My Story

Let me tell you a story. You probably know some of this, but I've never shared it all, partly because I only gradually became aware of it myself.

A long time ago, I was seventeen and right out of high school. I had some time to kill, so I had some fun: I got into drugs. Pot first, then LSD, pills, hashish, even angel dust once or twice. Beer, if I could get someone to buy it. I slowly emptied the liquor bottles in my folks' bar. Eventually I got into cocaine and speed, but that came later.

When I was eighteen, I enrolled at a local college. I tried to walk away from drugs, but I found I could not. I quit pot, but it didn't quit me. I had lasting effects for many years--panic attacks; feelings of unreality; irrational fears I couldn't explain to anyone, not even the four or five psychiatrists I saw--and the only way I could solve it all was to drink and take tranquilizers: Valium, Xanax, Soma. The more I took, the more real I felt. Not a stupor or a delusion, simply relief from the mental anguish that I endured. I was coping the best I could.

Alcohol left me sleepless, depressed, angry, and frustrated. My temper grew with the addiction, and I smashed whatever annoyed me. I was an asshole but was powerless to break the cycle. I quit drinking several times, both on my own and with the help of AA.

After twenty-five arduous years, my knuckles white from the agony of withdrawal from tranquilizers, I finally tapered off all the medication I was pouring down my throat. It took only six weeks. Alcohol, however, rushed in to fill the void. Without the calming effects of the pills, I was even more prone to outbursts of rage.

In 2006, I began to see a naturopathic physician, Dr. Karen Benton, who treated me for insomnia and some other issues. Over the course of our meetings, I mentioned that I had developed chronic anxiety which I attributed to marijuana. To my surprise, she had an explanation. And a cure.

A cure?

I was sure she was pulling my leg. As it turned out, she had recently treated some patients who had been afflicted with the same symptoms as I had. She ordered a concoction that arrived three weeks later from God knows where. Innumerable tiny beads stuffed into a familiar brown glass vial. It was a THC derivative. She emphasized that I was to take only one bead and assured me I would not get stoned. Afraid of further antogonizing the marijuana demons, I reluctantly followed her prescription. Three weeks later, the irrational fears were gone.

This is not an infomercial. This actually happened. It's like my personal lottery ticket, a scratcher that paid off. Though I still struggle with the temptation to drink and pop a pill, I have found myself free of anxiety, booze, and Valium. No more panic attacks, no more unreality.

Pot derailed what might have been a bright future, but I survived it.

The moral, if there is one, is that smoking marijuana is like playing Russian Roulette. Your friends may enjoy pot, and lots of it. And they might encourage you to join them. Perhaps you already do. But is there a bullet in the chamber this time? You'll only know if you pull the trigger and light up.