A Love Letter to Marijuana Anonymous

On February 14th, 2014, I read the following letter to attendees of the Marijuana Anonymous World Services Convention in Southern California. You might have to be a member of MA (or AA or NA or OA) for it all to make sense. Or maybe not.

Dear Marijuana Anonymous,

On this Valentine’s Day 2014, this is my love letter to you. Marijuana Anonymous, baby: I adore you with all my heart. I’ll never forget when we first met. Again. Because I actually did forget for a really long time, since I was high as fuck for that first meeting. How COULD I remember?

But when I concentrate, I can recall how you looked that magical day: So ghetto. MA, why are you always in a community room that time forgot, with the world’s loudest, most palsied oscillating fan from the island of misfit toys? I’m sorry but you are not attractive at first sight, MA, and I was not happy to make your acquaintance.

I sat in the corner and cried, my usual first date routine — until I managed to speak up… and you accepted me! MA, it really was amazing, and you gave me real hope. I thought maybe, with you, everything would be okay. It was the start of something beautiful.

Or it would have been if I hadn’t fucked off for 10 years but hey, I wasn’t ready to settle down. I had to discover some things first, like how many hits of acid I could take and still comfortably talk to a cop.

Four. It’s four.

Then, after ignoring you for so long, when I had no one and nothing but desperation, there you were, ready to take me back. You’re kind of easy, MA — and cheap. A dollar a night most times, two dollars when I feel fancy. And I love that I always get to hear how generous my donation was.

I love that, with you, in order to keep this healing, this feeling, I have to give it away. The more I give, the more I keep, AT THE SAME TIME. MA, I love how you’re a crazy Schrödinger’s cat of a personal growth program! I love that I get to be myself with you. Like if I tell you that when people say “on a daily basis” instead of using the far more economical and therefore highly preferable “daily,” they’re killing me a little at a time, killing everything good by NOT doing things how I would do them — when I share this stuff with you, your response is, “Keep coming back!” The nuttier I am, the more you want to see me? Oh my god. What co-dependent chick wouldn’t love THAT?

MA, I love that if I do fuck up and get high and then come back to you, scared all over again, humbled, and mortified, if I can get myself to walk back through your door, you tell me I’m brave.

And you’re right.

I love how slogans that used to make me roll my eyes like, “Practice an attitude of gratitude,” which let’s be honest, was probably not written by someone in Mensa — this corny shit saves my life some days. Saves my LIFE. Or at least saves me from a life of being a large dick to everyone who crosses my path, so thank you, lovely MA, for greatly reducing massive dickishness on all the paths we walk in life.

I love that, with you, I get to be with advanced potheads. I love potheads. And I love that you made me stop saying no to everything if wanted to be with you, and I do, so I did. Mostly.

Because in the end, no is boring. And yes is friendship. Yes is going places. Yes is making things. And yes is reading my love letter to you and so many deeply afflicted potheads on Valentine’s Day.

Love,

Abby