Written by, Julie A.
Weed once felt like a soft landing — a cushion for my racing mind, a bridge out of loneliness. But over time, the cushion smothered me. Nights blurred into smoke, mornings into fog. I thought I was escaping, but really I was erasing myself.
My wife held me through it, even as the haze built walls between us. She has known more than her share of pain. And when I disappeared into weed, it was as if I abandoned her to carry both our burdens. Love deserves presence, and I was absent.
Someone in a meeting said, “Alcoholics regret what they did. Marijuana addicts regret what they didn’t do.” That line pierced me. I saw all the moments I’d let pass by — conversations unsaid, laughter unfelt, love unattended.
Recovery is where I begin doing again. Showing up. Speaking up. Holding her hand with clear eyes and an open heart.
