MY HIGH LIFE

Now That The Classification Of Cannabis Has Been Downgraded, Its Use Has
Become Totally Acceptable. But That's OK - It's A Harmless, Non-Addictive
Drug. Not True, Says Rebecca Cripps, A Self-Confessed Pothead Since The
70s. Here She Describes Realising That She Was An Addict - And What Drove
Her To Marijuana Anonymous

Everyone is so upbeat about cannabis these days. Guess what? It's not bad
for you any more! People just can't stop being nice about this most
friendly of substances, despite the fact that it's still illegal.

It's now totally crass and uncool to speak out against pot. Reefer madness?

Not likely, madam.

You're no longer an enemy of society if you're partial to the occasional
spliff.

Hard drugs, crime and the craven headbutting of strangers have very little
to do with puffing on a joint, you know. Pot relieves stress and brings on
harmless giggling fits, it's not physically addictive and doesn't lead
straight to a needle and the gutter.

The general consensus is that it's time for a marijuana love-in. Which is
bad news for me and all the other potheads out there struggling to give the
stuff up. Now that the government is practically encouraging MPs to bring
their bongs to work, there isn't a lot of sympathy for those of us who
would rather not inhale.

I won't be expecting much support for my abstinence during this purple-hazy
phase in Britain's history.

I can't count the number of times I've been faced with a look of amused
incredulity and the words, "Marijuana Anonymous? You've got to be kidding!"
So why go against the grain?

Well, physical health comes quite near the top of my list. Pro-pot pieces
in newspapers and magazines rarely mention that the majority of people in
this country mix their reefer (which contains three times the tar of
tobacco) with tobacco (which contains highly addictive nicotine), then
smoke it without a filter and inhale for a lot longer than a cigarette.

Then there's the inevitability of temporary insanity, the type of lapse
that finds you boarding the Inverness express in a stoned rush when you
were really aiming for Finchley - or wondering for the fifth time why the
hell you went upstairs in the first place.

And that's just the funny stuff. Mood swings, listlessness, paranoia,
anxiety, emotional numbness, irregular sleep patterns and hyperactivity are
some of the well-documented downsides of habitual use of the affectionately
termed wacky baccy.

I should know, I've experienced them all.

I'm not saying that marijuana isn't a fantastic mood enhancer, the bringer
of laughter, creative thought, absence of pain and a whole range of highly
desirable states of mind. It truly is a wonderful drug, fully deserving of
its worldwide adulation.

But in the wrong hands, it can be a nightmare.

You see, in its pure state it may not be addictive, but if your personality
is (and if you happen to act out your compulsions on a bag of high-grade
skunk) life just might not be the picnic you were hoping for. I vividly
remember my first smoke - outside the "Legalise Marijuana" tent at an
open-air concert in 1979. Topping the bill was reefer's greatest advocate,
the much-lamented constantly stoned genius Bob Marley. Imagine the heady
combination, aged 14, of illegal toking in public, along with the heroic
Bob's vocal support of Jah's sacred "kaya" and the sight of thousands of
crazy Camberwell carrots being licked into creation.

It was more than enough to spark a lifelong love affair.

Still, I didn't actually "learn" to get stoned until a few years later,
when a friend took me aside and taught me how to inhale deep and long, then
watched gleefully as my eyes shrank to the size of the buttons on Barbie's
Technicolor poncho.

I subsequently swooped through several reality frontiers and finally landed
in a green and hilarious land of forgetfulness. It was definitely my kind
of place.

Paranoia was the flipside, those lost school-holiday afternoons slumped in
someone's basement flat when teen self-consciousness hit its nadir and I
was afraid even to say the word "yes" in case it came out sounding unusual.
I became an expert nodder and smiler, so blown away by bush fever that the
natural act of speaking or giving an opinion seemed impossible. Yet it
wasn't until I started going out with a boyfriend who was a daily smoker
that I finally eased into the habit myself.

One night he asked me whether I thought our evening together would be
better with a smoke and I gazed into his eyes and offered to buy a draw.
That night I crossed the line into addiction.

In the subsequent three years I spent with that boyfriend, we didn't pass a
day without smoking ganja.

Sex was better, movies were more colourful, backgammon was unbelievably
fascinating and we never once had to worry about what to do to amuse
ourselves of an evening. When he left me, I smoked like an out-of-control
police drugs bonfire.

I didn't want to feel; having a constant supply of pot meant that I didn't
have to. And so it went from there.

Nurofen for the emotions, Rise and Shine for the mind. I had my own
benevolent psychiatrist's medicine bag. To all appearances, I was a
well-balanced individual. I had friends, a full social life and a good job.
What was more, I had no fear of being alone. Basically, that is because I
never was alone.

I had my little friend (my bag of weed or block of hash) to take me out of
myself, distract me from any negative feelings and provide a wonderful
night's sleep into the bargain. What more could one want from a UKP10 draw?
I developed a strong tolerance to all kinds of marijuana and (the Oliver
Reed of potheads) was proud of being able to smoke almost anyone under the
table, which is where most occasional smokers soon found themselves after a
couple of tokes of my blow. Occasionally, I'd run out of stash and travel
miles to spend the evening with someone I didn't like, just to bum a smoke.

Oh, all those hours forcing a grin at my dealer's dull jokes in the hope of
a better deal! I'd stand someone up at the last minute in order to rush off
to meet The Man. Or scrabble manically around on the floor looking for
minute crumbs of hash. Yet I rarely questioned my habit.

It didn't occur that my predilection for draw was getting in the way of my
life. I may have admitted that I needed a smoke, that I couldn't survive a
day without one, but the word "addict" just didn't come into it. This is
not surprising and I don't blame myself - as far as I knew, marijuana
wasn't addictive.

Looking back, it's easy to see that when I couldn't feed my addiction due
to lack of supply, I simply acted on it in different ways - compulsive
eating, reading books all night and watching endless videos until that
blessed dealer's phone call came.

Then, a chance meeting with a recovering cannabis addict changed my entire
perspective. "Are you sure you want to hear this?" he asked me, when I
questioned him about why he had stopped. "Once you realise you're addicted,
you'll never enjoy it as much."

He was right, of course.

From the minute I began to delve into the whys and wherefores, my denial
went up in smoke and marijuana began to lose its appeal. I craved it just
as badly, I just didn't get the same unadulterated pleasure out of it.
Partly that was because I realised that it was no longer as much fun as I
thought it was, as it had been back in the dizzy day, and partly because,
as a daily smoker, all I was really doing was topping up. Getting the
giggles or the munchies were distant memories.

In fact, I had become seriously introspective and as thin as a one-paper
joint, my sense of humour and appetite suppressed. The guilt I'd been
sitting on for years began to surface.

I finally admitted that I was spending too much time asleep.

I didn't give up smoking though.

I just hated myself for continuing.

My first visit to MA was embarrassingly emotional.

The tears rolled down as I listened to other people's stories of how
marijuana had messed them up. So I wasn't a freak!

Here, in front of me, were seven recovering cannabis addicts giving thanks
that they weren't still fogging up their lives, missing planes, putting
dealers before friends and driving 100 miles just to get their hands on a
lump of prime Afghan. The recognition factor was huge. I felt like a
missing octuplet, reunited with a group of siblings separated at birth.

The meetings are confidential and run to the same format as AA and NA
(Narcotics Anonymous). Although the principles are the same, the stories
you hear tend to be far less linked to blood, vomit, violence and
degradation than at AA and NA. In fact, your average cannabis addict's
lowest point usually turns out to be more Cheech and Chong than
Trainspotting and some of the tales of woe I've heard would be
side-splittingly funny if they weren't so painful.

An ill-timed joint can lead to anything, from missing your dad's birthday
party to being helicoptered down from a mountain top, a stoned, trembling
wreck.

OK, you may not find yourself getting beaten up by dealers on a regular
basis, but life can still become scarily unmanageable.

After my first trip to MA, I cut down on smoking and then, quite
unexpectedly, stopped altogether. When I learned that my mother was dying,
I knew through the fuzz in my brain that this was something I needed to be
totally present for. It's funny - but it makes sense to me - that the most
painful experience I've ever been through was the one I didn't want to
escape from.

A couple of weeks into sobriety, I began to realise that I'd spent the
previous 10 - or was it 15? - years walking round like a sleepwalker.
There, but not there; emotionally absent.

How did I manage coherent thought, enveloped in those thick dope clouds for
half of every day? It still amazes me.

I wouldn't describe the withdrawals as being that mild either.

Four months of sweaty, itchy insomnia, uncomfortably vivid dreams, constant
cravings and anxiety seemed a pretty extreme price to pay for being good.
Later, when I went back to smoking (as almost everyone apparently does,
unless they follow through with a recovery programme) it really hit me just
how strong a drug marijuana is. As the dense tendrils of fragrant fog
curled through my brain for the first time in several months and my mindset
began to alter radically, I almost had a panic attack.

Within seconds I was paralysed on my sofa, once again soaring through
unreality, back to being a speechless motionless teenager.

Only this time I was aware of what I was doing and why. Bummer.

These days I keep my smoking to weekends only - and never when I'm working.
All right, occasionally I find that I'm still lying to myself, but I'm also
following behind myself like a detective, pointing out every deceit with a
disappointed sigh. I know what you're thinking, it's not really worth the
hassle, is it? Surely I'd be better off just quitting.

You obviously just don't understand how hard it is to give up marijuana, do
you? And neither does anyone else outside of MA.

If you were to ask me, I'd say that decriminalisation without education is
a poisoned chalice.

People need to understand more about the nature of addiction (and how
marijuana can tap into that) before pot is given the thumbs up. Anyway, I'm
planning another trip to MA next week. Honest. In the meantime, however, to
reward myself for finishing this article - and also to get another
perspective on what I've written - and... oh God, I'm sick of justifying
myself.

In short, I'm off to roll myself a three-skinned mix of tobacco and ganja,
listen to One Drop and pretend I'm still at that Bob Marley concert.

Except that I haven't got that stash any more, neither do I know the number
of a local dealer.

Oh, well. It was a nice thought.