April Awakening: Day Twenty
Happy International Marijuana Day. I’m not celebrating. In fact, I don’t feel like honoring this so-called holiday ever again at this point. I know I say this all the time, but I want to be completely done with THC in the interim. I’m tired of being a stoned mom on the couch all day, too lazy to take care of the responsibilities that actually matter to a mature woman such as myself. It’s so boring to just go home and green out. It does absolutely nothing for me anymore, just another vice to distract me from what’s really going on outside my own mindfuck.
I wasn’t ever really a good stoner. I’d get too paranoid. The first time I smoked out of a bong I went way too hard, screaming “It’s not real!” over and over again like some fledgling pothead. Hey man, I was nineteen and in a frat house. The hell did I know about making good decisions? However, the more I’d toke, the more I’d think I was getting something out of it. Like I’d be boosting my creativity or getting more in touch with my inner feelings. While I think all this is possible, I need to see myself as just me: stripped down, no vices, a complete soul who needs no elevation in order to find significance in this life.
New York City isn’t helping, either. The whole city smells of weed, or so they tell me. The only thing that enters my nostrils when I see someone lighting up is a sticky, sweet puff of something off. Each day, it seems more illegal weed shops are opening; their sickly, harsh lighting dotting each street corner, some shops just two down from one another. Is the grass greener between them? Who even knows at this point. It’s all just the same schwag shit imported from California and not getting taxed here. Maybe that’s why the city is going so hard after them while letting all the other crime-causing dopes back on the streets.
But at the end of the day, it’s not the city’s fault that pot has become such a huge part of my life. I’m the one raising the joint to my lips. No one is forcing me to do that. I can make a million excuses, but in the end, all it’s doing is harming me. I’m sure I’ve packed on a few pounds because my munchies don’t only entail meat or dairy. There’s no longer any benefit, if there ever was. I made it a point to quit THC before I turn thirty-seven, and I’m happy to report that this seems to be the case. I’m on a clarity streak right now. I won’t say how long, but it’s happening with no end in sight. Just like with drinking. I did Dry January and haven’t stopped yet. Now comes the time to do the same with pot; enjoying that feeling of not wanting to break my streak just for a minute of momentary, substance-induced happiness.
Good things happen when I’m clear. I was clear for all of December and the Twitter files dropped. I know that particular story was not just because of me, but it certainly helps. Whatever we put out does have an effect on things around us, and I just don’t want to approach the world with my head in the clouds anymore. You deserve to receive me from a place of lucidity, not one of faux happiness brought on by a leaf.
I also need to know if everything I still feel will exist without enhancement; that this isn’t just the delusions of a famous pothead. I have to know what’s real, no matter the circumstance that surrounds the heart. A lifetime ago, I told someone I’ll pray that they one day see things clearly. How can I expect clarity for others if I keep allowing mine to disappear in a puff of smoke?
So I’m not going to talk about weed anymore. I’m not going to add it to any challenges going forward. I know who I am with and without it. It just seems like being without it makes the most sense for this juncture in life. I’ll still always be a hippie at heart. You’ll just be seeing a prettier package without a pair of bloodshot eyes to boot.