Weed Be Great Together

It took two flicks of the starter before the fire flared out of the tiny red Bic lighter in Marie’s hand.

“And… suck,” she said as she adjusted her hand so the lighter was sideways and closer to the sparkly black glass pipe in my hand.

I gently breathed in, pulling the flame down to the sticky green bud packed in the bowl, which glowed red and charred dark as the smoke and scent of burning weed filled my nose, mouth, and throat. I closed my eyes against the sting of the residual smoke spiraling out of the charred bowl as I coughed, and coughed, and coughed.

Marie and I, two troubled sixteen-year-olds, were hanging out in her backyard after a half-day Friday during our sophomore year of high school and it was my first time smoking weed.

Twenty years have now passed since that moment. Marie and I haven’t talked since 2020. I own a home with a wonderful partner, and I struggle every day with my relationship with cannabis.

Back in 2009, when we wanted to buy a dime bag or a dub (slang for one- and two-gram bags, respectively), we would send a text to Marie’s boyfriend or a girl we went to school with. Then we’d drive 20–40 minutes round-trip to a bridge or grocery store parking lot to exchange cash earned at our minimum-wage jobs for sticky, homegrown bud.

At the time, we were one-hit wonders taking late-night “space cruises” on back roads in Marie’s Toyota Camry or my ’95 BMW 525, talking about everything from love and loss, to family, and our hopes for the future. More than the mental and physical effects of weed, I loved how it became a tool to break down barriers and connect with my friend in a way we hadn’t before.

The first recreational cannabis shop opened in my college town in the summer of 2012, and it changed the game. No more dodgy pickups from strangers or friends of friends, and a whole lot more choice in product. Yes, the price was much higher initially, but the selection and higher THC percentages seemed to outweigh the increased financial burden.

Once weed was readily available and as easy to get as running to the grocery store, my daily habit really kicked in. I was able to balance an on-campus job, school, and friendships, all while running back to my cute off-campus apartment to rip my bong. It felt like I had a superpower and it helped me deal with the incredible stress and anxiety I experienced during those first few months of school.

As senior year and graduation got closer, I toyed with the idea that I would quit daily smoking once school was over and really kick into “adult” life. Unfortunately, the addiction had already sunk its teeth in, and there was no stopping.

After a brief stint back at home, I moved to Seattle for work, then to LA for a boyfriend, then to Portland for freedom, all within a haze of weed smoke. Each state I ended up living in had legalized cannabis, so it was easy to transfer my addiction along with my belongings. For a while in LA, where I lived downtown, you could get $5 dab rips right at the counter when you bought your weed.

It’s incredible what people got away with in those early days.

Now, after close to ten years in Portland, Oregon, weed has never been cheaper or stronger, and there are dispensaries on every other block. Just down the road from our home, you can get an ounce of top-shelf bud for $20, one-gram vape cartridges for $10 before 10 a.m., and five 100 mg edibles for $20.

The ease of access, low prices, and vast selection have made it so hard to justify quitting, especially since cannabis still helps somewhat with my anxiety and stress as the world crumbles around us.

The tide is changing, though. There’s a new scent in the air, and it’s less cannabis-like.

Over the past few months, I’ve discovered four Instagram accounts focused on long-term cannabis users, each with 20-plus years of use, who are starting, in the middle of, or well into a journey to reduce or completely quit recreational cannabis. All of them cite various reasons, but there are a few core issues I relate to heavily:

1. The ever-growing feeling of resentment or disgust when thinking about my use of cannabis.

2. Feeling like I’ve been disconnected from real life for too long.

3. Feeling like I don’t know who I am, what I want, or how to feel without it.

4. The impact of times when I have to go without, whether that’s international travel or work travel to states where it isn’t legal or available.

The more I dug into these accounts, the more I found across social platforms. The reality that the weed we millennials and our forefathers smoked has changed, and that it can have effects beyond a spaced-out, giggly feeling, is hitting hard.

The 10% THC bud that made us laugh at Step Brothers and feel hazy and hungry has given way to products with THC concentrations that can reach 90% or more. What once felt like a lighthearted escape can now feel like a hammer to the head. For some regular users, that high-potency exposure can contribute to increased anxiety, nausea, and other stomach issues. The conversation around cannabis is changing, and I’m starting to wonder how much of my own experience I’ve been willing to ignore.

When I think about changing my relationship with weed, I find myself getting lost in the good memories of those early days with Marie and my college friends. The late-night drives, the conversations, the laughter, the feeling that we had all the time in the world. But that time is gone. And if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not sure the weed I smoke today has much in common with the weed I remember from back then, beyond the name.

I want to change my relationship with cannabis.

I want to wake up, go through my day, eat, and sleep normally without needing to rip a blinker or steal twenty minutes for a joint in the backyard. I want to know what it feels like to be fully present again, to figure out who I am without constantly reaching for something to change how I feel. I want to stop planning my day around when I can get high and stop pretending that something I depend on this much is still entirely a choice.

I know I need to make a change. Knowing that and actually doing it, though, are two very different things.

I’m not writing this from the other side of addiction. I haven’t quit. I don’t have a success story or a neatly packaged lesson about how everything gets better when you put the pipe down. I’m writing this from the messy middle, where I can recognize the problem, understand why I want to change, and still find a dozen reasons to put it off until tomorrow.

Maybe that’s where the journey actually begins: not with a dramatic goodbye or a final trip to the dispensary, but with the uncomfortable realization that the thing you’ve turned to for comfort has also become something you need comfort from.

Or maybe I’m just overthinking it.

For now, I’m going to head down to La Mota so I can get a couple of $10 cartridges before the morning deal ends.

Twenty years after that first hit in Marie’s backyard, here I am, still buying more pot. Only now, I’m finally starting to wonder what it would feel like to breathe without the cough.