Marijuana and me

This article is difficult to write. It’s an admission that I failed. And it’s not like I failed once, but failed repeatedly over the course of several years. And it’s not that I really failed failed, you know. It’s that I failed myself. I failed to live up to my own expectations.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning.

Goody Two-Shoes

I grew up Mormon. Among other things, this meant that nobody in my family consumed recreational drugs of any kind. Mormons have a strict prohibition against such indulgences. And, as most folks know, they even take their stricture against “strong drink” to mean that caffeine is forbidden.

So, my parents didn’t drink alcohol or coffee. They didn’t smoke cigarettes. They didn’t do anything that led to altered states. Hell, my father even hated television because he considered it a “plug-in drug”. For much of my childhood, we didn’t have a TV. When we did have a TV, access was often restricted.

My parents left the Mormon church when I was a freshman in high school. We returned to the local Mennonite congregation in which my father was raised. Mennonites aren’t quite so restrictive with mind-altering substance as Mormons are — they love their coffee! — but they’re close.

In high school, I was never tempted by alcohol. I had friends who would drink, but it never appealed to me. Plus, it was against the rules.

Also in high school, I had friends who discovered marijuana. While I was ambivalent about booze, I was actively opposed to pot. I believed it was evil. Plus, it was illegal. As a rule follower, there was no way I would touch the stuff. And when I was with friends who did get stoned, I’d read them the riot act. (I once chewed out my best friend Sparky because he had the gall to get stoned while we were waiting in line to buy tickets for a Tears for Fears concert.)

Essentially, I started life as a Goody Two-Shoes. I refused to do anything illegal or immoral, and I condemned others for choosing…