I’ve battled depression since I was a teenager. I’ve had two suicide attempts in my life. This last time was different. Before I get into that, let me talk about pot. Rather, here’s what pot did to me (instead of making sweeping generalizations): it slowly choked to death every good quality about me.
I don’t remember much from that week besides the fact that I knew I didn’t want to die, but I also wasn’t sure how to survive living. I remember the sound of the bedroom door opening every fifteen minutes to make sure I was still breathing. I remember the blank, desperate stare of my roommate, a mother of three in her late 30's, with long, deep scars and staples up and down both arms from multiple attempts. I remember the day her children visited and how even their innocent levity couldn’t pierce through her isolation. I remember watching the second half of Walk the Line with a man who thought he was Jesus and a young Australian woman who liked to climb very tall bridges. I remember a bag full of quarters and a single payphone with no one to call. I remember feeling like a shadow. Floating as if lead by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, watching closely as mental illness and silent-suffering tore apart the strangers around me.