A Say No to Drugs Message for the New Millenium

My father was an old fashioned parent. He heeded childrearing advice from the likes of Maury Povich and other daytime talk show hosts that used the “scare straight” mentality on their dysfunctional guests. Out went Dr. Spock and open dialogues and instead my youth was defined by an over reactive and over protective father. Blinded by wanting to protect his adventurous little girl from the temptations of sex and drugs, the man gave me some stern talks. Of course, being the over reactive and over protective father, he liked to use rifles as props to illustrate his points. Hence, why I didn’t touch marijuana until sophomore year of high school and other substances until late college. I was convinced the man would pop out of a bathroom stall brandishing a shotgun as he captures me mid-sniffle of coke or drag of weed.

And I don’t know if it is because of the trauma associated with the talk that my father gave me, but I never had a taste for most drugs. Any type of upper, including Red Bull gives me panic attacks, downers make me depressed and suicidal, and the wild card that is weed turns me into a fifteen year old white kid from suburbia. I’ve tried to become friends with Maryjane, but we have a contentious relationship. She makes me paranoid, hallucinate, and gives me the most intense panic attacks. Don’t try to out smoke a gravity bong because it will make you high as a kite and in turn give you one of the most intense panic attacks of your life. My anxiety was so bad, I literally almost went to the emergency room. But I didn’t go because I couldn’t find anyone sober enough to drive. But, if I had, could you imagine walking into the ER and telling the triage nurse that you think you are dying because you OD’d on marijuana???

The only time I’ve ever been able to handle smoking marijuana and actually enjoy it was when I smoked it like a forty year old ex-hippie who sold out to JP Morgan: weed mixed with lotsa tobacco along with a few glasses of an expensive red wine while sitting in a ski house in southern Vermont. When I add alcohol to the equation, my paranoia and anxiety disappear and I am left happy, mellow and chill, like a kid on tour with Phish mooching off of a trust fund. However, very rare is the marijuana smoking opportunity that presents itself with my high-end criteria. So, I haven’t smoked in years. I am too afraid that I might die from an OD.

However, a little while ago I learned that my trick to tolerate marijuana has to have those exact ingredients, or I end up a nervous wreck, thinking that I am going to die in the middle of the LES. Cheap beer cannot replace a subtle red wine, I can only smoke a joint when rolled by a European because Americans don’t use enough tobacco, and a shady apartment in the LES cannot double as a ski chalet.

My friends know my stance on marijuana. I hate being around it. It’s an unspoken rule, if they know I am coming over and they want to smoke, they either do it before I arrive or if I am there, they go into another room or sit on the fire escape and get high. Like any other Friday night during the summer, a friend of mine invited me over to his apartment to chill with him and a group of friends.

“You sure you don’t want any?” My friend asked me.

“Dude, you know I don’t smoke. It makes me act like I am a fifteen year old white kid from the suburbs. As long as we are on your roof, I don’t mind if you guys do it. I just can’t smell it.”

Twenty minutes later, like the good house guest that I am, I show up at the door bearing gifts of micro brewed beer that I picked up from my weekend in Massachusetts. My friends and I pound beers and by the end of the twelve pack, me and the two guys are engaged in drunk intellectual conversation, discussing social justice as I tell him about my job working for the devil, aka pharmaceutical market research

We finish up the beer and move onto a bottle of Stoli Raspberry leftover from my friend’s roof party last weekend. I get to the point of intoxication, where I am so drunk that I actually think I am sobering up. But really?! My frame of reference has just been massively screwed. As we are drinking, a joint is lit and passed around. You know when I am getting bombed, when I don’t leave the circle when the jay is passed to me. We drink some more vodka and the second joint is rolled and passed around. Taking his last drag before he passes it, my friend skips over me, and hands it to the person to my right.

Drunk and in one of my moods I grab it from my friend, “You know, I’m feeling really relaxed with you guys, plus I have been drinking. I’ll have a baby drag.”

A few minutes pass and I feel this slight pleasurable head rush.

“Oh now I get why everyone likes marijuana!” And the maniacal giggling begins.

The third joint is rolled. Drunk, and lightly stoned, I decide that it is the third go around to charm, and like Snoop Dog in Half Baked, I go to town on it.

“Hey Shannon, ease up, are you going to pass it?”

With the joint in my hand, I get up and begin to twirl. “Dude,” as I take anther drag, “why don’t I become a stoner? This feels fucking great! I fucking love marijuana! You know what I would love right now? Bob Marley!!”

And it continues like that, for the next thirty minutes. I act like a fifteen year old smoking pot for the first time: giggling, spouting off about social theory and getting progressively more stoned and drunk as time allows the alcohol and weed to hit my body. So far, it’s going a lot like my red wine highs back in college. Giggly, happy, and I am in love with the feeling. However, I move past the light stoned and drunk feeling to the really fucking stoned and lit feeling.

As it all hits my bloodstream full force, I feel alcohol poisoning sick. But I am also so stoned out of my mind that I begin to move in slow motion. Panic strikes. I am afraid that I won’t be able to make it to the bathroom in time because I don’t think I would be able to move fast enoug. The spins intensify. My legs have trouble working because I am so high.

What the fuck did I get myself into? I begin to panic. I convince myself that since I am high I will choke on my own vomit because everything happens in slow motion. The rationale of a drunk with the impaired facilities of a stoner. The night is progressing into my very own say no to drugs message.

As a preemptive measure I go to the bathroom and stand over the toilet. Now, I don’t know if you have ever puked when you were both drunk and high but it is one of the scariest things. I don’t recommend it. At this point I have the alcohol spins and it is combined with a very stoned state. I lean over the toilet, and proceed to vomit. As my head spins and I feel like I am lightly floating.

Normally, I don’t just puke, but I rally afterwards. If there is a party, nothing will make me miss it. However, this time, that vomit didn’t clear the sick feeling. Oh no, as soon as I walk out of the bathroom door, I run back in and vomit again. This time with nothing to vomit, I am puking bile into the toilet. Dry heaving, as I still have the spins, as my body feels like it’s floating, as I am having a panic attack.

I try passing out next to the commode, too afraid to leave it for an extended period of time. However, I panic that I puked all over his toilet, and I proceed to clean the fucker with found cleaning supplies. Momentarily taking pauses to retch into the bowl and continue cleaning. This is the glamour of drugs?!

After that night, I swore I would never smoke marijuana again. Unless I was in a ski house in Southern Vermont, with a nice glass of red wine, with 3 European girls rolling baby joints.