By, Melissa H.
Dear Cannabis Sativa,
We were introduced by a cool, blond-haired rebel girl from Colorado. I was a 15-year old flatlander from Pennsylvania who had never even heard of you. I took to you because you elevated fun to a new level. I hadn’t known that fun was smokable. You made rolling over on the imperceptible incline underneath my tent feel like rolling down a steep hill. You made me feel cool, special, and unique. You blew my mind. You opened it up to dimensions previously unknown.
Through you, I met your friend LSD and we all partied at Grateful Dead shows. You made good music better. You made me float. You introduced me to other dimensions. You even helped me avoid alcohol. Alcohol was for frat boys and their ilk. Alcohol made people behave moronically. I tried it. Didn’t like it. Once I passed out and hit my head. Where was the fun in that? Where was the transcendence? You helped me discern my people: thinking people, from seeking people. You connected me with my boyfriend in California. The three of us would all hang out on a sofa or in the woods. It didn’t matter where. You understood us and brought us even closer. You were the perfect accompaniment to our candlelight and our chocolate and our creative endeavors.
Somewhere along the line I bought a handblown glass pipe – the kind they replicate in head-shops everywhere nowadays. My pipe would ensure that I had my own independent link to you. I didn’t need a middleman. I was a young feminist.
I don’t recall you being around in my first couple years of graduate school, though I also don’t recall a time without you. Film school had been so demanding, but maybe you were there; I’ve lost so much recall that I don’t trust myself with accuracy. You couldn’t have been too far away; it was downtown New York City in the ‘90s. In fact, now that I think of it, GF, whom I met on a film set, smoked all day long while working as a grip! He impressed me as capable and coordinated. The way he could function, publicly, with you in his system made me want to date him. You were always a part of the picture. I later moved on to JS, another clever stoner. This one worked in an advertising office and had a dog and social anxiety. Together we lived in our privately defined world.
On my first date with MB, I introduced him to you after dinner. He’d never been high before and never got high again, but I sure did. When I preferred your company to MB’s, I ordered you right to my door and walked the city with you. Who needed MB when I had you? You made me feel expansive and adventurous, and helped me detach from the troublesome relationships in my life. You and I were self-sufficient. We didn’t need anyone else. I married MB anyway, even though it was you who brought me closer to myself.
After two pregnancies and two extended rounds of breastfeeding, my body was mine again. I was unhappy in my marriage but my children were young. I didn’t want to break up the family. I just wanted to ignore MB again and pretend he didn’t exist. You helped me do that. You really understood me, and I you.
When I moved out of the house and out of the marriage, I had no one to butt up against. My time and space were mine, like I’d always wanted. I was free. After I’d run through my list of adventurous, urban activities, I still had time to fill and you were there to keep me company, Cannabis. We explored and took walks together, like in the old days. When you weren’t right by my side, Loneliness and/or Boredom would come calling, often holding hands. I had no desire to spend time with them. I summoned you to intercede and you were always immediately available. I bedecked the apartment with incense, air purifiers, and scented candles to overpower evidence that you’d moved in. I made it seem like I was in love with aromas, but I was more in love with you than anything else.
I had always known that my dependence upon you was unhealthy, in part because I had to keep you a secret. You were the access to mischievous energy I couldn’t access on my own. Sneakily, you and I could float around in private or in public together. You helped me feel cool; feel beautiful. You took me deep when I sought depth. You brought me to the surface when I sought levity. You assured me that wherever I was, I was fine. I was not fine. And if I was fine, there had to be more in this life than fine.
You never did anything wrong, Cannabis Sativa. You are not to blame. I was the one with the problem. You were just being you, plant of God. I was simply misusing you. We were not the match we once were. You started bringing me fog and haze. I brought all sorts of interesting thoughts, and then forgot them. I was trapped in the familiar loop we co-created in which nothing amounted to anything at the end of the day, and if it did, it was forgotten, only to be rediscovered some other time.
Turns out I didn’t and don’t have the capacity to enjoy your company intermittently. I’d hoped we could cultivate a healthy relationship, but we could not, and can not. I spent all my time with you to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. My priorities got scrambled and I became disoriented. Because of your constant presence, it became daunting and overwhelming for me to land the job I spoke about finding. It was inconvenient and unimportant to show up anywhere on time. It became too effortful to fully engage in much of anything but you.
Finally, I acknowledge my concern about my dependence on you without any sense of irony. I am ashamed of my inertia. I am embarrassed by how little I’ve achieved with the gifts of health, time, talent and privilege I’ve been given. It is time to start living. So, dear Cannabis Sativa, it has become clear to me we must part ways entirely. Because I do not want to leave you, I know that I must. It’s not that I hate you, it’s that I must change partners. I am an addict and addicts must cut bait. I choose God who will help me choose life.
