I Smoked Marijuana for 17 Years. One Terrifying Night With My Son Made Me Quit, But I’m Still Recovering

My friend offered me a joint in her basement rec room, and I took a hit in 1980 at the age of 13. I had no idea how this first toke would change my life forever. I practiced inhaling from a cigarette before mirrors, always ending in coughing fits. My friends and I would gather after school to watch television and get high. Smoking pot became a ritual for me, blessed with incense and Visine.

I was anxious as a child, and cannabis was my escape, making me giddy and free of insecurities. I spent my money chasing that feeling, lighting up several times a day. My parents divorced, and they wished I wasn't born. When I was 16, they split up for good, and I moved west with my mother and siblings. I was homesick upon arriving in Seattle, but I found a group of like-minded individuals.

My anxiety subsided when I was high, making it my savior. However, I always returned to it, as the relief felt as urgent as breathing. Over time, I endured bronchitis, a sore throat, and coughed up coffee ground-like substances. My son was 10 years old when he found me unconscious in the kitchen, and that was the moment I decided to quit.

I white-knuckled it, enduring anxiety and depression. It took years of psychiatric care and medication to recover. My experience with marijuana remains a mystery, as the potency of today's cannabis is higher than when I smoked at 13. I wonder how this decision may have impacted my life. Even after 30 years of sobriety, I continue to learn how to live with the anxiety I buried with drugs.