◊
I dose to calm down. I dose to ease my anxiety. I dose when my panic attacks make me nauseous. I dose when a nightmare scares me sleepless. I take doses of marijuana to help my condition. I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I have muscle spasms in my neck and back from the tension. I have panic attacks. Sometimes they are so severe I lose consciousness. I cry often. I cry daily. It can be awful.
But if I take a little bit of this dried plant and smoke it. I feel better. My muscles relax, My stomach settles. I can smile and laugh. It just feels soulful. You have to understand, I used to think I would never smile again. I thought my laughter was just legend. I was diagnosed with PTSD, Major Depression, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
I took Prozac and all of it’s spawn. I took tranquilizers and sedatives galore. I’ve had more prescriptions written for me than any junky con out there. None of it helped me. The Antidepressants turned me into an emotionless zombie, a sexless zombie, even worse. And the prescription downers made me slow. They made me very slow to comprehend exactly what I was experiencing.
And under none of these conditions was I writing. I never wrote anything at all. My un-medicated mind is a Betty Crocker recipe for writer’s block.
But when I take some marijuana—just a pinch of that little green plant that grows everywhere—and I smoke it, then I’m writing. I always write stoned. The drug makes me so lucid.
Those are my points. Here are my questions.
How does my doing any of this hurt anyone at all? Answer: it doesn’t. How does it impact anyone else if I smoke marijuana on my couch. How does it damage society one iota? It doesn’t. It doesn’t.
Oh but you’ll get lung cancer! I’ll risk it to feel normal.
Oh but we don’t like even knowing that you exist. I don’t. Forget me. But you are out there smoking marijuana. That offends us. Solution: Stop thinking about me! I am none of your business! Leave me alone!
I assert my right as a human being to ease my own suffering as long as I do not harm another human being in the process. I refuse to let any government, or another person, tell me that a drug that eases my pain is forbidden. I consider this my birthright, the pursuit of happiness, celebrated in the Declaration of Independence.
◊
& P.S. I was smoking marijuana as I wrote this. Marijuana hasn’t made me stupid. Stupid marijuana users were stupid to begin with. It’s the truth. Deal with it.
◊
Oy, I’m sick of the drugs. I’m sick of the problems. Tom darling do me a favor, write a story about a cute bunny or something–I don’t know something happy. How about Walt Whitman going to Bloomingdale’s. Lord knows he wouldn’t have written Leaves of Grass if he had ever been to Bloomie’s. Unfortunately, creative gay men usually stop creating when they can opt to buy clothing instead. The cynicism encroaches with every swipe of the card. Something I have fought.
Sorry, Jeff. I have some real live problems.
Greatings, hardhang.com to GoogleReader!
Dolly
Can you believe it? I read it twice. While I am not as skilled on this topic, I harmonise with your conclusions because they make sense. Thanks and goodluck to you.