The Girl and the Joint

What if you could buy happiness for $80 a week, but it cost you your peace? That’s the deal I unknowingly made at 17. I didn’t plan for it—it just happened. Back then, I was living with my boyfriend, a “man” who claimed to love me but used his words and fists to remind me how small he thought I was. With no family to turn to and no safe place to call home, every day felt like a fight to keep my head above water. I was drowning in silence.

So, when someone handed me a joint, I didn’t hesitate. I lit it, inhaled, and for the first time in months—maybe years—I felt like I could breathe. The first hit burned my throat and tightened my chest, but then the world slowed down. The noise in my head quieted, and the weight on my shoulders lifted just enough for me to sit up straight. For those few moments, I wasn’t the girl trapped in an abusive relationship or the one cut off from her family—I was just me. The calm washed over me like warm water, and for once, I didn’t feel scared. I didn’t feel anything at all.

Smoking became my escape. When life got too loud or too heavy, I’d light up and let the haze take over. Sometimes, I smoked alone behind a locked door to avoid his fists. Other times, it was with people who didn’t ask about the bruises on my arms or face—they just passed the joint and let me fade into the background. And honestly? That was enough.

With that joint in hand, nothing could touch me. The tension melted away, and the sharp edges of the world softened. It wasn’t just about getting high—it was about surviving when everything else felt impossible.

But no one tells you that reality doesn’t disappear; it waits for you to come back down. When the high wore off, everything hit harder—the fights with him, the loneliness of being cut off from my family, and the frustration of knowing happiness only lasted as long as the weed did. Then came paranoia—the creeping sense that something bad was always around the corner. What started as freedom became another trap.

I spent $80 a week chasing that fleeting escape—a fortune when you’re broke and living paycheck to paycheck. At the time, it felt worth it—worth not facing reality for just a little longer.

Looking back now, I see how much smoking took from me even as it gave me moments of relief. It numbed my pain but kept me from confronting what needed to change. It became a crutch—a way to avoid healing.

Would I go back? No—not after learning how strong I am compared to that scared 17-year-old girl who thought she needed weed to survive. But do I understand why she reached for that joint? Absolutely.

If you’ve ever felt like life is too heavy—like you need something to make you forget—you might understand why someone turns to weed or anything else for escape. Even if you’ve never touched a joint, maybe you know what it’s like to crave relief from your own reality.

For me, smoking wasn’t just about getting high—it was about surviving when nothing else made sense. And while I wouldn’t go back now, it’s part of my story—a reminder of how far I’ve come and how much more there is to life than running from pain.

Because real peace? It’s not something you can buy—not for $80 a week or any price at all. Real peace comes from facing your struggles head-on and finding strength you didn’t know was inside you all along.