Smoke and Mirrors

Cannabis and Sertraline Use Insights

Drugs. A dirty word in my book, and in my family’s. One of many reasons they don’t know I’m a heavy user.

Other reasons: a family history of cannabis-induced schizophrenia, and my own autistic bent toward moral absolutism. Being higher-than-thou in more ways than one.

Of course, spending your life in a lie, contradicting your own values, is a sure-fire way to cause yourself some mental health problems. But it’s more complex than that.

The Slippery Slope

As is often the case, I needed an escape. To dull and distract from the pain of my back, and myself. I was so anhedonic I felt there was nothing left to lose, and only room to improve.

I hadn’t touched the stuff for a couple of decades. It was always around, but I valued my health, my lungs, my cognition. The moral high ground was a comfortable place to sit.

But as my memory and body deteriorated, I started to question what I was fussing over. Who wants longevity in the face of pain and fading self-worth?

So I signed up, perfectly legally, for bud to vape and oil to sublingually take. I’d always been interested in the stuff. I knew the benefits of high amounts of CBD in conjunction, and all the many issues that might result.

I followed the guidance like I would any prescription. I was to treat myself like a science experiment. Would I see results? Would I get addicted? Would I induce psychosis?

Perhaps all three.

The High Ground

Initially it took me back to my twenties. A relief to have your mind feel sunny, and your thoughts drift creatively. I soon discovered my ideal amount. Enough to go deep, but not so much that I couldn’t cook dinner or hold a conversation.

I reconnected with my love of music that had taken a back seat. Playing and listening. Long-lost nostalgic tunes of my youth, and my parents’ era.

Thoughts of parents lead to self-inquiry about relationships. My failings and responsibilities as a son. My decades of absence from my home country.

Watching the funeral of a cousin online, listening to their eulogy, I’m struck by the absurdity that the most important things you could tell someone are finally heard after their death. And not by the person who most needed to hear them.

So I set to with some meaningful writing. Rightly or wrongly, I penned a living eulogy for my father to read on his 80th. I agonised over its content and structure. But more importantly, the real challenge was to get through a paragraph without giving in to the depths of unsaid, complex emotion that family relationships entail.

Had I been a terrible child? Why did I find it so hard to connect, to be patient? The usual neurotic stuff. It took weeks to get through it piecemeal, while my depression had me grasping to find meaning and reason for being.

A Controlled Experiment

For a year I used oils and bud. Then I branched out with edibles. If I was pushing the boat out with a Friday night to myself, I might finish myself off with a vape.

It was legitimate pain management. Until it wasn’t.

I just enjoyed it. The quiet contemplation. The sound and taste with intensity. My moral high ground had me building a busy, productive day to justify switching off in the evenings. I could still argue my thoughts on addiction with a checklist of accomplishments.

My partner found me much more pleasant too. Went as far to say I was a much nicer person on it. Regularly.

But the brighter the sun the sharper the shadows.

The Shadows Return

Now and then I’d have those domino of thoughts that mirror my depressive, nihilistic inclinations. Only amped up with greater momentum into the depths.

What was I doing with my life? To myself? And what sort of crazy cries when high anyway?

I’d recognise I needed a break, mornings were tough to get back to benchmark, so I pushed through the irritability and cravings of cutting myself off. Until I was reminded I wasn’t nice to be around, and so I’d return to it. Hoping my mind wouldn’t stumble back into the dark and spoil my fun.

I’d have a few weeks off here and there. Until I decided I needed to prove to myself I was in charge with a six-month respite. Classic addiction denial, I’m sure. Set and achieve arbitrary goals, earn a reward. But I was also solving for the inability to cope creeping in.

I hammered the self-help audiobooks and podcasts. Seven-plus hours a day. Homemade salads for lunch. The same route walked daily, earphones in, listening to yet more inspirational advice. Dozens of supplements, painstakingly researched against my own deep dive into my genome.

Was it a problem with methylation? Was my constant IBS driving inflammation? What was the fibromyalgia all about? My genes handed me a mixed deck. Depressed. Addictive. Forgetful. Inflamed.

I needed to rid myself of the depression by ticking every recommended solution going. I even wondered if I needed a trip away for some psilocybin therapy or DMT. But I was terrified of making myself worse as a result.

My month in the mountains was a nice break from it, but it didn’t stop me thinking of it. Returning to it.

The Inevitable Collapse

At least when my career came crashing down, I could be sure it wasn’t drugs. I’d been pristine long enough. I’d uncovered enough hereditary short straws to know it couldn’t be helped.

Perhaps it wasn’t my fault. The me behind my face was trying to override biology and blaming itself for inadequacy. The outcome was on the cards all along. Free will gone awry.

The breakdown was no longer a threat of not being perfect, but an inevitability in the face of trying to be.

So what the hell. It was time to accept defeat. After melting down in the doctor’s office, I was straight on the SSRI sertraline, I didn’t mention the cannabis.

Different substances. Same reason. Trying to quiet the noise. Trying to hold the pieces together.

Admittedly, I had some short-term familiarity with it post-surgery. After one of my many sobbing episodes at work, no less. What’s that you say? Trouble regulating emotions? One of the many autistic signals I failed to recognise at the time.

Smoke and Mirrors

It took months for the sertraline to take effect. Or for the crying to stop naturally. Who can be sure which.

But the despair muted. Moments of clarity presented themselves amidst the crowd of disordered thoughts.

The stigma around needing it began to ebb too. I gave over to my own humility. Every therapy session spent crying. Learning about my autism. And finally accepting I was no longer capable of holding myself together without support of one kind or another.

People tell me I’m a different person now.

I feel different. My thoughts still linger. But there is more empathy for people. A greater sense of gratefulness for how good I have it.

The smoke and mirrors may always be there. But at least now I’m not so lost in them.