I spent years of my life experimenting with drugs.
Yes, I just announced that on my blog.
Yes, my grandmother's friends just read it.
I'm sorry, but I don't believe in Santa Claus either.
So, now I am a North-pole hating, recovering drug addict.
!SURPRISE!
Years of my life on drugs . . .
The college years.!SURPRISE!
Don't go blaming my husband, just because I met him in college. He was actually all used up by the time I met him (on his twenty-first birthday). He wasn't the leader of the Bible Club in High School (like
somebody we know).
Also, don't even think about blaming Lydia, my best friend that died. Doesn't that just sound terrible? Doesn't that sound too second-nature? She is better than that. Don't even think about blaming Lydia, my best friend. I didn't even know her when I started.
Don't blame anyone. I don't. I'm not embarrassed or ashamed or regret (almost) anything. I had a great time. It was an educational experience. It, for lack of a less cheesy term, opened my mind. Caused me to question everything that had always been solid. Sure, I made some extremely stupid decisions and, at times, completely disregarded the common sense that I flaunt so proudly. Don't misinterpret my confidence, I don't think drugs are necessarily a *good* thing at all, especially for everyone. I don't pass out ecstasy pills at the local Middle school carpool line. Don't worry, your children are relatively safe with me. As long as they don't start asking BIG questions. Because I will probably answer them. But I won't get them high. A promise is a promise. Except for that one time when I was severely under the influence at a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert. It was a tour for one of their later albums that I would probably wipe my ass with.
So there we are: Lydia and I, standing in the rain, on the lawn, surrounded by thousands of fourteen year old kids and their bored (or drunk) parents, wanting to sing along, wanting to get all Sir Psycho Sexy, wanting to not feel so old, but no one hearing our pleas.
Drunk, bored US approaching a child. CHILD. Standing next to his father.
"Hey kid."
He just stares.
"Do you know all of these songs?"
Nods.
"These songs suck. Have you ever heard Blood Sugar Sex Magik?--"
Shakes his head.
"Okay, listen to me, Kid, this is the most important thing that anyone will ever tell you."
Deer in headlights.
"Go home and buy Blood Sugar Sex Magik TONIGHT. It will change your life.--"
"--and start smoking pot."
That was me, the your-child-on-marijuana advocate. Hey, at least it wasn't crystal meth. Get off my back, okay?
The point? Hmmmm, the point? I know I had one. Let me think. YES! The point was to tell you about why I QUIT doing drugs.
I went absolutely berserko.
Readers, allow me to introduce you to my kryptonite: IRRATIONAL THOUGHT.
The same irrational thought processes that caused my
second grade self to question my mother's fidelity snowballed and transformed into a super-villain life of it's own. A life that completely debilitated me from eating at Cracker Barrel and wiping with any toilet paper but my own. I became neurotically obsessed with the idea that
everyone someone,
everywhere somewhere had the intentions of dosing me with LSD without my permission or knowledge. That's right. It was on the walls at school. In the water-gun at the concert. That beer in my hand? The one that I just took my eyes off of? Some very sneaky hippie just emptied a vial of liquid acid into it. It is now poisoned and must be thrown away. I stopped going to shows and festivals. Stopped going to bars. Where could it be? Someone is waiting. To trick me. Someone wants to dose me. Dose me. Dose me. Dose me. After years of trying to convince myself that, no, no one would waste their drugs on me, I finally gave up altogether. I blamed my voluntary chemical intake for the chemical imbalance that had been there all along. And it was years. Many, many years, (and antidepressants and therapy) before I was rational enough to see it all as a hilariously sad reality.
(Obviously, of the many brain altering substances that have graced my neurons, LSD is not NOTNOTNOT one of them. Not because of a fear of hallucinating. Hallucinating is great! It's the simple fear of L.S.D.)
While dodging water fountains and NEVER so much as LOOKING at candy from strangers, I knew that my fear was indulgent. I knew that it probably would not happen BUT IT WILL MOST DEFINITELY HAPPEN TODAY RIGHT NOW IT JUST HAPPENED.
Panic attacks cause your heart to race. Disturb breathing. Cause an "out of body" sensation that could even be described as "hallucinating."
The fear of LSD causes me to hallucinate. Beautiful.
The years of my life that were invested in this fear are sad and plentiful. What you have to understand is that
I am NOT afraid of acid. It is merely a tool in the hands of a broken brain. It could have been death, spiders, vomiting, cars, Big Bird or back rubs. My brain HAD to fear
a loss of control. LSD was simply the weapon.
Despite knowing that I wasn't normal and that I could have benefited from medication, I was too afraid to even help myself. What if I became addicted to the meds? What if I got fat? What if it got worse? What if I lost myself? What if, if, if, if, if?
What if I get pregnant with twins, push them out of my vagina and nearly die? What if I can't stay inside of my head for another minute? What if there is no other choice?
