Physically, I’m back to myself. I realized I took too many edibles last week, and it brought it all back, things long buried and best forgotten. I’m told I should try some cannabis again; I’m not good at quitting when I start something. Sometimes I need to let go.
I took too many edible gummies last week, as is now apparent to me, and I paid for it. I got awfully sick.
But the important thing now is that the emotional damage is surprisingly deep and hurtful, and it makes me very sad. My body seems fine, but my mind is not yet healed; I have more work to do.
The cannabis edibles brought back memories that I never wanted to bring up again.
Neither do I want to jump on the growing American victim train, and so many people – I think of women and immigrants and enslaved people – have had it a lot worse than me and have a very legitimate claim to suffering.
I’ve had a lucky life for the most part. Everyone suffers in one way or another. I feel joy all the time.
But I promised to be honest and have been whenever possible. So let’s be honest.
I suffered severe physical, emotional, and sexual abuse as a child, and this weekend brought all of it back – the terror, the shame, the loss of bodily control, the nightmares, the anger, the sick stomach, and the out-of-control body.
I don’t need to offer any details.
I was watching the mystery Shetland last night with Maria, and after one of his deputies had been raped, she told her boss Jimmy Perez, that she was trying hard to be strong and well, but it was so painful and exhausting she could barely stand it.
I turned to Maria, and she saw my face and asked what was wrong; I said, “I can’t compare myself to anyone, let alone a woman who was raped, but when she said that, it was as if a dam burst and a flood of pain, terror, and degradation just poured through me. I felt dirty, ashamed, and guilty, as if it was my fault.”
That’s what it feels like,” I said, “It feels like a violation again, like something entered into my very being and body and violated my spirit and pride.” And it all came gushing back, and it was awful.
Tosh, the deputy in the show, spoke to my heart, much to my surprise and confusion. I am not a woman and cannot ever feel what so many have felt for so long. But what I did feel hit me like a hammer and chewed up my insides. I was right back there.
Degraded and helpless and terror-stricken were the words that came to me and that I still feel, and I had to turn off the show and sit with Maria and talk to her.
As always, Maria was patient, listening, and loving. We turned off the stream and talked and then went to bed. I slept very little last night, and then I remembered how well I slept the first time I took the cannabis.
So I know I’m okay, but I see this will take a little longer to heal. This other stuff hurt too much. I just can’t whistle and pretend it’s over. I was caught in a dread recreation.
I called my daughter Emma, who is very honest with me. We are getting closer all the time. I told her some of what had happened, and I said one thing I regretted was the sleep relief the cannabis had brought to me. She knows about most of what happened to me.
How curious, I thought, that a 76-year-old man was asking his daughter, who just turned 40, about taking cannabis. Emma is both intelligent and wise, and I listen to her.
She said the problem was that I took too many edibles and much too quickly. I still needed to do my homework. She said it often happens; I had to learn from it. I should give it another try if and when I am ready. She knew several friends this happened to in college, and most of them learned to try it again, but differently.
She helped.
I’m not ready to jump back and may never try it again. First, I must be quiet and gentle with myself and others and return to normal. I need to remember the work I have done on this.
Tomorrow I talk to my long-time therapist, who I also trust and listen to. She knows all about my childhood and has worked with me to get to a much better place.
I am confident she, Maria, and I can get there again.
(That’s me. I’m four years old.)
I’m not the child I was or the person I was. In the past, I’ve been told to go back in time and talk to that little boy and reassure him that things got better and I ended up fortunate, happy, and well.
We know each other, this boy, and we have spoken before. A photo of me is hanging on my wall.
I have told him several times that things worked out; I got the girl.
He always smiles at that.
I don’t need to write more about these memories, and I don’t believe I will. But I don’t want to be fake, either.
It didn’t feel right to me to move on so quickly and brush it off. It has smacked me down, at least for a couple of days.
Thanks again for listening and for all the good words you have sent me.
