My weird complicated love-hate relationship with weed

I’m sure we’ve been there at some point when in high school in between classes passing in between crowds of students and you get a whiff of that smell. It wasn’t even that strong usually unless they had it on them. The smell was in their clothes. I’m not sure if I’m alone in this, but that dank sometimes faint smell of weed made my heart pound and my senses focused, I felt so needy of it. The only problem is that I decided to indulge myself. 

After 17 sweet years of sobriety, my adolescence finally caught up to me and I requested my boyfriend at the time to let me smoke his bad weed. He honestly was surprised and double-checked that I was sure about it. I’ve spun this sob story over the years about my whole entire family smoking at some point or another. It’s definitely factual but possibly exaggerated to some degree. It’s also just a dumb thing to flaunt around trying to make people feel bad for you. I have thus grown to be a better woman. 

This story felt very real to me and I honestly have some prejudices towards cigarettes, but that’s just my issue. I honestly worried that if I were to smoke anything I’d become instantly addicted. Then that addiction ruined my life. I’m plenty aware of the apparent anxiety that these thoughts stem from but there’s more. I’ve worked hard over the years to help mitigate my anxiety issues, yet I still can’t seem to find the motivation to stop. 

I feel as if I personally need to stop. This is no longer fun. Not like it used to be anyways. 

For a time I felt relief mentally when I smoked. For two hours, I could slow down my thoughts and just enjoy my time. I can’t do that anymore, not without feeling nauseous anyways. If I do end up zoning out it never feels memorable. For example, zoning out on the couch with your friend joking and laughing about the movie that’s on, versus scrolling through Pinterest for hours. Maybe that’s something to say about my life. 

I wake up in the morning and assuming I’m not getting ready for work, I’ll most likely be headed straight for the stash closet. There are some days I try to hold off but others where I guess there’s no other way I’d rather spend my morning. 

Writing has definitely helped give me an outlet for my thoughts when I do decide to light up, but it’s not consistent. The smoking is. 

I promised my dad I’d never smoke. I always just told myself that he meant cigarettes, I honestly think he meant in general. I didn’t start smoking tobacco until after he passed. I still can’t even tell my mom I smoke at all. She’d be upset and the whole thing would be a disaster, I just know it. Even as I sit here telling myself I don’t need it, I turn back saying “who cares”.

Now with a different boyfriend, who is great and wonderful but he's further down this deep rabbit hole than I am. I think he's onto the denial part of the journey. He says he can stop but has no reason why. I used to worry about how much he was smoking, but then again I smoke more than him now.

Oh well, I guess. I'm sitting here smoking while writing this. If push comes to shove I know I'll be strong enough, I guess it just proves to me that I can't be strong enough for myself.