Not everyone’s hair-brained ideas to "help" alleviate my suffering are all that cray-cray. I’m not going to eat, drink and slather my pores in coconut oil, which apparently does everything from make your hair shiny, to grow crops of children in fields, like barely. I’m also not going to dip myself in a bath of lavender and frankincense, and expect the shape of my skull to suddenly change. Viola, now my skull accommodates my brain, and it smells like both a lovely garden, and is festive for the season!
However, one thing that people suggest that doesn't seem so hair-brained is pot. If I had a dollar for every time someone suggested I try pot; hell, if I had a nickel for every time, I’d be a millionaire. Not only would I be able to afford all the pot they want me to try (did you know it’s expensive?), I could afford the appropriate health care that is required for a chronic condition.
But, when I decided to jump in, I realized that pot is not just “pot.” Pot is fucking confusing for a pain patient, and it’s beyond so for a patient who has had brain surgery. Before you ask, yes it’s legal where I’m at, and yes, I did it legally. It comes with “menus,” and an overwhelming supply of ideas and complex mixes. Are you going to smoke, eat, use oil? What kind of oil? What balances? And, each of those options is overwhelming: brownies, lollipops, teas, tinctures, chews!
It was so overwhelming, I almost backed out. Then, I had a flare that was so long and so bad, that I caved, and let someone else I knew guide the process.
I gave it two fair shots. Why two? Because the first shot was so horrendous that it wasn’t a good assessment of how well it would work. I was a newbie, and I screwed up dosing, like a newbie would.
I got confused, and couldn’t “see” my husband. I stood in the middle of the house and kept shouting for him, like a lunatic. Because I was blinking, I felt convinced that he disappeared every few seconds. Yeah. It was terrifying, but also not, at the same time. Something in my mind told me that it was all pretty chill. Silly, pot.
I made him sit with me (because I freaked every time he left the room), for hours, attempting to convince him, that we were stuck in loops of time (my brilliant term), and that every time I blinked, someone was stealing time from me.
Because of the blinking panic, I had to physically hold him, the entire time, to remind myself he was there. I kept petting his arm hair, like a dog, because it soothed me, and grounded me, at the same time. Going to the bathroom is fun for all, when it not only requires physical presence, but also touch.
The mark of an amazing husband? He didn’t murder me, every time I blinked and I’d ask him how long it had been since the last time I asked him how long it’d been since I last asked him how long it had been (yeah, that’s confusing; but, that’s what it was like). You know how long it had been? Three seconds. He put up with that insane question, on three-second repeat, calmly, for about six hours. If he didn't answer quickly, I was convinced that the loops of time were being stolen! Stolen!
A few weeks later, I got brave enough to try again, on a much smaller scale. It did nothing for my pain. It did make me tired enough to sleep through some of it, and to feel like I didn’t really care that it hurt. But, the pain was still there. I can do that on my own, if I concentrate hard, use deep breathing and meditate.
So, I don’t really see this being part of my repertoire, but I can see that with enough experimentation, it might be a good thing for some people. For me, it’s too exhausting! I can’t say that I’d never, ever try it again, but not now. It wasn’t for me.
I will say this: look out for loops of time though! They are everywhere! And…despite what you think when you are high, you are not brilliant, and do not write any of it down. You do sound like a moron. I mean, honestly, loops of fucking time?