Gratefully Sick
By Gaia
This story starts with where my recollection of marijuana begins, and ends with Cannabinoid Hyperemesis Syndrome (CHS).
At about age ten, I remember having posters around my room of the hazards and descriptions of the various drugs available (in Hawaii, 1990). My mom was a drug prevention specialist, and was raising me to be a proud advocate for www.dare.org (“Drug Abuse Resistance Education”). I had “Kiss me I don’t smoke” posters around my room, and images of an egg being fried in a commercial against drug use, running through my mind. It was always just my mother and I, my dad died in a tragic plane crash when I was four years old. I remember the anxiety and fear of losing my mom every time there was a rainstorm. This is relevant, because I later turned to escape the persistent anxiety, fear of abandonment, rejection hypersensitivity, and the pendulum of perceived positive connection within relationships.
Around age thirteen, I remember seeing a grocery bag full of weed on my mom’s dresser, and the shock and confusion that came with that discovery. I remember my best friend at that time offering me a joint when we snuck outside during a Shabbat service. I don’t remember getting high then, though know I smoked and that around the same time my mom left me with a man who got me high and drunk. I thought I wouldn’t remember that night and the moments that followed. This was a traumatizing time, and may have contributed to the onset of my “Severe and Chronic Major Depression,” which was diagnosed in 1996, following a suicide attempt.
Flash to age twenty one, I was in my second year of undergrad at Hampshire College, well known for its liberal arts and alternative education, as well as drug use and parties. I was dating a guy ten years my senior, whom everyone disliked and said I should ditch, and who got me pregnant at this time. I didn’t have morning sickness, I had 24/7 sickness, unable to hold down even sips of water. The night before my scheduled abortion, that boyfriend drove out to support me and suggested weed could help with the wicked nausea. Desperate for relief, I nodded and he went out to buy a joint. A wave of calm relief washed over me as I smoked. What sweet comfort! When I went to my follow up after the procedure, high, I marveled at how social, happy and carefree I felt. It was then that weed became magic.
I began using cannabis to write essays, de-stress, hang with people I wouldn’t normally talk to, and slowly, over the next twenty years, it became my medicine. I was a functioning pothead, secretly. Only a select few knew of my use, and as time went on I hid my usage more and more. I judge myself harshly for using it, and the secret wasn’t hard to keep until I reached grad school, now five years ago. As I advanced towards acquiring my degree, the angst and desire to quit became stronger.
I felt the weight of my secret usage and knew in my gut, I needed to quit all together, and didn’t know how to go about quitting weed. I used spice when it came out, and loved vape pens when they came out. Weed was my drug of choice. I always wanted to be somewhere else, uncomfortable in the present moment, and weed offered me the escape from thinking too much, from the increasing clutter and mess, as well as any other worries, boredom, and stress.
I refused to get a medical marijuana card, as I tried to deny that I had a relationship with weed. My need to maintain a visad of calm, collected, and “perfect” grew over the past ten years, especially as I was promoted three times at work. Working with youth didn’t pair well with marijuana use in my mind, so I grew increasingly isolated, ashamed of myself, and lived in my own “privately defined World,” as often as I could. I rarely smoked in the morning, (except for weekends) as the weed had begun causing a noticeable uptick in social anxiety. I tried hard not to smoke before I knew I was going to interact with other people. But I failed frequently, and always white knuckled my way until I could smoke again. I typically couldn’t make it until 5pm at work, rather was able to maintain for about 35 work hours a week. My paid time off (PTO) was constantly depleted as my guilt drove me to claim more PTO than I might have been actually using. Work was so lax and flexible, I got away with mediocre productivity, and received consistent praise and promotion.
I lived in chronic distress, barely managing my PTSD, and turned increasingly to fast food and lethargy, disconnection, and cannabis. Though I seemed to be doing well at work, I put up walls so as not to let coworkers know the “real me.” I felt unethical smoking weed, and so I kept my home life private from just about everyone. As I moved through getting my Masters of Social Work, I grew increasingly sick to my stomach, and more and more desperate to be sober. I began planning to quit at graduation; because I knew it would be really hard, and I would need time to detox. Somehow I went on short term disability that July and August, but was jerked out of work and forced back in so suddenly, it hurt the agency and clients I was serving, as well as my ego. My confidence plummeted and I strove to keep up with costly medical builds and providers who seemed negligent, and robotic.
A couple months after being forced back into work, I decided I would finally come out and admit I felt addicted to weed to my boss. I was desperate for help and started sharing my secret more readily. My boss was amazingly supportive;, however, perhaps not one of the people I should tell. I knew my boss was bound by obligations to hold my secret, but I worried more about her telling her superiors and that my relapsing was a sign of failure and inadequacy. I felt a change in my boss's demeanor, and became paranoid that my colleagues knew I was incompetent and were gossiping about me behind my back. In December my bowels and vomiting landed me back in the hospital. The stress and poor self care made my body give up and demand rest. My caseload was quickly distributed among colleagues, and I was put on Family Medical Leave (FMLA).
Soon after, at the beginning of this year, 2024, a doctor in the Emergency Department told me about CHS. Though I didn’t want to believe it, I agreed, and I was grateful for a reason to quit. I swore I would never touch pot again, but after a week of returning to some health, and still on leave, I relapsed. I returned to virtual, Marijuana Anonymous support groups, and kept counting days. Thirteen days sober, one puff, seven days clean, one joint. Eighteen days sober. Relapse again and four days sober. The pattern of random sobriety and relapsing continued. I justified and validated my usage as a problem only because I was hard on myself, because I am my own worst critic. Weed was and is widely used and accepted, and it was so easy to live under the “delusion of functionality.” There are more dispensaries than fast food places in the rural town I live in. No one seemed to believe that I was addicted to weed when I told them, not doctors, nor the close friends whom I told. Everyone seemed to be supportive of me, not encouraging me in either direction, but rather encouraged me to listen to my inner voice. I struggled with the dichotomy that this natural plant could be a problem and feelings of distress. I felt that I judged myself far more harshly than others did. Right around my 44th birthday I was back in the hospital with stomach pain and nausea. June 3rd, Monday morning before going back to the hospital in search of fluids and relief, I smoked my last puff of weed. I had been in extreme tummy pain, had severe bowel and urinary issues, vomiting foam and bile convulsively, with or without fluids or weed.
I now believe that I have developed an allergy to this brain (and body/ spirit) toxin. It is because of the constant availability of MA meetings, showing up again and again and, sharing when I can, new doctors and CHS that I remain sober. I also have learned a myriad of coping skills, and burnt myself out masking and pretending to be someone I’m not. My body shut down, my (gosh, getting emotional now) higher power stepped in, and gratitude for the sickness is carrying me forward. I have restored my faith in returning to my career as a therapist and obtaining licensure someday.
I still crave weed sometimes. However, I’ve learned that cravings will pass and that marijuana is a toxic madness for me. I can not, and will not take even one puff, at least I pray I will abstain, because I refuse to get sick again, because I admit powerlessness over weed, and because it causes, not cures my depression and anxiety. Because I like being sober, motivated, ready to engage without the heaviness of that secret, and the inconvenience of being high prevents me from connecting with others. I can and will live life more fully now. I now am more connected to myself, my daughters, family and friends.
I recognize that I have the gift of compassion and can help others with my experiences, strength and hope. I am dedicated to giving back, paying it forward and being of service. I will not practice social work with the vice of weed, and I do not want to get sick again. I want to help my daughters grow more resilient and strong, repair the damage I caused by being emotionally distant at times, and help them be more focused and disciplined. If I want to be the best I can be, and I truly do want to always improve, aspire and succeed in life, I can’t consume any derivative of marijuana. Mary Jane, our friendship is terminated. And I am so grateful to have gotten CHS, because if all else fails, at least I won’t risk the sickness. And with that, for now, I’ll take another twenty four hours and keep going back to meetings. Thank you for reading and may you feel loved and inspired to connect - the opposite of addiction.