Mental? A hobo?

Whatever.

I can never know what everyone around me thinks so fuck that, stay in the zone, don’t think, be the sky.

The walk home is fine and I feel accepted by the other mothers. It’s in the early hours I suddenly think — they must have smelt it! They must surely be able to tell I’m a stoner.

I promise myself I won’t smoke anymore of my stash until Friday, when RJ goes to his grandma’s for the night. I feel better after making the decision.

However, the next morning: pots washed, nice shower, RJ goes to school calm and happy, I have a walk along the promenade and breathe in the sea, get home, put the kettle on…and I see no good reason not to have ‘just one’ smoke, to get me going.

I immediately need the toilet just from thinking about it.

While sitting there with the not-yet-lit-roll-up, I think ‘I can use these minutes to really consider — do I want this smoke? Don’t I want to test my will? Show my addiction doesn’t have control here?

Five minutes later I’m smoking on the back step with a dressing gown over my clothes and a baseball cap on to stop the smoke getting on me.

‘I’ll be fine by 3pm’.

Addiction

I just want to stop thinking and to connect with my spirit, and using weed gets me there.

But it hurts this way.

It’s a quick, temporary fix and it costs me in more ways than money.

It takes my self-respect, my self-love and spits it back out in thoughts of guilt, failure, hopelessness.

‘You are shit and everything will be taken away from you’.

So it’s not a ‘fix’ at all. It’s yet another cut, more wounding. It cuts me from the source and from people I care about.

Why do it then?

Compulsion. Something magnetizes me to follow that urge to the point I can think of nothing else that will relieve me.

Marijuana, used in this compulsive manner, turns against me.

I turn against myself. Because I know it isn’t right, this isn’t the way I want to live. It doesn’t feel clean. I’m creating out of dirty water.

Help me bypass this sucker of addiction. Help me please God.

After writing this I’m tempted to throw away the contents of the tub — and the tub itself.

I’m determined not to let myself, or RJ down for a second longer.

But getting rid of it has never made a difference before. Even throwing it off the pier, setting it all on fire, flushing it down the toilet, I always get it back in my life when the going gets tough. I always fall back on it.

And if I can’t get it?

I eat so much sugary shit. I eat whatever is at hand or drink endless cups of coffee, or scroll mindlessly on Facebook. I contemplate dating, walking the streets, starting an empire. I fall to rocking, sleeping too much, hating myself. I find myself at rock bottom again. That’s where weed inevitably makes a comeback into my life, and RJ’s too.

Instead of a tale of woe how do I turn this around?

How does weed become less powerful to me? How do I gain as strong an urge to just BE, to create, organize and clean? Why does all that feel so boring?

Does weed get me to my spirit, or does it take me somewhere else?

It’s all okay for now anyway. I’m putting it back in the cupboard. I’ve smoked now. It’s done. I won’t smoke anymore. I’ll put it out of sight. Make tea. Read the book about integrity.

[Written in November 2020]

English woman and mother writing about mental health, parenting, addiction and recovery.

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