Drugs, Me and My Parents
Posted on February 10, 2008
If you’re going to read a story about someone who goes into the medical marijuana business, it’s only right that you know something about them. Truth in advertising, as they say. Because lets face it, there’s a mile of difference between a narrator who’s a friend of Bill W, a narrator whose drug of choice is Jesus, and a narrator who polishes off an eight-ball shortly before sitting down with you. So in the pristine interest of doing shit right, I’m going to open the pilot’s log on my own drug history. There’s just one problem with being so honest, and that’s the people with whom I haven’t been honest. Have I lied? Mostly, no. Have I omitted colorful parts of the narrative? That’s how I’ve avoided lying. In each of these relationships, we’ve followed a sort of protocol, one reminiscent of the military. “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” It’s strange how even talking about drugs remains such a taboo. We can gossip about sex, politics, religion, descend like vultures on Britney Spears, or watch a flick where some poor sap gets his guts pulled out of his ass, but drugs are like the third rail of easy conversation. There’s something seriously fucked up about that.Â
Social mores are fine by me, but anything becomes troublesome when it places a muzzle over our honesty. Many drugs fall into this category. All of the illegal ones, to start. Maybe you believe that marijuana should be illegal, but even so, I think we can agree on this much: Any principle that willfully supersedes other principles, like freedom of speech, for example, is maybe one that deserves some revisiting. And not in jingoistic terms, replete with slogans custom written for bumper stickers, but borne out of honest and thoughtful debate. Because whether or not you use drugs, or agree with their use, or would ban cigarettes and alcohol too, I’m sure you agree that families should be able to have honest talks about the subject. That kids and teens often benefit from learning about their parents’ experiences, and that good relationships are fostered, in part, by establishing clear, open and honest lines of communication. When we’re wary about bringing shit up, when other’s experiences are closed down to us, we are essentially left to our own devices. Morality delivers us into the clumsy hands of fate. And dude, nobody wants that.
I feel badly, for example, that I’ve never had a real conversation about drugs with my parents. We can talk about the most combustible subjects, but when it comes to drug use, everyone clams up. I would actually enjoy the occassional sitdown, but it’s one of those things that nobody broaches. My parents don’t ask, and completing the dysfunction cycle, I confess nothing. At thirty-three, I might have thought at some point—conversationally—they might have wondered about the first time I had a drink without their knowing. Or when I was first hung over. Or when I smoked cigarettes—because c’mon everybody tries those. Or any other question they might want answered as people who love me. And likewise, I’ve flamed out in terms of candor about smoking pot, or drinking, or any of my other drug use. Or whether I’ve struggled with addiction, considering it runs in our family. My parents don’t ask, I don’t tell. Why? I’m not sure about the answer on their side. For me, because I don’t want to violate some unspoken trust. I’ve never wanted to assume that my desire to reveal should rise above their desire not to know. My parents have plenty to worry about. I don’t like the thought of adding more.
But now the landscape has shifted and I know that a sit down is necessary. Last month, I was an unemployed writer, recovering from a hormone deficiency, aimlessly wandering CareerBuilder. Today, I’m heading into the world of medical marijuana. And if I’m going to do it right, before you read further, you deserve to know who you’re dealing with. And so do my parents. So I hastily called a family meeting. My parents were inquisitive. They wanted to know what was up. I calculated possible cartoon responses. Maybe their eyes would spring out of their heads. That afternoon, freaking out, I smoked two bowls to keep my wits. It was only then, sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, a silver haze of smoke surrounding me, blues on the dial, that I was able to settle on a plan. I would write this story in two parts. The first you’ve just read.
What follows is one loving, but slightly-dysfunctional family’s talk about it.
Next: Drugs, Me & My Parents, part two
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