On Marijuana and Bad Trips

I grew up in Humboldt County, CA. Everyone smoked pot. Everyone’s mom and everyone’s mom’s mom smoked pot. Many people grew it as well. I once heard a statistic that marijuana accounted for two-thirds of the economy of Humboldt. Seeing as it was illegal and untaxed, I don’t know how anyone could have gotten a precise measure, but it sounded realistic at the time. It was a way of life, and I would like to state for the record that I have absolutely nothing against it. In fact, as a general rule, I am pro-marijuana. For many people, it’s a great way to deal with stress or to see things in a new light. For me, it was a gateway to Hell.

I really never had any desire to smoke pot in high school. Not to say that I was any sort of angel. I had plenty of years of partying under my belt before my 21st birthday; more years than I care to admit, looking back. But it wasn’t until I was 25 that I got stoned for the first time. It was also the last.

I’d only been dating KB for a few months at that point, and we’d gone out to the movies that evening. I was just starting Dry January, so we were planning on a quiet night in. We got back to my place to find my roommate rolling a joint on the couch and getting ready to go out for the evening. My roommate was a fan of the marijuana. Big fan. She had offered me some on numerous occasions, but I’d never taken her up on it.

Well, seeing as I wouldn’t be going out or drinking that night, a thought occurred to me. Why not smoke some weed then and there? We’d been meaning to watch Austin Powers, which somehow KB had tragically never seen, and I imagined that watching it high might be fun. So, I took a hit and held it in, as I’d seen people do. Immediately I erupted into a coughing fit. KB took a few, and handled the smoke slightly better than I did. I tried again, a smaller breath this time, and once more. Then I waited to see what would happen.

The rest of the night I remember like one might remember a very bad dream. It comes back in pieces, nothing concrete. I do remember that very shortly after smoking we decided to put on The Spy Who Shagged Me and began searching the streaming platforms to figure out where we could rent it. There were three rental options and I concentrated on the screen very hard, finally pointing at one and telling KB, “I think that’s the cheapest.”

He looked at me, bemused. “Well, yeah, obviously.”

Only then did I realize how absurd I sounded. OF COURSE the $2.99 option was cheaper than either of the $4.00 options. I began to giggle. And that’s when the night took a turn for the worst. The giggles turned manic. I couldn’t breathe, I was laughing so hard. I fell back on the couch and tried my hardest to control my body but I’d lost it altogether! In the back of my head I could hear the Austin Powers opening credits music, which had always sounded so upbeat, now sounding like a spooky carnival ride as I drowned in the cushions. Then everything went black.

I awoke hours later. Except that apparently it was only seconds later. I was so confused and scared. KB was calmly next to me in the same spot, staring into space. My roommate walked by, still getting ready for her night out.

“You need to call an ambulance.” I was frantic. “I think I’m having an allergic reaction to the weed.”

She died laughing. “Oh my God! You’re so high. It’s okay, Baby, just relax and enjoy it!”

“No! I think I’m dying.”

KB absent-mindedly stroked my arm and I pulled back in a panic.

“I need an ambulance.” It was all I could think about. Where was my phone? I needed to call 911. I was sure that this was not normal. People liked being high. No one could possibly like the sensation that I was having at that moment, and so clearly I wasn’t high. I was dying.

I sat on the couch, curled up in a ball, not watching the TV. Just praying that the feeling would go away and that I’d live to see tomorrow. I have a vague memory of my roommate leaving, silently mouthing the word “Sorry,” to KB, who was going to be stuck alone with a lunatic for the night. Later, KB would tell me that he hid my phone so that I wouldn’t actually call for an ambulance. At some point we went from the living room to my bed, which was at the time a mattress on the floor. I turned on my side, facing away from KB, refusing to be touched because something bad might happen.

I saw strange things in my mind as the hours passed that fateful night. I saw myself hanging, timeless and spaceless, from a melting clock similar to the ones depicted in the Dali painting. I knew then that I was in purgatory and had no way of knowing whether I’d ever make my way back to Earth, or if I’d be stuck hanging in some in between place forever. Or perhaps this wasn’t purgatory, but was instead the onset of Schizophrenia. The drugs had altered my mind and as a punishment for smoking the Devil’s Lettuce I would live the rest of my life in my own private mental prison. I am not a religious person, but that night I lay and prayed that if this was going to be my new reality, God would spare me and just take me now. Perhaps if I could just drift off to sleep I’d die peacefully.

At one point in the night I got up and decided to try to eat something, thinking it might soak up the weed like it does with alcohol. I remember dry cereal in a bowl that I was scooping into my mouth with my hands. But as I held my hands up in front of me, the Cheerios stuck to my palms, suspended in mid-air like witchcraft! I ran to the bathroom and wretched.

I can’t honestly say how much time went by that night. Well after midnight my thoughts started to gain some semblance of clarity. I felt nowhere near normal but I let myself believe that maybe this wouldn’t last forever. KB agreed that certainly in a few hours’ time the high would wear off. Sometime around 2 am, I promised not to call 911 and took my phone out to the balcony. I called my brother-in-law, an ex-NFL Linebacker who’d witnessed plenty of crazy partying and drug use back in his day. I knew he’d be up and I would have trusted the man with my life. Sure enough, he answered right away and didn’t laugh once as I explained my absurd situation and lingering fears.

“Try to sleep it off, Little. Paranoia is pretty common when people are first trying out weed.”

“This is not paranoia. I am sure that I am having a bad trip. Do you remember when Brian takes magic mushrooms and cuts off his own left ear and tells Stewie that he did it to prevent World War 2? Well, I am Brian!”

“Don’t cut off your ear,” he told me, chuckling sagely. “Get some sleep and tomorrow everything is going to be back to normal.”

And he was right. Eventually I slept and when I woke up to the daylight I had my own mind back. I don’t think I had ever been so grateful in my life. The feeling of relief to be alive lasted all day. It was like an all new high, but a good high, where I appreciated life so much that I saw everything in a whole new light. And I suppose that that is, after all, what is supposed to happen when you smoke weed.

So was it worth all it in the end? To be able to say that I have been high, and to wake up appreciating my life, and to have a great story to tell my grandkids someday? Absolutely fucking not.