I wander through this first day convinced the THC is still in my blood, in my brain. I’ve smoked weed maybe half-a-dozen times at parties or on camping trips, but never enough to do the trick, not that I could tell anyway. I don’t know what it’s like, and so I’m not sure if this is it.
The truth is, I’ve never been high before. I’m in a dream world, a Wonderland-gone-bad just beyond my bedroom door. The walls undulate beside me and each step seems to take longer than expected to reach the floor. I get dressed and walk down the hall to the bathroom. I look around the room and feel my vision short-circuiting in the sparse light. The next morning, the episode remains fresh in my mind. After the pounding of my heart subsides and my head stops spinning, I close my eyes again and fall back asleep.
I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. I sit up, grip the sheets and try to steady myself in this mental whirlpool. That’s a powerful thing: a mind trying to convince a body to be afraid. Whatever it is that’s happening, my mind is telling me that I should be afraid. It feels like I’m tumbling in slow-motion through the darkness of my room, like when as a kid I threw myself down grassy hills and rolled all the way, eyes closed, to the bottom. In the middle of the night, I wake in a panic. I sneak into the basement and go straight to bed. Brennan drops me off at home, where I still live with my parents. I’m not sure I feel any different, the Lucky Lager having coated my mind in a gauzy film. A group of friends from high school meet in *Jeff’s basement after our obligatory family dinners have wrapped up to play video games and drink cheap beer.īefore we call it a night, we split a joint four ways on the footpath to Jeff’s cul-de-sac. I’m 18, in my first year of undergraduate studies at the University of Alberta.
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