The first substance I ever used was weed.Â
It was the summer between grade eight and grade nine, so I was however old. My friend Connor had a âcoolâ dad. He had a dresser in his bedroom dedicated only to porn magazines, he had a painting in the living room depicting slaves in the field, and he was quick to yell when we did something he thought was bad under his roofâ even though it was actually his girlfriend's roof, I later found out.
I remember he showed us how to make a pipe out of tinfoil, and then showed us how to use it in the garage. His girlfriend's dingy garage that smelled like paint was the first place I ever got high, with my weird friend and his racist dad. It was so fucking good.
The next time I used it was a year later, the following summer. I was at a friend's apartment. She was my friend by extension. My rapist was her friend, and since my rapist was called my girlfriend at this time, she was my friend too. Her boyfriend was there, a boy (man?) who was certainly too old to be with her. He was smoking crack on her pink double bed. I didnât know it was crack, I was young and uninformed so I actually thought it was weed, and since I hadnât gotten high for about a year I was itching to do it again.Â
This time was different. Life changingâ literally. Thank god I didnât get hooked on crack but I did get hooked on the feeling. I think I can trace the start of my addiction to this encounter. Iâve been chasing that feeling ever since.
The rest of my high school years were filled with emptied bottles, house parties, stolen bumps in strangersâ bathrooms, and binge-smoking weed before school so I could get through the day.
This continued without change for a good while after graduation. More to follow on my more recent years.
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