Canna bliss: a mixed blessing

P. gave me a discount card for medical marijuana evaluation, which brought the cost from $150 to $80. C. had a windfall, which she decided to share with me, and that made it possible for me to get the evaluation.

I totally lucked out on my first visit to the dispensary. I got something that smelled flowery and pleasant, I figured out how to consume it without killing the active components (which is way too easy to do, as they are highly volatile), and it took away 90% of the pain and totally stilled the constant running current of anxiety and trepidation (something to do with having no idea how I will pay next month's slip fee, or where I will go now that I'm being kicked out of this marina, or whether this next bus trip is the one where I stop being lucky and the inevitable crazy-violent-passenger actually does hit me, or whether my boat's windows will make it through the winter, or whether my older brother will ever be able to bring himself to be human towards me again.). Truly, you don't know what you've got till it's gone, and I didn't miss that river of fear one bit.

Moreover, it was much easier to think clearly, follow directions, make decisions, and hold more than one thing in my head at a time -- sometimes as many as two or three! (I'll take what I can get.)

What does it say about the profound neurological impact of complex regional pain syndrome that I am much less f'ked up when I'm high?

So that's the upside. The downside is that I have some emotional crap around marijuana, and I didn't realize how profoundly it affected me until I had to reach for it to get the relief that nothing else could bring.

I lived for four years with a pothead I had fallen very much in love with. When the chips were down, though, the pot was more important than me. I hardly ever got to see the person I was in love with, and it takes two to have a relationship.

Moreover, I don't like medication. I liked the brain I had, the clarity I had -- and am still occasionally capable of. I hate messing with the works.

This is too damn bad, because the works have unquestionably been messed with. Each time I add to my pharmacopeia, I go through this same inward drama. So there's nothing new there.

The interesting thing is that I'm running into some deep, old programming that marijuana is for losers. Well, there are quite a few things I would like to lose: all that needless fear, a whole lot of pain, and 40 or 50 pounds of extra weight. I'd love to be that kind of loser. (Most of the strains I've tried don't make me more interested in food.)

So maybe it's not about contradicting that old programming, but of turning it on its head: I can either say, "marijuana is not more important than me," or I can say, "marijuana gives something back to me, and that's important."

Rather than trying to hypnotize myself into believing that, "marijuana is also for people who are not losers," I can stick with that idea that, "marijuana makes me lose all kinds of crap. Hallelujah!"

I like that. It's clever, and creates a way forward. I'll let you know how it goes.

This moment of inner peace brought to you by the pharmaceutical industry

I've lived in California for 10 years, bushwhacking regularly. Two weeks ago, I got my first-ever case of poison oak. It is still progressing, claiming new areas of skin at the rate of square inches a day. Anything worth doing is worth overdoing, apparently.

I can't take prednisone for anything short of imminent death. I'm doing the nonmedical things I can, from Aveeno and Apis mel., to scalding showers and ice packs. I'm also taking outrageous amounts of Claritin (to reduce my allergic response) and Atarax (to calm the itching).

So I’m loaded up on dopey stuff to cope with this systemic inflammation.

But wait, there's more.

Despite inheriting depression from both sides of the family, I managed my mood without drugs until I'd been dealing with chronic pain for five years, when my neurochemistry finally threw in the towel. Fortunately for me, antidepressants also help control nerve pain, so I get a two-for-one deal with the right drug – and one day, I will find it. Meanwhile, my psychiatrist and I are juggling pills.

We doubled the dose of the Efexor I'm already on. I thought, if I had too much, I'd start buzzing like 5 cups of coffee. Should've been an interesting contrast to the dopey stuff.

I didn't buzz, but I didn't care. The produce was all eaten up, but I didn't care; there was plenty of bread. I itched a lot, and I sometimes cared about that, but that was about it. Christmas was coming, and I was getting fat, and I just didn't care.

I had a feeling it wasn't right, but the sense of inward peace was wonderful. I didn't even care to find out why I didn't care. No worries, mate. Even the constant pain faded away. No worries at all. It was heavenly.

Well, we've backed off on the Efexor (although I'm still a bit wiffled on Claritin and Atarax.) And the inward roil has started up about where it left off.

I like the satisfaction of getting things done. I like taking care of myself. I like having something to look forward to – like getting the medication optimized.

I just remember that unruffled peace, that living stillness at my center ... and I yearn. What on earth would it take to feel that, normally? The obvious answer – a lifetime of meditation – overlooks the harsh reality of the need to scratch for a living. Without that cocktail of brain-bending drugs, I don't know if I can live in that place again. Since I still remember it, though, I intend to find a way.

What a thing, to be so inwardly still. Maybe I'll start meditating anyway and see what happens.