I must have some kind of hang-up that I don’t admit, even to myself. Maybe it’s not so much a hang-up, as an outlook issue. Let me see if I can work it out here in public, because my own attitude about this is starting to bother me. Let’s go for a ride, shall we?
First, let me say this: I am in no way judging anyone here, with the possible exception of myself. If a problem exists it is entirely my own to deal with, and not a reflection of anyone else.
I have friends that like to attain, shall we say, an "altered state." Now, these people are fine, upstanding folks for the most part and are as nice a bunch of guys as you’d care to meet. They’re fiercely loyal, very protective and would give you the shirt off their back, and the back to go with it if so required. Some are local residents, some are from out of town. In fact, they are from a town where partaking of a certain leafy substance is infinitely more socially acceptable than in most parts of the country – it’s the equivalent of having a cocktail.
These folks are all extremely discreet in their indulgences and quite conscientious of those of us who don’t participate. They also don’t exceed their own self-imposed and well considered limitations either. My stance on the whole issue always has, and always will be one of casual indifference. The whole thing rates on the same chart as alcohol – either substance is harmless in and of itself, can be easily abused if in the wrong hands, and if used in careful moderation can be quite enjoyable to the person "consuming" it. I don’t much care or mind what other folks do as long as they don’t hurt themselves or others, or try to force something on me. As a matter of fact, I firmly believe that the smoke is a much safer route to go than the drink. While I don’t partake myself, I don’t condemn others if they do.
So, if I’m this casual about it, why do I get so bothered when I’m around my altered friends?
Sherman, set the wayback machine. It’s time we dive briefly into my past.
Once upon a time, when I was young and impressionable, I watched a beloved sibling waste a considerable portion of his life destroying his mind with substances. This same sibling has since cleaned up, and become a productive member of society – has been for many years and I am extremely proud of him for that. Whether I consciously knew it or not, his substance usage left an indelible impression on my psyche. I have never taken drugs of the illegal variety, nor used legal ones in an unintended manner. Alcohol is the strongest modifier I indulge in, with the occasional foray into the realm of tobacco in the form of cigars and pipes.
I do not enjoy losing control. In my early adulthood, I drank enough to discover a few things. There are many levels of drunk, from mildly buzzed to blood-alcohol toxicity – I’ve traveled the lower 70% of the scale. I’ve found my comfort levels and I stick to them. I usually stay in the mildly buzzed range with the occasional shuffle into tipsy. I don’t drink that often, and when I do it’s in the company of friends and family. I don’t like the sensation of being drunk and the lack of mental and motor skills that accompany it. It just doesn’t turn me on. As I get older, I have to acknowledge the fact that my memory is iffy at best, and quite frankly my hearing isn’t what it used to be, especially in a noisy room – and I ain’t that old to begin with. I don’t need anything that’s going to prevent me from remembering events and make it harder to focus on a conversation.
Taking all these things into consideration, you can see why the herb doesn’t appeal to me. That does not mean I’m going to "tsk, tsk" and shake my head at folks for passing the peace pipe. To each their own. Quite frankly, most of these guys don’t behave markedly different after the fact.
I do.
I can’t put my finger on it. The reasons elude me. If I know the deed’s been done, I get a little weird. My brain crawls silently out of my left ear to go get a cup of coffee, leaving my mouth and feet in charge – my heart never gets to cast a vote. The problem then becomes this: the mouth is incapable of coming up with anything clever to say, if anything, the feet can’t find a spot to park for long and the heart is screaming to the rest of my body that everything is grand and groovy, these are my good friends and there is nothing to see here, move along. After a short while things get back to normal, but only after I feel a metric ass-ton of foolish. Does my brain think they aren’t the same people as before they had a smoke? Do I think their cooties will get on me and cause me to fail my next random drug test at work? Am I passing some sort of unconscious judgment? Am I worried that they’re going to burn-out a crucial part of themselves, like someone else I knew? I don’t know. It’s all an autonomic subconscious reaction, and quite disturbing to me that I can get like this. It’s some Pavlovian reflex I’ve developed out of nowhere and I wish it’d go away.
I feel like a damned hypocrite. I’ve never condemned anyone for using responsibly, but I have a hard time – briefly – dealing with people who do, most notably my friends. What the fuck is that all about?
So, I’ll continue to look off into the middle distance, rather than the eyes of the person I’m talking to after I find out what recently transpired. I’ll excuse myself and put distance between ground zero and myself. I’ll keep on feeling like a damned fool for all the other little nervous habits I suddenly develop out of thin air. I’ll also take this moment to apologize to the people I inflict my silliness on, remind them that I love them all and request that they continue to put up with me. Accept me for who and how I am, and don’t judge me for my brief regressions – I can give them up any time I like.