i smoked too much weed and it made me seek out a therapist
alternate caption: i got way too high, thought i was actually dying, and realized how much i do not value my own life
tw: talk of suicide/suicidal ideation
this really is not a clickbait caption. last week, i actually did smoke too much weed and looked for a therapist the next day when i was (somewhat) sober. it started off being a chill night: i just cleaned the kitchen, dimmed the lights, lit some candles, and got comfy on the couch to watch the first episode of the second season of the last of us. the day before, i bought a preroll from a dispensary. it’s important to note that i rarely smoke actual weed. i usually go for edibles that (1) also have cbd and (2) are a very low mg. i kind of use edibles as a way to chill and help with my anxiety, not necessarily to get high. i actually rarely get high from the edibles i consume. so with that being said, i have no clue what i was thinking smoking a whole 40% thc infused preroll when (1) i have not smoked real weed in probably 10 years (2) i have never smoked a whole preroll myself, (3) the aforementioned edibles, and (4) i know nothing about weed. literally nothing. don’t ask me about strains. don’t ask me about percentages. don’t even ask me what infused means because i have no idea. so why did i buy it? i have no idea. it was cheap and i hadn’t smoked real weed in forever and i thought it was gonna be a chill time.
i could not have been more wrong.
it kicked in within 10 minutes and in 30 minutes, i thought i was dying. legitimately dying. my heart rate was through the roof, i was pale and nauseated, i couldn’t see straight, i was profusely sweating, and i felt really lightheaded. however, the worst of all was i felt like i was not real. my whole body literally was numb. i was actually slapping myself across the face because i could not feel anything and guess what? i could barely feel that either. i couldn’t feel my feet on the ground or my hand on my face or the bathroom tile on my bare back when i stripped down to my socks and underwear and laid on the floor because i was dizzy and pouring sweat. everything also felt like a dream. i had always heard people talk about having experiences of feeling outside of their own body; like they are looking at themselves from a third person POV and i actually felt that on that night. nothing felt real. the words coming out of my mouth sounded like they were being said by someone else. all of my actions felt like someone else was controlling me. they felt like they weren’t happening. i called my best friend (which i barely remember doing) to help calm me down and assure me that i am, in fact, in reality. and that still did not feel real. i felt like i was having sleep paralysis or stuck in a dream state and none of my words or actions meant anything because it was not happening.
this lasted for the entire night.
it’s also important to note that i have never been high for this long before, so i felt like i was stuck in a nightmare. so how did this horrible panic-laden high lead to me calling a therapist the next day? well, i started having some really bad thoughts when i was in this state and not just because of the weed. i have experienced suicidal ideation since i was about 9 or 10 years old and it has stuck with me ever since. Poet Neil Hilborn says it the best: “i think a lot about killing myself, not like a point on a map, rather like a glowing exit sign at a show that’s never quite bad enough to make me want to leave.” i’ve always felt this way. suicide is something that has always been sitting in the back of my mind. it casts a shadow over everything i do, every choice i make, every sentence i say. i have always thought of it as a backup plan. “well if XYZ doesn’t work out, if i make the wrong choice, if i do something bad, if i make a mistake, i can just kill myself.” it wasn’t until fairly recently that i actually started believing this. when i was a teenager, i thought this was just typical teenage angst, like “oh my god my bff has not texted me back in 37 minutes, i am going to kill myself.” as i got older, these thoughts got louder. i started to see it actually as a way out. i started seeing it as a way to avoid having to go through any pain or suffering or grief. my thought process turned into “well, i can’t grieve my loved ones dying if i go first.” “i don’t have to face the suffering of life if i go first.” this sentiment only got worse as i got older, and even worse as i went to college. it just kind of became a knee-jerk reaction: “if i fail out of college, i can always just kill myself, so i don’t have to face the embarrassment and disappointment of my family.” “if i can’t find a job, i can always just kill myself.”
“i can always just kill myself .”
“i can always just kill myself .”
“i can always just kill myself .”
so, i am laying in bed high out of my mind. my heart is racing so fast that my chest hurts and i think my heart might actually explode. i had never felt this way before and i legitimately thought i was going to die. as i am laying in bed, the only thing i could think of was how i would not mind if these were my final moments. if this was my last night on earth, and this weed was actually going to give me a heart attack or it was laced with something and i am actually experiencing a drug overdose and i am actively dying, i did not care. in fact, my exact thought was “well, if i die, i don’t really care, and at least my family won’t be responsible for my student loans.”
that was my dying thought.
(the fact that my loans were on my mind even in potential death is insane but i digress)
i have made countless jokes about taking my own life. i have crossed the street and thought “i do not care if this 18-wheeler truck hits me. in fact, i want it to.” i have sat on the amtrak train and thought about it derailing and killing me and being fine with that. i have thought about the sun crashing into the earth and wiping all of us out and being fine with that. i have thought of hypothetical situations where i am being held hostage with a gun to my head and practically begging my assailant to pull the trigger. “you’d be doing me a favor” i would always think.
i have had a ton of very serious thoughts about it. i have previously made plans to do it, but never went through with them. but this was the first time where i (thought) i was actually about to die, and i did not care at all. in fact, it was the only thing that was calming me down and giving me comfort. the fact that there is actually an end to all of this — that none of my past mistakes matter. that none of the stupid things i have ever said or did matter. that everything i have been stressing about, losing sleep over, crying over, agonizing over, was all just for nothing. because i was going to be dead soon and nothing matters at all. all of the anxiety and sleepless nights and crying and good times and bad times and friendships and exes and estranged family members and the awkward conversations and and and and and.
none of it mattered because i was going to close my eyes, my heart was going to explode out of my chest, and i was going to be gone. and the thought of me dying brought me so much comfort and, dare i say, joy. and that is so terrifying.
spoiler alert: i woke up the next day. my heart did not explode. the weed was not laced. i woke up and the first thing on my mind was what i thought about the night before. i thought about how much i actually thought i was going to die and how little i cared and that scared me. like i said, i had always made jokes about suicide, but i did not realize how serious i was until i thought i was dying. i felt weightless, like life itself was the biggest burden on me and it had been lifted from my shoulders. i did not realize how much i didn’t value my own life. i had always had the thought that, although i want to die, i would be too scared to actually do it. even the hypothetical “if you could take a pill and feel no pain and just fall asleep and die, would you still do it?” question seemed too scary to me. i still felt like i would never be able to actually do it. after that night, i was not sure if that was still true, so i made the appointment.
another thing to note is that i am extremely stubborn and very much the suffer-in-silence type of person. however, that is becoming much less feasible as i get older. i am not against therapy or medication whatsoever, but i was always too prideful to ask for help. something needed to change after what i thought that night. something needed to give. i am terrified of being vulnerable and i have never been truly vulnerable with anyone. i am realizing that there is no merit in going through this alone. i don’t get a medal for dragging my body through each day and feeling like the world is collapsing on me just to prove how “strong and independent” i am. proving what? and to whom? i don’t know. suffering in silence just for the sake of saving face and pretending i have my shit together is a weightless currency. this can’t get me anything and i am losing precious years of my life because i refuse to ask for help.
it’s kind of wild that smoking too much weed is what pushed me to finally call a therapist a reach out for help, but i guess life works in mysterious ways?
i don’t know, i’ve lost the plot here. all i know is that i have my first appointment with my therapist next week and i think i’m going to hold off on telling her this story for awhile. i am also not smoking weed for a very long time, if ever again.
yours,
jude.