The Myths That Make Me: Part 6

In the wake of the Bible camp debacle, I was feeling sheepish. Letting people down was already a point of deep trauma for me, and letting down God, the people I cared about at camp, my parents, myself—I was devastated.

Luckily, my parents didn’t feel a need to punish me. (In fact, upon retelling this story to them years later, they both seemed to have little recollection of it.) They continued to support my friendship with Dave. We were both good kids at heart. And our parents knew it more than anyone.

Dave and I kept in touch, and one day he asked if I wanted to hang out with him and a friend at his friend’s house. My parents drove me to an area of town that wasn’t the greatest. I’d been in homes of people who weren’t very well off before, so while I took note of the neighbourhood, I knew that good people lived in these homes and there was nothing to be fearful of.

Dave met me at the door and waved to my mother in the car.

Inside, the house was a mess. Clothes strewn about, the smell of cat urine, windows covered with psychedelic tapestries. And covering every inch of the living room coffee table was weed paraphernalia. (Upon typing “paraphernalia,” I immediately felt I sounded like a prude—but it wasn’t just a bong. It was several bongs, grinders, pipes, one-hitters, carved-out apples. You name it.)

A portly teenager whose name escapes me was sitting on the couch. He lowered an enormous bong from his lips, tilted his head to the sky, and held his breath. Dave and I stood in silence. It felt like we were in a movie when he finally released the plume of smoke and coughed out a “Hello!”

I can’t remember if he actually had dreadlocks (out of place on his aggressively Caucasian head) or if he just assumed the personality of a Rastafarian so deeply that I’d imagined he did. He and Dave hugged and he introduced himself. A huge smile spread across his face. His eyes characteristically arched in the way all high people’s do—conveying a sense of peace and love and joy.

I liked him. Mikey might have been his name. I’ll call him that for this story.

There were no parents at the house. Apparently they’d gone out of town and it would be just the three of us. Up until this point, I’d never smoked pot or done any drug. I puffed the end of a cigarette once in grade school to feel rebellious, but I didn’t run with circles cool enough to actually have access to anything real.

Mikey sat back down and from behind the couch unveiled a monstrosity of a bong. A new addition to the collection and the reason for inviting Dave over. They admired the enormous chamber, filled with murky yellowing water, and explained just how much smoke could be created if done right.

Dave was eager to jump in. Putting his lips to the spout, he sat the bong in his lap and simultaneously breathed in while lighting the weed tucked into a small bowl in front of his face. The chamber and neck of the gargantuan pipe began to fill with smoke. I didn’t know what was happening. I thought the smoke went directly into the body, not that it gathered first. Was he doing it right? Had Dave done this before?

It was only when the chamber was nearly full that Dave looked at Mikey. His eyes widening as Mikey instructed, “Let ‘er rip!”

With permission to pull, Dave lifted the bowl from the pipe, opening the airlock seal. With a whoosh, the chamber emptied into Dave’s lungs. He pulled back and tightened his lips. Holding his breath. “Hold it! Hoooold it!” Mikey was cheerleading the experience.

Finally, Dave exploded into a coughing fit. Laughing and coughing. Sounding as though something had gone terribly wrong, yet there was zero concern on his face.

He finally sat back and relaxed into the relief of a calmed diaphragm.

Mikey looked at me and gave a subtle nod. You going?

I told them I’d never smoked, and they were kind in their explanation. Walking me through the process. What to expect from the pull, the smoke.

I trusted Dave. And if Dave trusted Mikey, then I trusted Mikey. Again—we were good kids. The pictures of Bob Marley on the wall gave an air of divine peace and universal love. This would be just another adventure toward experiencing the fullness of life.

I did as instructed and assumed the position. Dave would light the bowl for me so I could concentrate on my breathing. As he lit, I inhaled in long, sensual puffs. Filling the chamber halfway, three-quarters, right to the top. The thin haze became a thick fog, impossible to see through. I continued puffing and puffing as instructed before I looked to Mikey and Dave, who both had bewildered eyes.

Mikey said, with a hint of surprise in his voice, “Let ‘er rip.”

Dave pulled the bowl from the glass and I swiftly breathed in the dense smoke. I’d been involved in my singing practice lately, and my lungs were primed for deep breath. I felt my ribs expand, my back widen, my diaphragm lower. In and in, deeper and deeper I inhaled. Exactly as I thought I was supposed to.

When my capacity had been reached, I pulled away from the pipe and held my breath. Again, my trained lungs pulled their weight. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. Neither Mikey nor Dave had instructed on when to stop holding, so I just went until I couldn’t any longer. Forty seconds. Forty-five. Fifty.

Dave and Mikey were losing it. Cheering me on as though I was achieving the absolute unachievable.

Eventually my lungs gave out and the devastating fire of the smoke ripped into my throat. Everything convulsed. I had never coughed so hard in my life. I thought my lungs were going to spill from my mouth. I was sure blood would follow. I was dying. This was it. I had done it wrong. I was dying.

I looked to Dave for help, and his laughter and joy calmed my nerves. I laughed in return at how insane the feeling was. How painful. Why would anyone do this to themselves? This was insane.

Eventually the coughing subsided. Dave and Mikey agreed I probably shouldn’t smoke anymore until it “hits me.”

Hits me? What did that mean? How would I know?

I watched Dave and Mikey pass the bong back and forth for several minutes before the urge to use the bathroom fell upon me. I got up—the rise feeling slightly off, but nothing extreme. I climbed the stairs to the second floor where the only bathroom was. I stood in the mirror and began giggling at the redness of my eyes. Bloodshot to the point of rosé. I knew something was happening to me, but it didn’t feel too discombobulating yet.

I found myself (truly “found”) standing at the top of the stairs. Looking down at the low ceiling I’d need to duck under to avoid.

Then my brain caught up to my body.

It was as though my consciousness had been somewhere else and had only just popped back in to process what was happening. I began to descend the stairs. Slowly. One foot. Second foot. Where am I? How many stairs? I might be at the bottom. Third step.

Black.

I don’t remember anything else from that day. No details. Turns out I had whacked my head against the low roof and tumbled down the stairs, laughing uncontrollably the entire time.

All I do remember was the observation of time dilation. The constant looping of my awareness “returning” to me, as though my body and eyes had been on autopilot and then suddenly my mind stepped back behind my eyes and said, Whoa—we’re here already?

Time slowed. Time rushed. Time looped. Everything was funny. Pizza was the nectar of the gods. I was filled with profound, unencumbered joy and peace.

I was a mess. But I was in love.

Dave and I continued to smoke regularly that fall and into the winter. Hiding away in basements. Going for “walks” in minus-forty-degree weather to smoke. It was strange to be in and amongst the dingy drug exchanges and late-night park deals, but it also felt exciting and dangerous.

Once home, we would wax poetic about Rasta life, love, peace, God, and girls. The weed only enhanced our intensity of devotion. Weed was the answer. The hippies understood it. If everyone smoked, then war and hatred would be eradicated from the earth. Did I mention pizza was the best?

It was a blissful escape from the world. And it made functioning in the world far more difficult.

We found ourselves at Dave’s house one night. It was the first time I’d ever been there, having only ever smoked at Mikey’s or at my house. His mother was home and had a strict air to her. We went for our walk and returned with a significant high, making our way to his room to listen to the Exodus album for the nine-hundredth time.

As I sat on his bed, I started to feel strange. My stomach gurgling. A nausea beginning to rise in my throat.

I felt my mind slip into a severe panic.

The thoughts came rapid-fire: You’re going to throw up. You can’t throw up. Not here. You can’t control it. You have no control over your body. This is fear. This is panic. You’ve lost control. You can’t control this.

The thoughts echoed and screamed in my head.

Vomit projectiled across the room.

Instantly I was crying. My body wasn’t just purging from nausea—it was reacting. Reacting to what, I’ll never know. Fear consumed my thoughts. I had no control. I continued to throw up and cry and shiver until Dave’s mom burst through the door.

Instantly screaming at us. Calling us potheads. Demonizing our actions and berating our choices.

Her voice was like gasoline on the fire of the voices in my head. Evil, terrifying voices claiming my innocence. Stealing any control I had over my bodily autonomy. My legs stopped working. My arms went limp.

Dave’s mother all but dragged me out to her car and threw me in the back seat. I could barely process what was happening.

It was about a thirty-minute drive home. The beginning was an onslaught of motherly lecturing. None of it felt loving. All of it felt angry. Disappointed. Disgusted. Appalled.

I sat quiet, slumped in the back seat, trying to corral the demons forming in my psyche.

As her speeches subsided and we sat in deafening silence, the voices in my head began to form into visions. Flaming beings of rage and spite consumed my thoughts. I fought desperately to retain control over my body. I’d already pissed myself. I was barely holding onto the thread preventing my bowels from expelling as well.

I’d broken myself. My mind was not my own.

The voices that tried to seduce me into giving up grew louder. Voices filled with hatred and fear and loss and devastation. My mind curled and cowered in the darkness of my psyche, clinging to what little sovereignty remained.

By the time I got home, my parents were at the door. Springing into action to relieve the symptoms as best they knew how. Water. Bread. Sugar. Anything.

The stark contrast—from aggressive, exhausted disappointment into loving, compassionate non-judgment—was significant. I cried more. Allowing the fear I’d been holding in to spill out of me.

I was scared this would never pass.

I looked to my parents and asked them to take me to the hospital. I needed help.

By the time we reached the emergency room, body function was returning. It was difficult to manage, but I stayed as cognizant as possible. The war in my mind still very much raging.

The last memory I have of that night was sitting on the hospital bed. My mother to my left, a doctor seated before me. They were discussing the possibility of laced drugs and other things. I could barely follow the conversation. My awareness was too deeply engrossed in my body.

I could feel my thoughts.

With eyes closed, I could feel and observe the electrical pulse happen in my brain, move down through my neck and arm, and into my finger as I wiggled it slightly.

I had gone from zero autonomy to ultimate autonomy. I felt like I had cracked a code of mind-body connection. But my mind—my mind wasn’t my own.

As quickly as the awareness came that I had complete control, the seduction re-emerged.

You know... you could stop your heart from beating right now if you concentrate enough.

A deceptive, taunting whisper from the depths of me.

You can control everything. Why not test it? See how powerful you are. See what you can truly do.

It snickered and teased and lulled. I considered the immaculate nature of that kind of control. Gurus could control body temperature. They could float. They could dematerialize and re-materialize elsewhere. Maybe I’d tapped into a Divine source of awareness.

Yes. Exactly. You have transcended the body. I bet you can’t make your heart stop beating.

I held onto the thread of critical thought like a man gripping a sail in a tempest.

Just let go. Let me show you what we can do.

No. No, no. I know this isn’t right. I’d die. I can’t try this.

Do it. Try it. It’ll be extraordinary.

No.

I don’t know when I woke. Or what day it was. Or what the next days, weeks, months really held.

I attempted to smoke again a couple of years later. One puff and the voices returned, aiming immediately for my heart.

I didn’t smoke again for twenty years. And it’s return brought about one of the most unbelievable experiences I’ve ever had in my life. (You’ll have to wait for that one)

Dave and I stayed in touch after that night but quickly fell apart from one another. I don’t know if it was the trauma I had experienced or that weed was our main point of connection, but the friendship dwindled. His mother made a point to create distance.

I can’t speak to where life took him fully, but I believe he is now married and happy.

Next week: I become a Mormon.