Your Addiction is Lying to You

Inebriation and mindful living do not mix

“The send-away becomes the way.” – AJ McQueen

Moving day was the following morning.

I rummaged through the under-sink cabinet and placed everything in a box with “BATHROOM” scribbled on its outside in black Sharpie ink.

Extension cord.

Blood pressure monitor.

Odor Eater insoles.

Band-Aids, gauze pads, and an expired bottle of multivitamins.

Then, there it was: my old stash bag.

I stared at its dirty gray fabric with morbid curiosity, feeling like I’d stumbled upon the bloated corpse of a past version of myself—one I believed the river of time had long ago carried downstream.

After staring at it for a couple of minutes, and with a great deal of hesitation, I slowly unzipped it like a surgeon wielding a scalpel.

Inside its belly, I found my old electric dab rig, waiting in the same spot I placed it months ago when I entered sobriety. It’d cost me hundreds of dollars at the time, and I couldn’t justify tossing it in the trash.

I’d considered giving it to someone, but I also didn’t want to promote another person’s addiction. Or their misery.

Sitting next to the rig was an unopened acrylic jar of marijuana concentrate. The label—which still looked brand new—indicated its THC level was 76 percent. Although I smoked up to 10 times a day back then, its power would still blast me off into space.

Having held hundreds of these jars over the years, the acrid scent of weed wafted up from the bag to my nose, causing a flood of memories to wash over me:

Hazy days spent begging The Universe to help me feel something other than exhaustion.

Dreamless nights spent awaiting the morning sun, so I could continue avoiding my pain.

Rinse and repeat in a never-ending cycle of numbness and suffering.

Still, something deep within me longed to feel that first rush again.

I imagined loading the rig’s bowl. Pressing the button and waiting 30 seconds for it to heat up. Placing the mouthpiece to my lips. Feeling the vapor expand in my lungs. Exhaling, and spending a few hours drifting away from the “real” world.

First, to elevate.

Then, to desensitize.

And finally, to lull me into a state of pathological compliance.

It hadn’t always been that way, though. Sure, marijuana was the first thing that delivered a semblance of relief from my depression, decades before I had the vocabulary to even know what the word meant.

But like all addictions, what initially provided respite from my suffering eventually became the very thing that perpetuated it.

Because when I was caught in the feedback loop of substance use, I wasn’t just stuck in the same physical patterns of consumption. I also continued asking the same questions, interpreting my experiences in the same ways, and thinking through problems with the same dysfunctional mindsets.

In other words, while marijuana anchored me from my depression, it—like a physical anchor—also prevented me from moving forward. And for many, many years.

Inebriation was easy. At least, much easier than facing myself, pulling up my anchor, and setting sail into the current of the unknown.

The allure of addiction? It replaced suffering I didn’t have control over with a form of suffering over which I had the illusion of control. Granted, I was just as miserable having a “choice” as not having one, but at least it was a misery of my own making.

For a long time, I convinced myself that I could maintain the best of both worlds: smoke as much weed as I wanted, while simultaneously remaining “mindful” about my demons.

However, the reality is that we cannot blind ourselves to reality, while also facing the world as it is. The two existences are mutually exclusive.

Instead, only through the clarity of sobriety—sending away what no longer served me—could I face myself. And through this send-away, I reopened myself to possibility, reignition, and rejuvenation.

While I don’t discount many of the very real benefits THC can provide to some patients, I also believe it’s an especially insidious molecule, because society has normalized it as benign and innocuous. Something that helps us relax, look deeper, and explore the unexplored.

For me, however, it became a prison, forever trapping me amidst the vast sea of suffering.

Where I live, there are more dispensaries than liquor stores. Which, in the grand scheme of things, is probably a net positive. But in my opinion, society overlooks how THC can trick us into complacency, avoidance, and stagnation.

Instead, only by sitting with the causes of our suffering—the ones that lead us to seek numbness in the first place—can we ever hope to be healed.

By leaning into my suffering through sobriety, mindfulness has allowed me to pull up that which once anchored me.

I don’t necessarily know what the future holds, but I know what it doesn’t hold. Does that make sense?

Maybe, though, your “anchor” isn’t weed. Perhaps it’s alcohol. Or food. Or doomscrolling social media.

Whatever once made you feel better but now makes you feel perpetually worse and stuck in place, more of the same isn’t what you need.

Mindfully facing what you’re running from is the only way out. I can confirm from firsthand experience.

The catch? No one can move through that gateway on your behalf. It’s solely up to you to begin—and stick with—your journey, along with all the pain and beauty your path will hold.

After all, mindfulness is only a mirror.

Yes, it can help you suffer less. But first, you must cease being dishonest with yourself. Sit with the reflection of your pain. Learn its curvatures. Caress its gaps. Make peace with its ugliness.

The bottom line is that substances won’t make you “happy.” But leaning into the uncomfortable emotions this toxic shit helps you run from, will.

Keep in mind, though, that living with awareness doesn’t mean you will never experience hardships again.

Instead, it means that you gain the ability to relate to those hardships in completely new ways.

If you’re also anchored in suffering, when you’re ready for the challenge, I invite you to step out of the darkness and into the light.

The view is eye-wateringly beautiful.

And I promise you that it’s more than worth whatever pain you’re avoiding in this moment.

If you need an ally, I’m only a direct message away. I can’t provide you with a map, but I can point you in the right direction.

From one addict to another, please travel well.

And remember: your journey is infinitely more important than the destination.