Yesterday was 4/20 and this day, for many of my friends and family, symbolizes a day of celebration for the pot smoking counterculture; a counterculture that is now being welcomed into the fold of social democratic respectability, what with legalization and some of the hottest investment opportunities for 2018 being "green chip" stocks with MJ farming, dispensary and distribution concerns.
Much like the hippies of the baby boom becoming accountants and lawyers and CEOs working for the same "man" that they sought to overturn in their vibrant and idealistic youth, the rebellious tip of the sword of pot smoking is now an acceptable part of modern society and will be regulated and taxed with the same fervour as her slightly embarrassing older uncle Al Cohol.
So now, rolling and smoking a doob will not so much be a statement of rebellion; of turning on, tuning in and dropping out, but rather of accepting the societally acceptable medicinal salve that the Cannabis Sativa plant can prove to be. "
For some...
For others, like me, the occasional use of pot in adolescence, soon became a daily ritual; a necessary and vitally important part of the day, and much as I'd like to continue to revile Mrs. Hazel Hart for those Grade 8 Health classes in the library at Harry Collinge C.H.S, in which I first heard that pot was a gateway drug, it was indeed the portal through which I passed into my 35 year career with drugs and alcohol and addiction.
I used first at 11 years old. It was less about the weed as it was about the strawberry rolling papers that suddenly found themselves in my late mom's stash box beside the couch.
As a lifelong member of the tribe "Witigo" (which in my family parlance symbolizes someone who eats anything and everything) I couldn't resist the temptation to try and "twist one up" with these sweet little pink rollies and enjoy the fruits of the ornate and ceremonial stash box which was only opened after the kids were all in bed and mom and stepdad would rent a movie, puff one and chill.
I remember the glassy eyes and the wan grins, and the way they would look at me differently; as though I were of a different species. Like they suddenly felt uncomfortable talking to me. It didn't resonate for me as "they are taking drugs"... More like the veil was removed and they were no longer parents but people - equals even.
The mantle of parent-child relations seemed less stringent when they were buzzed; they laughed at my jokes; seemed to accept my fastidious nerdishness and maybe even relinquished some power which I felt was owed me in our family unit.
In short, I kind of liked them better when they was stoned.
How could this elixir of green smoke not be a welcome part of my own life?
So, one afternoon, I pinched a wee bud from the baggie, took four or five papers; even sticking one on my tongue to see if the taste was as sweet and strawberryish as the smell (it wasn't), and set to trying to make a smokeable joint that would work.
I ended up with what looked like a wrapped pink candy; fat in the middle with these twisted little ends. The proverbial "first pancake" of joint rolling which every wannabe stoner endures and then suffers the barbs and jabs from their friends about.
I then went out to the backyard, with melted snow now revealing emergent and missing toys, and around to the corner of the house with no windows so's I could smoke this funny little fat strawberry.
To no effect. It actually smoked pretty good, and I knew to hold it in from Cheech and Chong movies, but there was no magic unicorn or floaty euphoria which I was expecting.
I remember being extremely disappointed and felt pretty stupid; like even I couldn't get stoned like everyone else; a feeling of alienation and isolated angst I had become used to already throughout my hectic but short little life thus far.
Fast forward a couple months to the early dismissal for Spring Break and a walk down Murder Hill from Overlander Jr. High in Hinton with one of my bestest all time friends who shall remain unnamed in this short story, in which he proffered a joint for me to smoke with him.
I wasn't sure, and felt a little fear, but since the last one hadn't resulted in any cataclysmic repercussions, I walked and puffed with my funny friend.
I didn't know then that THC, the active mildly hallucinogenic ingredient in pot was a cumulative substance and needed to build up substantial levels in body fat and muscle tissue in order to come to life.
By the time we reached Scout Hall, I was baked as a snake. We parted company and I walked home, sure the entire town knew I was high and feeling every eye upon me. Paranoia. Big time.
I got home and went straight to my basement fortress of solitude and became more intimately acquainted with Simon and Garfunkel and Led Zeppelin.
...
This dance with the Green Dragon became a pattern that played itself over and over again nearly every single day. Whether it was hashish hot knives or a 14 gram vial of honey oil in my fourteenth summer, tie stick, red hair, or Toledo Window Box (with apologies to George Carlin), the green became my most trusted and devoted friend.
And I laughed at the numbnutses who figured I would end up strung out on Main and Hastings with a needle in my arm and pained regret in my soul from this harmless relationship with the Ganj.
I reconciled myself with the recognition that this past time would be a vital part of my life, indeed for the rest of it as well.
...
At 15 we moved to Edmonton and I felt no choice but to adopt a manner of living that would be on par with my checkered Vans wearing BMX riding friends, headbangers and punk rockers that became my new friends. Even my brace faced, pink shaker knit sweater wearing, deck shoed preppy buds (ring any bells Patrick Troniak? lol). Thus was born my relationship with alcohol.
My weed dependence was fully active at this point, and my daily use was almost a given. "Chronic" we call it, in deference to the daily use with which so many of us become accustomed, nay dependent on.
But the alcohol... Oh my goodness. It gave this fairly confident, articulate shapeshifter a steroid boost of assholeness and knowitallishness. I did so many things that I wish I could take back. So many things.. (sigh). But those are stories for another day. 😪😩
...
4:20, of course the universal time that chronic users around the world are apt to spark one up, speaks to me in deep sombre tones that inspire fear and panic at this time in my life for some reason. It's a kind of a code among the pot counterculture, or rather "was" for a long time. I didn't hear about 4:20 until my teenage son explained it to me only about 8 or 9 years ago.
But deeply in my heart - I knew about 4:20 before it was teensplained to this ol' fart.
For the ravages of the average day in this high schooler's life would hit me with sch force that I couldn't wait to get home, twist one up and "turn on, tune in and drop out." Usually with Sega Genesis NHL 91 or a little guitar picking, or even a game of Suicide Glowbug (also for another day).
Homework? What was that. Papers and assignments were meant to be written in the rotunda or "Pit" an hour before class. Studying? As if.
My life began as soon as my "suiting up and showing up" responsibilities were completed, with some degree of believability, and then "MY TIME" would begin.
And what was also inevitable, was the replacing of the suiting up and showing up with some days, weeks and even months to this green tinted "me time."
...
This pattern of self indulgent "me time" became synonymous with drug and alcohol use and binge using, and wove its way into my physiology, psychology and social circle. Not to mention my earliest experiences with substance from my family exposure and pre-natal exposure which had me already "hard wired" for addictive patterns.
This wasn't from my mom using while I was in utero, but rather the chaos in her teenage life from being around alcoholism and its painful drama as it wreaked havoc on her closest loved ones. This chaos was felt in the oodles of cortisol - female stress hormone - which danced through my developing brain and helped create a reality in which chaos became the norm; providing me some kind of weary comfort with its many tentacled embrace.
...
I have titled this short piece "4/21 Or 'The Day After the Party." So let's get there shall we?
Today on the news was a piece about the Vancouver unlicensed 420 celebrations which occur every year on a spring time field in greater Van. The thousands of stinky dreadlocked hippie kids and lawyers and shopkeepers and waiters and waitresses and students and on and on who swear by the ubiquitous stinky bud, all come out and puff together, sing together and make merry.
In doing so, they destroy the emergent green field. So much so that the park must remain closed until June.
Seee?
The inocuous and peace loving herb inhaling crowds basically destroy a soft, tender spring time field of grass (which in Cree cultural thought, teaches us kindness - again, story for another day) and shuts it down so nobody can use it for months.
420: A celebration of individualism, togetherness and peaceful "collaborative chilling." 421: The Day After... a mess.
This speaks to me with deep meaning.
Had I known that me developing my dependence on weed for 30+ years would stunt my emotional development, healing from trauma, and interfere with my motivation, focus and ambition, I may well have steered clear. But nobody told me that would happen.
If only Dr. Gabor Mate could have taught Grade 8 Health class.
Moreso, that this pattern of dependency would weave its way into my very being and shape my version of "normal" in such a way that regular, chronic drug use, i.e. "escape from reality" would become my only manner of living; and that these patterns would cost me and the loved ones in my life so very dearly.
...
I don't want to say that moderate use of Mary Jane will turn everyone into a bullshitting, juking and jiving crackhead like it did with me, but there are many of us who know that substance in its many forms has become the bane of our existence and that to dance with the devil, even once, might very well turn into a Dance Macabre in which we pawn our souls yet again for another taste...
I could write for hours more on these subjects, and I daresay I certainly will, because I believe it is a big part of my healing process.
But I want this to be online and readable before it gets too late today.
Society is now telling us that chronic is "alright" and that Uncle Jerry can even invest some of his wealth into some of the new grow ops and become a wealthy dealer by association.
Does this mean it's safe now? It's ok to smoke daily because there's a hemp product shop or glass shop on every corner, selling bongs and dabs and on and on..?
That's up to you.
But I can say with all honesty that the snaky feeling in my shoulders that happens when I'm twigged to want to use "SOMETHING" .. ANYTHING.." this all grew from the emo musical kid who cried with Paul Simon and Jackson Browne and became intimately acquainted with a guitar and fiery Jimmy Page riffs while blazing in the basement.
Much of this experience was beautiful, but the PATTERN... the pattern. That is where the problem lies. The inability to face life on life's terms, and to escape with regularity. This was steeped into my bones and tissue and blood.
And the substances have changed, the innocence has been replaced with insidiousness and my heart yearns for simple and true with all its shit and shine combined.
...
It is my sincere and solemn belief that the powers that be: Coca Cola, BMO, World Bank, United Nations, Trump, McDonalds, Costco, Walmart, Home Depot, etc.. and the families that run them, the ones that profit from nearly every move made in nearly every corner of the world with nearly every transaction - these are the powers that want us to celebrate 420 every day.
"They" want us to go to jobs that we mostly hate, doing shit that doesn't really get at the root of what's needed, and then salve our weary souls with fructose or shopping or.. the now nearly legal Green Dragon that might just be laced with fentanil, at 420 when we get home.
They want us to be numb; to ignore our deepest loves and truths, and to just "exist" in a society that doesn't accurately reflect the truths of the world.
But they want us to be able to get up, rinse and repeat, and keep on shopping, smoking and remaining oblivious to our deepest soul truths and the ridiculousness of the societal concept that we are born into and spend our lives trying to master, only to realize on our death beds how much time we've wasted chasing lies.
...
One day or day one? You decide.
For me, 4/21 2018 is Day One.
For me, for you and for all my fellow humans. I pledge today to do my best to remember that the moments like 420 must always be followed by 421, and that sometimes the mess takes a lot longer to clean up than we thought.
With love,
S.
