My Biggest Fear As A Writer (Weed and the Dark Side)

What If I Told You, Anxiety and Depression are Superpowers:

As writers, we are no strangers to fear and anxiety. Some of us write to rid ourselves of it, and some write to share it with the world. I probably began writing for similar reasons, or not, but I have come to understand that my works are serenades to fear and loathing.

My partner was describing this scrawny little teenage kid she had crossed paths with this morning. She had locked eyes with him and she noticed that he was wallowing in crippling, self-conscious, anxiety.

"That is the kind of (mental) space where all you can hear is the void," she said to me as he rubbed her palms on my cheek and temple. "you can hear it here," she said, rubbing my face. "It is louder than everything else,"

The cash register at a departmental store, the cranky toddler throwing a tantrum, the young blood roaring his car engine, screaming for attention, the void's static cacophony drowns them all—I am sure you have heard it before; you can hear it right now if you want to.

The turmoil is internal, yes, but it builds around your head like a casted, cold steel sphere, bearing down on your shoulders. You can see a reflection of your anxiety in the scrutinizing eyes of the strangers that pass you, you can feel their gaze suffocate you, burn through your chest—the world is out there to mock you, to get you, to expose you, and you are already a shell-less snail.

Trampled, dirt sticking on your face, broken, ashamed, you sit behind your blank sheet and begin to type. Life has kicked your teeth in, so you wage a war on paper and when you spit, you spit your truth, unadulterated honesty.

Anxiety and depression, do you know why those who are cured of it tend to relapse? It is a downer stronger than opium, more addictive, feels more real than reality itself, and it aches, how beautiful it is. No wonder cultures for eons have been turned on by the damsel in distress. We collectively suffer from a sort of white-knight syndrome, caused by misplaced infatuations.

I sat listening to my partner describe that anxious little boy. He reminded me of the worm I once used to be, especially when I smoked weed. The innate and eternal shame used to cripple me, guilt would strip my bones of my flesh, and in my skull, hammers would go off, striking a cosmic metallic gong. I would curl up and sink into the horror. I loved the way my chest and temples thumped, I loved the way my room pulsated; I had fallen in love with my loathing.

I would wake up the next day and write, and I would write all day from the gates of hell. Society is trying to make weed seem like a god-given, herbal, recreational medicine these days, but they seem to ignore the fact that it is a highly psychoactive substance. If you are neurotic, hysterical, and/or paranoid, chances are you would meet your demons and become their puppet.

Towards the end of my stoner days, I had fallen in love with my demons but I hated being a puppet. Now, that I have stopped smoking, the demons have become a part of me, which is why I can't seem to love them like I used to. That is probably why I don't feel like a puppet anymore.

A week and a half ago, my partner's sister came home. We sat on the porch talking when she pulled out a huge joint of weed. I knew I shouldn't smoke, but I wanted to. She smiled at me and lit the spliff, the smell took me back to the memories of trauma once loved. I sat with her and smoked. I smoked the whole joint. It took a while to hit. She rolled another, I smoked that too and took off.

I sat in front of the computer to write, waiting for those metallic gongs to strike. There were none; no demons, no puppets, no lovers, no steel spheres, no scrutinizing gazes. My head was confused between feeling like a helium balloon and a murky fish tank. Couldn't write, couldn't sleep and hours passed like seconds.

So, here is what I discovered through the trip: I have cured myself of my neurosis, hysteria, and paranoia, and I have done it through writing. On one hand, I am relieved that I have cured myself, so, I am no longer a puppet. On the other hand, I miss my demons, I miss the honesty in my words that are inked with my blood.

Or

The discoveries and sentiments above are mere illusions, like life itself. For right now, I am writing, for I am anxious that I am not anxious enough, depressed that I don't see red on my screen, sad that I miss loving my demons, and, also, I can't stop hearing the void's cacophony. You probably never see red till the ink dries.

Kahan J Sudev