Chain Reaction

Chain Reaction

 

I was the first, the catalyst. Memories fade just like the scent of a former lover gradually retreating from all the spaces you once shared, yet some days my mind still wanders back to that frigid night four years ago.

I am still in awe at my youth; barely out of middle school, puberty leaking oil from my face and filling my mind with a yearning for girls who were every day looking more and more like women. These novel proceedings led me to believe that it was time to put away childish things, to enter the world of the teenager head-on, to embrace my newfound maturity.

Which thus brought me to a snow-encrusted glade just outside of Hebron, New Hampshire, on the night of January 2, 2010. 24 hours earlier, I had been dancing inside of the massive church-cum-gymnasium that served as the axis around which the Bible camp I was attending revolved. The stage had been occupied by a mediocre local Christian rock group, the floor below packed with sweaty, God-fearing adolescents. It was a loud yet wholesome scene, different in every way from the near silence of the glade as I filled my lungs with marijuana smoke for the first time.

It had been a couple months of trying and failing to find the drug before I ended up here. My social ineptitude and general nerdiness in middle school meant that I had built up little rapport with any of my town’s budding smokers. Luckily, after hearing whisperings among the older boys at camp of some illicit substances that had been smuggled in, I had gathered up the courage to approach one of them.

After constant reassurances that I had no intention of ratting him out, the boy had agreed to let me partake in a late-night session. Of course, memories of my actual experience are hazy " stumbling into the auditorium, my clothes stained with the scent, I remember my peers shying away from me. To them, I had crossed the line, entered a world from which there was no turning back.

Four months later, I was downing stolen bottles of cough syrup before first-period Theology class. Under the supervision of a fellow peer and enthusiast, I was developing a love affair with certain substances. Of course, even my common sense-impaired brain knew enough to stay away from hard drugs " the warm, nebulous caress of weed and OTC pharms were enough to satisfy my curiosity.  Soon after my experience at camp, I had begun searching in earnest for those who could supply my habit. I quickly became familiar with back alleys and public housing blocks, where I could spend my Christmas and birthday money on items far more entertaining than candy or video games.

Most teenagers crave acceptance, of course, and I was no different. Finding friends with whom I could partake became almost as important to me as doing the drug itself. While my fondness for weed brought me into contact with some experienced users, I also began to recruit my old friends to the activity. In doing so, I sparked a chain of events that I can never seem to quite forgive myself for.

After spending my first six years of school at a private Catholic institution, I made the choice to transfer to my local public middle school in seventh grade. It is here that I met Nick and Mark, who were to become my closest friends. In eighth grade, the three of us were accepted to a rigorous Catholic prep school located in the city. Regardless of its prestigious academics and stellar facilities, the school was constantly fighting a pitched battle against its naturally rebellious students. In October of my freshman year, two months before my first experience with weed, the hallways became abuzz with rumors of an impending drug search; two days later, two sophomores were expelled, caught with two pills of ecstasy as well as a small amount of pharms.

Nick, Mark, and myself were admittedly far from the stereotype of “typical stoners”. Our sheltered upbringings and passions for sports and reading marked us as “good kids”, ones who were strong-willed enough to withstand the shadowy boogeyman of peer pressure. In our parents’ eyes, we were children, still years away from the world of adult vices.

And so, we rebelled. My interest in marijuana became a common thread that held us together. Nick was the first I convinced to try; we smoked haphazardly in those days, rolling and smoking a joint in my basement as my parents slept. Soon, his passion exceeded mine. He began to purchase more and more at a time, quickly moving from small, $10 dimes to $50 eighths. The next year, Mark tried as well. I can only recall certain moments from that night; the crash of the waves on the shores of the Cape, a long, barefoot walk back to his beach house.

Soon, our image changed. We became lumped together with a few others in school. We were the potheads, the stoners, the druggies. By whatever names they chose to call us, we were marked by our habit. Nevermind Nick and Mark’s passion for sports, or my own deep love of reading " in the eyes of the larger student body, we had already chosen what we wanted to be known for.

While Mark and I were less than pleased about our new monikers, Nick embraced the identity wholeheartedly. By the end of sophomore year, he was regularly spending thousands of dollars per month on weed. His habit had to be financed with more money than irregular odd jobs paid for, and soon he became our grade’s most well-known dealer.

After my freshman year, I had given up on trying to alter my mind with things that could be bought at my neighborhood CVS. Yet my consumption began to rapidly increase as well. By junior year, my friends and I would regularly smoke multiple times a day. I began a mental checklist of activities I had attended stoned: Church, class, sports games, and family dinners were all included.

During vacations, our days would slip away in smoke. In my sober moments, I would look back on the past few days with little recollection of what I had been doing. Problems began to emerge between my friends and myself. We would bicker about money, accuse each other of stealing, jealously guard our own stashes.

Our relations with family began to deteriorate. Even though we were smoking constantly, we did not consider the inevitability of being caught. As grades began to slip and paraphernalia was left around our houses with increasing carelessness, our parents went into frenzy. I was threatened with boot camp, my friends with much of the same. The disappointment of my parents led me to try harder in school, yet even their tears could not force me to quit. We settled into an uneasy truce; they disapproved of my habit, yet did not act on their threats as long as I kept up my grades.

The same could not be said for Nick and Mark. Nick, who was once a straight-A student, began to suffer in class. Soon, his parents were confiscating almost every other bag he would purchase. Mark’s parents began waking him up at 7 AM on the weekends and forcing him to do chores. They believed that this strict regimen would impose discipline on him; in fact, it made him more eager to disobey.

The years passed and with it grew our desire to “expand the mind”. Marijuana, while a perennial mainstay in our arsenal of substances, yielded gently to acid and mushrooms. We became familiar with the foul taste of dried fungi, the almost unexplainable feeling in the back of one’s mouth before beginning to trip on acid. While we had become competent in dealing with the relatively light high of weed, these new substances warped our conscious minds with a force that completely surpassed it. Sometimes, the highs were good, and we would delight in the classic synesthesia brought on by psychedelics; often, I could taste music as it streamed out of speakers. However, the raw power of the drugs had a dark side. Shadows would take wild and terrifying forms, and I would close my eyes only to visualize gruesome, incomprehensible figures. Through the social ridicule, the familial tension, and the drug mishaps, we remained steadfast in our habits. However, it all fell down before college.

 

 

            The beginning of my senior year brought unexpected news: Mark confessed to me that he had been suffering from depression. I was baffled. Mental illness had seemed some distant concept referenced only in educational videos in school " not a concrete affliction. Doctor after doctor attempted to offer reasons as to why Mark was suddenly so emotionally disturbed, yet it was only after he finally opened up about his habit that he was offered a concrete theory. He told me that he believed it was his drug use that was responsible, molding his growing brain in a way that caused defects to his emotional stability.

            Mark quit soon after. While Nick and I respected his decision, there was an undertone of awkwardness after. Even though we remained good friends, it seemed as though a gulf had grown between us. His abstinence felt almost like a personal affront; our relationship had become so defined by marijuana that his rejection of the drug felt almost like a personal affront.

            Although I gave some time to the thought that I may have been affected by beginning at 13, I was far too entrenched in my use to stop. Over and over, I attempted to swear off smoking, yet eventually boredom or pressure from my social group led me to again pick up the pipe.

            Soon after senior year, during that long, bittersweet summer before we all parted ways, Nick’s sister died. She was in the prime of her life, a beautiful, intelligent, 24 year old who had just landed her dream job in Hawaii. In a freak accident, she fell 200 feet from a mountain trail that she had been hiking. Nick seemed to react remarkably well; while his family was shattered, my friend said very little about the death, and seemed to most observers to be the same.

            It was not until August when I truly grasped what the death had done to him. After months of planning, six of us had undertaken a long, drug-fueled roadtrip to Montreal, where we planned on attending an independent musical festival in the heart of the city. On the first day of the concert, those of us with a taste for it began to plunge into the smorgasbord of substances available to us. We guzzled beer, downed shots of cheap whiskey, and smoked ourselves to immobility. The icing on the cake were two tabs of supposed acid, procured from a drunk Québecois separatist and ripped into halves before being stuffed under four of our tongues. We sat on a grassy hill in front of the two main stages, waiting for the acid to kick in. As I felt the familiar tingling in the back of my throat, I turned my head to look at Nick. His eyes were dead locked on something in front of us, with a gaze that seemed devoid of any emotion. I swiveled and looked. At the base of the hill was a group of beautiful co-eds, waving a Georgia Tech flag. Georgia Tech, where Nick’s sister had spent four years of her life. My heart broke for him.

            For the next four hours, Nick was almost catatonic, barely able to respond to our questions. What went through his head I can’t imagine. The hurt, the excruciating pain of loss compounded by a high dose of psychedelic chemicals of questionable origin. His trip was a nightmare, I am sure.

            I would like to say something changed. I would like to imagine that through our experiences, we gained new insight. I want nothing more than to tell you that I moved on from the never-ending hunt for drugs, that my experiences left some indelible impression on me that changed my outlook on life and made me realize that I could survive without them. But it is not so clean-cut. I have been psychologically addicted to marijuana for four years.  Since that night in the glade, I have witnessed friends fall off the face of the earth as they fell deeper into their habits, I have seen family members toppled by mental illness brought on by their addictions. I pray that I will not travel down that road, yet it seems that every night I imagine myself alone, destitute, looking to drugs for comfort and some false happiness. People live with the faint belief that there is something missing in their lives, that complete satisfaction is impossible. Some turn to sex for fulfillment, others to work " the best of us turn to their families and friends to fill that queer void that exists deep inside. As I grow, I hope that I become one of those people, that I can do away with the false trappings of substances and experience those true, simple joys of waking up in the morning with a person you love next to you in bed. I want to think of something other than getting high when I open my eyes. More than anything, I wish that I had never lit up with my friends. In another world, we would have been the good kids that our parents so wanted. And in that world, I would not need to write these words to attempt to explain to myself what exactly happened to us. 

Reviews

[diaphanous]

I'm assuming this is true. We are all victims of certain vices and addictions, I'm sure you know mine (not cigarettes) is ultimately different from yours but almost as sinister. This is a beautifully articulated confession of regret, and perhaps writing this all down will help you moving forward. Well penned, as usual.