Writing not smoking

It’s tough out here. The rainy season is overdue by weeks, and I spend most of my days lying under the fan, naked, waiting for night to fall.

Today I am grateful to be sober – though I’ll admit, I still crave something to take the edge off. In place of green, wine, or cigarettes, I’ve been snacking: oranges, passionfruit, peta, coconut biscuits, endless fruit teas.

A good friend took me out to indulge those cravings today, and we feasted on the full menu: crunchy bruschetta, açaí with banana, tapioca balls dipped in chilli jam – all washed down with a tall glass of peppermint, ginger, and passionfruit juice.

We spent more than I’d usually feel comfortable with, but I realised something. Because I’m not smoking weed anymore, or impulsively ordering takeout, this beautiful spread actually worked out cheaper than my stoner days.

So far, I’ve found no downside to quitting. Not one. The trade-offs are all wins: confidence, mental clarity, social energy, and money saved. The real test will come after the baby is born, I suppose.

But without an enabling father figure around, and with a big move home to a remote, grounded place far from city temptations — I feel confident I won’t go back down that dark road again.

These days, I’m enjoying the challenge of facing hard things head-on instead of band-aiding my way through pain. I’m enjoying sitting with my stoner cousins and realising I’m bored of their joint chatter – another reason to stay off the stuff that made me boring, too. I’m enjoying talking to strangers more. I’m enjoying existing in my own flesh again.

Even nauseous, hormonal, bloated – I still feel a million bucks compared to twenty-four days ago, when I was seven joints deep and begging for sobriety.

To my unborn baby: thank you. You’ll never quite understand the depths of how much you’ve saved me. But if you ever do, I promise — I’ll be there to support you every step of the way.