Fuck Jeff Sessions for a lifetime of reasons, but in this instance, for his aggressively anti-marijuana stance during his tenure as attorney general. He can suck on a Black dick while smoking OG Kush for all I care. Weed is not like other drugs; it’s much more on par with alcohol and tobacco. However, the Keebler elf–looking neoconfederate’s antagonism notwithstanding, I will concede that weed is a vice, and like many vices, it can be abused.
* * *
About a year into me getting high regularly, I recorded myself high. I wanted to hear how I sounded. I was hoping I sounded like I was floating on air the way Jhené Aiko does on her song “Sativa,” a duet with the songbird of the rap duo Rae Sremmurd, Swae Lee. Aiko may have blocked me on Twitter for some unfortunate reason that ideally ends with a feature for me on her next single, but that doesn’t stop me from pretending I can have a spiritual connection.
When I listened to what I recorded the next morning with a sober mind, I did not sound whispery and angelical; my voice suggested I was heading to the closest Chipotle on Europa with the assumption that given it was the smallest of the four Galilean moons orbiting Jupiter, it was sure to have the shortest line and I desperately need chorizo, as fast as humanly possible—and it was available for a limited time only!
Or to put it more plainly, I sounded like a smooth fool. But even with the lack of coherence or cognizance of what planet I was on at the time, I sounded a lot happier than I had been lately. Happier than I usually sound period, honestly.
I wrestle with admitting these words out loud and in print, but if total transparency were being demanded of me, I can admit it: I like being high.
I revel in it, if I’m being franker. It feels so good to sometimes be physically present but mentally somewhere that feels lighter. To not have your mind be so wrapped in all your fears and doubts and worries. To both physically and mentally feel as if a weight has been lifted for knowingly not forever, but at least for the time being. To have something in your life that can provide you an escape, temporary or not.
There are songs that I love to listen to while high. Mary J. Blige’s “I Never Wanna Live Without You” sounds sublime in a standard state of my mind solely off the strength of how well her voice blends with Faith Evans’s, but it’s something even sweeter after it all starts to kick in. I think I can actually sing then—and I’m fine with needing to be high to think I can sing. I feel equally as good listening to works from some of my other favorite hip-hop soul divas, like Future and Travis Scott, when in the thick of this pursued haze.
For someone that has not ever felt completely in control of their life, as foolish as it sounds, when I get high, I feel freer than I’ve ever felt. My past doesn’t feel like it’s in the way. My present struggles—the debt tied around my neck more than anything—aren’t centered like they so often are.
No matter how self-driven I am or how determined I find myself to be to reach my dreams and create better for myself and those I love, ambition and resilience are not enough sustenance. Your problems—real and imagined—catch up to you. The trauma you carry and continue to leave unsettled will weigh you down. There’s only so much your mind and body can take. We’re not always as in control of our minds and bodies anyway, right? Depression told me so anyway.
I know this all too well. I get so tired. So very tired. I worry it may never end, no matter what I do. Sometimes, you worry so much and your fears and trauma trample so hard over you that you just don’t want to get up. You don’t know what to do anymore. Everything else you used to do no longer works. You don’t have the desire to try anything else. Then people pile their problems on you because you serve as so many people’s security blanket. You present as the strong one. The one that perseveres again and again. Because that’s who you are to people. Not enough of them care enough about you to ask how you are holding up—they need you to serve their needs.
It’s too much. So you get high. You get high because you just want to float on, float on, float on. It feels so good to just float sometimes. It’s so much better than anything else I’ve just described. That’s why you keep getting high. You want to remember what you feel like when you aren’t weighed down by the heft of your challenges.
And you have so many options for getting high now. So many that you don’t have to be lazy and lethargic while high. You can use sativa products. Hell, they even have products that promise to help you stay focused and creative even as you are under the influence. It’s perfect. In moderation anyway.
I know the reason why I started getting high might prompt a “duh” from some, given I got one in real time from a friend. But it can be difficult for a child of an addict to admit they like being under the influence. We know escapism sounds nice until it inches toward what comes to be viewed as dependence.
It didn’t help that I hadn’t used any antidepressants in years. Celexa is my bitch, but my health coverage has thrown a wrench in me not only finding a decent doctor, but making the medication affordable—as it previously was for a much lower monthly premium. The weed man has been easier to get to than a pharmacist at CVS, and cheaper, even if I know he’s overcharged me a little bit for those cartridges. And I don’t know if I ever want to be back on medication—at least without therapy anyway.
Weed was more accessible, so by default, inherently more functional.
I was getting high every now and then, and then it became an everyday thing. I learned to be high and functional. It took longer than I would care to admit to see that sounded eerily similar to my father. My dad made a habit of separating himself from other alcoholics by constantly arguing about his functionality. He maintained a specific image of what an addict looks like. For him, that was the buffoonish drunk. Someone who couldn’t hold down a job, maintain a relationship, be loved. No, he was a “professional.” That was a way of acknowledging one’s excessive drinking without confessing to being like all the others who consume too much alcohol. You’re not them; you can hold your liquor.
I knew as a kid that he convinced himself of this in order to rationalize his drinking and maintain his status quo. What I couldn’t foresee was that that habit—a generational trait at this point—could be duplicated easily by me. The one who swore he would never become an alcoholic stood firm by that promise, though only with an asterisk attached to those bragging rights. No, I’m nobody’s drunk, but I was self-medicating the way he and so many others I knew were. I’m not walking around here like a zombie looking for a hit, but I wonder if my weed man started to look at me the same way a bartender looks at someone coming around too frequently.
Look at me, sounding like ever the professional.
Lil’ Wayne is responsible for my favorite addiction-themed songs: “Me and My Drank” and “I Feel Like Dying.” On the former, I am drawn to the way he frames the dependency—it’s kind of a generational equivalent to “Mary Jane,” a nod to Houston rapper Big Moe and his iconic “Barre Baby.” It’s fun and only makes me think about the fun parts of being high out of my mind. “I Feel Like Dying” doesn’t make me any less aware of the pleasure I associate to smoking, but it’s the repetition of the feeling after it’s down that’s a bit haunting even if I sway through it.
“Wish I could give you this feeling. I feel like buying. And if my dealer don’t have no more then I feel like dying.”
I don’t want to ever feel that way. I always have to remember to never allow myself to get to the point in which I feel that way. But that sounds like something that can become easily forgettable. I have to keep that in mind at all times, too.
Or maybe stop altogether?
This is not the part where I say I had an epiphany and learned to drink the non-psychedelic CBD tea now sold at the formerly hood grocer turned market for onslaught of new white neighbors. This is not a script to a forthcoming after-school special.
I still hit up the weed man because I like supporting entrepreneurship. And I still like getting high.
But I do have a newfound understandin
g of how people—notably those in my life whose addictions impacted me negatively—can fall. It’s one thing to intellectualize it, but critical thinking and analysis don’t make you feel it. To feel it is to make you empathetic in ways you previously thought were implausible. It’s another way to understand the condition. I get it now. Oh, how I get it in ways I never understood years ago.
My dad and I are not two men who have conversations at length. We call each other to check in, but we spend a lot of the short time talking about the weather. But though he may not know how to talk to me about my problems, he’s displayed a knack for being able to clock when I have one. He’s always been able to hear me say “I’m all right” and know when I don’t mean it.
I said “I’m all right” a lot of the time I was back home for the second time. I didn’t mean it most of the time. I was hurting. For a lot of varied reasons, but hurt is hurt. As my father, it makes sense that he could see the same in his son. As someone else hurting, it makes even more sense that he could spot something off in me.
I wish he knew how to better communicate. I don’t fault him for not knowing how to. His parents didn’t teach him. But I wish he did. I always wanted to know when was the first time he drank and when was the first time he needed to drink. And if the shift was swift or did it take a while?
I wish I knew how to better communicate. I could ask him so many questions, but I have never made the attempt. I’ve always assumed any personal question asked would have the conversation directly go south, becoming triggering for both of us, and as a result, hostile—maybe too hostile. Such fear is rational to have based on my experience, but I never bothered to put such a theory to the test. That’s a shame because the ghosts of all his sins are what’s been chasing me. Maybe it’s too late for him, but I wonder if he knows the best way to shake those demons now?
I might have read far too much into his laughter at me rolling into the house drunk. I won’t dismiss charges of it being slightly shady in its appearance, but it might have extended beyond that. Maybe, just maybe, he saw someone he knew was hurting, too, and for a little bit, it looked as if some of what ailed him had momentarily disappeared based on a practice that for him was routine.
I’ll never know. We’ll never talk about it. It’s not our way. But I needed to be knocked off my high horse a bit. It’s better that I finally accept that, for all my protests, I am my father’s son. Intellect and access do not negate genetics or how cycles are created and cemented. I can end up exactly like him. I’ve already proven so.
I am him. I am his child. I acknowledge that in title, but intentionally distance that reality whenever assessing my traits. But I am who I am in part because of him. Acquiescing to that truth is long overdue.
I have not completely weaned myself off of weed. I’m not sure I ever will. I don’t believe I have to until it gets too bad. I have not settled on what “too bad” means yet, but I do keep that smirk in a mental back pocket as a reminder to not allow myself to keep floating for too long.
I have to conquer all that leads me to rush for an escape.
In the meanwhile, I’ve at least cut back a bit on consumption. I need to actively remember that it has been helpful in a time of need but I don’t need it. The connect started to overcharge anyway. I understand supply and demand, but you low key were already overcharging so I demand some chill—you from your prices or me from paying them frequently. Guess I should be happy he never had a big sale that left me compelled to stock up.
And thank goodness I never learned how to roll. I have long carried the shame of that with me, but that was God and Beyoncé sparing me black lips. I give them the glory for that.
They’re the ones truly there for me when I need them the most.
I LOVE INSTAGRAM. IT SOMETIMES MAKES ME WANT TO DIE.
I have developed a bit of a routine over the years. I’ve always been an early riser, but as I’ve gotten older (I’ve officially tipped into my mid-thirties, which is not technically old, but in gay years the age strongly suggests that I’m two Cardi B album releases away from needing a cane and a living will), I’ve started to wake up earlier than ever. So just about every single day of the week, whether I like it or not, I wake up around 6 a.m.
If it’s a weekday, I immediately turn on Morning Joe. During the second half of the Obama administration’s sequel, I told myself no one’s masochism should begin this early in the day, so I decided to end my suffering already and stop watching. Note that even though they were no longer part of my morning routine, I continued to hope that Joe and Mika would go ahead and get married already.
Then Sweet Potato Saddam was technically elected President of the United States. After tripping through the five stages of acceptance (I mean, white people gon’ white people), anger (okay, I’m still angry), bargaining (uh, I watched other people give Jill Stein money for that “recount,” if that counts), depression (I’m actually still depressed), and acceptance (he remains only white folks’ president as far as I’m concerned), I started watching Morning Joe again. Confirming old habits do indeed die hard, it continues to only take me about five minutes to become enraged by something said on that show. The likely culprits remain Joe Scarborough and Mike Barnicle, but you can add Donny Deutsch to the list.
I’ll stick it out to the eight o’clock hour, when they replay whatever it was that had me hit mute to begin with. Once I officially give myself some space from the daybreak punditry, I mute the TV again, grab my phone, and turn to Instagram as I start freshening up and getting ready for my day. People tend to assume I like Twitter the most because it’s the one I post the most frequently on. In actuality, if I weren’t a writer for the internet, I’d probably use Twitter the least. I’m a news junkie, so sure, the ability to glean the news cycle on Twitter is cool, but I could do without the pointless relationship-focused debates that are never-ending; and the rampant bigotry of far too many ghouls left free to roam and troll (both real and imagined by a Russian) because the tech bros fear the alt-right or lean their way and won’t explicitly admit such; and especially the people who may fancy themselves as activists but are nothing more than alarmists exploiting the works of others and the tragedies that push them to take action.
I’m tired from even conjuring up the bad spirits.
As part of the original group of Black Twitter users who made the service a thing and piqued the interests of white people in media who had never had a real insight into the id of a certain segment of the Black population, I, too, lament the “good old days” of Twitter when it seemed more fun. Twitter feels like work for me now. I know because the minute I start tweeting enough about a given topic, I’ll be asked if I would like to expand those 140 to 280 characters into an 800-word piece. The game is the game and I have bills to pay, but when you know how much of what you say will be taken largely in professional terms, it’s less fun. Twitter maintains some levels of entertainment value, but there is a toxicity throughout the platform that makes it increasingly easier to look away.
But I don’t think of Instagram as work. I will post about my work on it, but I don’t consider my usage there to be work-focused. It’s the only social media platform where I am not expected to be so on as a writer. Well, there was Snapchat, but after Instagram did a copy and paste with the main reason to use Snapchat, the masses ghosted them. I’d say millions of us owe Snapchat an apology, but that would only make Vine jealous. To Snapchat’s credit, they remain the better app to use if you want to digitally paint your face or look like a labradoodle, for those keeping score. And ho shit . . . allegedly.
Anyhow, I can post an Instastory of me acting a fool on the weekend with my friends or cousin and it will be received in the unserious way it was intended to be. The same goes for my impromptu reviews of the original Dynasty after a snowstorm led to canceled weekend plans, which were followed by procrastination that went on to produce a marathon viewing featuring Diahann Carroll and Joan Collins. I would try to recapture the original magic here, but like
Lauryn Hill, I’m too weary of following up sheer brilliance so you’ll have to excuse me. I will at least state that I have never in my life been so amused by overly dramatic acting (shout out to Linda Evans and her portrayal of Krystle Carrington) and the beneficiaries of Reaganomics.
I like that Instagram is less text-heavy. There is plenty of text to be found across Instagram to be sure, but if I see someone post one of those faux inspirational word memes that sound like Dr. Seuss with dementia, I quietly judge that person, select mute this user, and scroll right on by. I go for the pictures. Not to soil my reputation as an upstanding member of the literary committee (“ratchet eloquence” as someone once said in an Instagram DM), but sometimes it’s just nice to look at pictures and video. Pictures and video of elephants, ass, and food are all comforting.
There are other benefits to consider.
Instagram can teach me how to make dishes that aren’t as complicated as I initially thought—though I will make it a point to add seasoning to my food because I wasn’t raised to deny myself flavor. But I like learning about other cultures. How else would I have known how much white people like big blocks of white bread and cheese (the yellower, the better) for their quick meals?
Either there were far more fitness trainers than I ever realized prior to Instagram or Instagram led to a surge of personal trainers and fitness people in pursuit of a social media–driven hustle, but whatever the case, there are a lot of videos that help me figure out how to go into the gym and leave as if I kind of had an idea of what I was doing.
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