I am incredibally addicted to euphoria. I want nothing more than to fill my voids of sadness, doubt and solitude with a puff of smoke. Weed smoke.
I hate when people bring down weed.
I am aware of and can feel the harmful effects on my body.
I often get negative attitudes from significant people in my life but…
If I can look past the euphoria and acknowledge it’s harmful effects, why can’t others look past the harmful effects and acknowledge the euphoria? cause some people need it.
I am an individual that when sober often feels sad, unwanted, unprotected, queer, weak, small, uninteresting, unattractive, empty, lost, stupid, poor but most importantly alone.
I hate when people bring down weed because it is my friend. I grew up a lonely child.
- Exiled from attention and companionship since the day god decided my mother would only bear one child.
- And then the day my father divorced and they completely stopped trying.
- Or maybe possibly the day I was categorized as “
disabled” and put into a special education class. When most people were in a class of 25 to 30 children I was in a class of 8. A class that consisted of other individuals with acute forms of autism, retardation and the complete opposite spectrum the “gifted and talented”.
Being the only child, in a single parent household ran by a woman who could only obtain a medicare job, proved to me to be an extremely lonely life. My mother has no valid education in the U.S or ability to speak English . I spent hours alone in a 1.5 bedroom apartment waiting for my mom to come home from work. I would sometimes get a break from this and find some interaction when the tenant who lived in the .5 came out to use the bathroom.
So do you suggest I take a happy pill? I can write on and on about were I think my sadness began.
But this is about weed.
The big taboo.
But for what reason? It’s a plant. I can literally see leaves when I roll it to smoke it. I’ve tried the chemicals in the pills. They just don’t hit me like a high does. One of the side effects of them is even suicide. If you cared for me why would this be okay?
I do what I can to get by. I believe that I am a progressive individual and I do not ridicule what getting high kept me from doing. I got myself out of the special education program and now go to Penn State University. Solely, like the rest my life.
But I didn’t start smoking until I was 17.
I harbor strong feelings for my mother and father because I believe they are responsible for how I feel today. I am not saying it is their fault. By my heart says it is.
I am progressive but I have no direct role model for it. My mother after almost 30 years in this country still has the English vocabulary of a kindergardener. Often fucking up her sentance structures like a child. But to me it’s not cute. It’s helpless. My father gets no excuse because he was just absent.
Perhaps if my mom studied the language, she could have fought me out of the special education program and I could have avoided all those years of feeling like a freak.
When I am high, I am happy. Try me. It’s like an arm wraps around my shoulder.
At times I get scared because I think it’s effects are greater than me.
High I believe myself to be friendlier and more interesting. I feel like I am around friends even when alone. When I am alone and I get high, I feel like I form imaginary friends. Except most of the time they are my actual friends and I imagine fun circumstances with them. And I laugh. And feel better. And less alone.
I smoked a bowl and no body died. I smoked a bowl and danced to Gaga in the mirror.
What is he doing with his life, Right?
