Dueling with Depression: pot prescription

Depression can be a fickle fiend. There are days when I’m just lollygagging my way through the week: Drafting my next article. Driving to the grocery store to pick up some cat food. Getting a haircut.

Then suddenly, for no legitimate reason, depression comes slamming down on my head. It’s like I’m walking down the sidewalk, minding my own business, when suddenly an unstable wall of cinder blocks and rebar comes crashing down on top of me. My limbs snap in two, I struggle to breath choking on dust, and my skull is fractured into sharp shards of bone that slice away at any attempt to regain my lucidity. I find myself crying silently in my truck as I drive to the store to buy cat food.

For days (or even weeks), my humdrum lollygagging feels more like being trapped under a collapsed building. Drafting an article becomes oddly (and ludicrously) equivalent to clawing my way out from under a pile of broken bricks, complete with a piece of rebar sticking painfully through my chest.      

One strategy I utilize during those weeks is mindfulness (which I’ve written about before). Not only do I force myself to get out of my apartment and walk outside, I’ll stop as I’m walking, close my eyes, look up toward the empty sky, and consciously focus on the warmth of the sun on my skin.

I’ll lean down and carefully examine a small ant colony on the edge of the sidewalk, each ant going about their own lollygagging, oblivious to me and the maelstrom in my mind. I’ll tilt my head sideways and listen carefully to a nearby bird singing loudly and longingly for a lover.

Focusing on small, environmental details like this pull me into the present and allow me to more easily dig myself out from under all that rubble. It’s me telling myself, “Things are far from okay, but that’s okay.”    

So what does any of this have to do with pot? For me, marijuana greatly amplifies this effect of not only being mindful of my surroundings, but finding joy in the small, yet profound experiences in life I sometimes overlook — especially when I’m depressed.

The first time I smoked pot was with a handful of friends on a secluded beach at night. I remember looking out into the vast void of the Pacific Ocean, the horizon hidden beneath the obsidian sky.

I remember staring at the way moonlight seemed to playfully dance on the crest of each swelling wave. I remember hearing the booming, yet soothing sound of ocean water crashing against the beach. I remember the gentle warmth of the campfire against my skin, like a comfy wool blanket wrapped tightly around my shoulders.

And I remember, at some point during this experience, my friends around the campfire calling out my name in unison: “Mike. Mike! MIKE!”

I shook my head and pulled my attention away from the ocean and saw all my friends, sitting in a circle around the campfire, looking back at me with knowing smiles. “Are you high?” one of them asked.

“I think so,” I replied, adding, “I’m really hungry.” They giggled and assured me I was flying at about 30,000 feet. Then I ate a sausage cooked over open flame, and it was one of the best-tasting sausages I’ve ever eaten in my life.

I can’t avoid those falling cinder blocks, but I can work on being more mindful of the present, with the help of a regular prescription of pot.