Anxiety and Consumption
a journal entry by Nia Smith
The stigma of the thing that helps me causes me more harm than it ever could.
I was introduced to weed, the way most teenagers are introduced to it. After years of being told that marijuana was a gateway drug that definitely would kill me, I ignored the condescending lectures while I was hanging out with some stoners at my school. This started a bizarre relationship with weed for me. I almost rarely used it, but I wouldn’t turn it down if it was offered. I never bought any myself, but I’d always try to share my gratitude by buying snacks when the munchies kicked in.
And that was weed life for me. To be done in secret, to take the edge off, and to never be discussed publicly for fear of being seen as a pothead. Oh, how I avoided the labels, fearing they’d hang like an albatross around my neck. Yet, weed really intrigued me. I liked the smell, looking at the plant, the culture around it. It was interesting to me. But I could never be a stoner. I’d disappoint my Christian immigrant parents who’d never touched the stuff themselves.
So I did what I always do when I like something. I researched the hell out of it. I joined a club on campus that advocated the use of industrial hemp. To this day, I still care deeply about the inclusion of hemp products in the economy, not just as ingestibles. (It’s a more sustainable plant and can replace most materials we’re already using) That learning taught me about CBD, a non-hallucinogenic by-product* of the hemp plant. I spent years trying to explain that CBD is not THC and it will not get you high. It can help alleviate anxiety and it can help with physical aches and pains if applied topically. I usually put a few drops into tea or coffee to help my body process caffeine better. Normally, I get really bad anxiety and jitters from caffeine, but CBD has helped me regulate those levels.
So I began to recognize that hemp could be a legitimate form of healing. I advocated on that belief and would secretly take a 15mg peach ring of THC to blow off some steam. My recreational (read adult-use) relationship with weed had me convinced that it was something to hide. Maybe I was projecting, I really didn’t want my peers and parents to be disappointed in me. But even when I accidentally hotboxed my entire house, they didn’t chide me.
Still, I kept it a secret, even from my younger brother. I kept a vape and edibles hidden throughout my room during quarantine. The lack of social interaction (coupled with trying to transfer in the middle of a pandemic) started to trigger my anxiety and depression pretty terribly. I was able to manage my symptoms by throwing myself into my work and school as I was wont to do, but by August, I had very little work and virtually no school. Suddenly, there was too much time and I couldn’t use any of it efficiently. I couldn’t continue my eco-activism and just being a Black person in America felt heavy. So I rationed my recreation. Given my interests and the work I had done previously, I started to learn more about weed. How it really can be used as medicine (not “medicine” so you can get a card) to manage anxiety, depression, and insomnia. All things I was suffering from almost constantly.
The shift in my treatment of weed as taboo came when I got myself a card. Previously, I’d hit up other stoners I knew for their plugs. The creeping around made me terribly uncomfortable, but the alternative was to have my LEGAL name in a database somewhere. How could I continue a career with weed attached to me? These fears were the problem. My terror in getting myself actual medicine, that I tracked my usage, gauged my dosage, paid close attention to how I used it and why had forced me to be a mindful and responsible cannabis user. Yet, my mindfulness meant nothing if I was sneaking around. The fear of getting caught added to my anxieties.
Even with my card, I became worried that my use was dangerous. What if I just stop doing things like I’m supposed to? Never considering that a) the way weed is portrayed isn’t even how I respond to it and b) maybe the way I was doing things was unhealthy. Cue four-month-long burnout. What if I can’t build a career because I have marijuana attached to me? Never realizing that plenty of people do coke, and they’re fine. Barring the incongruent comparison. What if all of my friends think I’m a stoner? Forgetting, I guess, that they are too, and also who cares? Who cares how people react to how you choose to self-care? Why should my anxiety take a backseat to the public perception of who I am?
Because of the stigma behind cannabis, fueled by my own anxiety, I keep trying to force myself into a box that I do not fit into. Because of my fears with medicine for mental illness, I try to be stronger than I need to.
The routine erasure of people who use cannabis mindfully demonizes a helpful and fun (because responsible drug use can be fun) plant for the people who need them. My relationship with all things, including my mental health, is ever-evolving. I have to be willing to grow and work with them, and that does mean having a support system of non-judgmental people I trust of whom I can talk about these things.
Maybe marijuana isn’t for you. Maybe you can’t stand plant-based care. That’s okay. Just try to be understanding of those who use it. Offer them support if you are capable. Weed doesn’t have to be scary. It just has to be understood.
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