Writing not smoking

It’s been a while since I wrote about quitting, which feels slightly absurd considering how significant it is to sit down and acknowledge this stretch of time without cannabis or other drugs.

This week I started antidepressants. Not because I’ve hit rock bottom, but because life isn’t a competition about who suffers most.

The way I see it, medication, especially for the brain, is the cherry on top of a healthy lifestyle.

I eat well. I take my vitamins. I exercise daily. I’m surrounded by beautiful nature and don’t pay rent to live under my parents’ roof. We have a veggie patch that feeds us most days. I meditate often and make a practice of noticing the small things to be grateful for. I have friends I can message when loneliness creeps in. I even made a new friend in the nearby city. I see her once a week and laugh easily in her company. She makes me feel seen and respected.

My quality of life is good.

And I still need the medication.

I’m far enough into sobriety now, and into “the good stretch” of pregnancy, to recognise that medicine will help. I know this because I’ve temporarily lost my joy for life. The zest that used to push me to explore, to read science journals late at night, to take on small art projects just because. I bought my baby’s bassinet from a hospice shop with every intention of painting it. It’s still waiting. I used to be the cupboard organiser, the event finder, the clean freak. Now I complete tasks on autopilot, abandon anything without a deadline, and wait for bedtime.

This isn’t what recovery looks like for everyone. By now, many people report boundless energy. I’m just not there yet.

I’m in Step Four, making a searching and fearless moral inventory. It’s gruelling and clarifying in equal measure. I can see my progress. I can also see the places where I used cannabis to soften what probably needed proper medical care.

As a child and teenager, I hid everything from the people responsible for my safety.

I was groomed by someone older and close to the family. It blurred my understanding of love, intensity and secrecy for years. I mistook obsession for devotion, confusion for independence. I didn’t really seek help or tell anyone until it was too late. So untangling that conditioning is work I am taking on today, before my baby is born.

It feels grounding to have medication alongside me now. It doesn’t create euphoria. It doesn’t erase problems. It simply lowers the volume enough for me to choose the next right thing.

To brush my teeth.
To make the bed.
To stay.