The Integrated Mother
From this point onward, birth must be treated like a sacred psychedelic journey; the one in which we are the vessel that creates the means through which Source presents itself. Our naturally occuring chemicals are the compounds that activate our unconscious realms, elevating us to new states of being human. Just as you wouldn't numb yourself for a psychedelic trip, women shouldn't numb themselves for birth. The experience is intended to help the mother transcend her current level of creativity, life experience, endurance, and overall self mastery. It is meant to reveal a new version of herself, the one that can mother intuitively and with confidence.
Psychedelic itself means “soul-revealing.” Birth absolutely and obviously does this, and in more ways than one. The mother, of course, is cracked open and her highest self is revealed. A new version of her Earthen self is then born and revealed as a result. Her baby's soul is completely centered in his or her human body upon being born, and thus it is revealed.
Upon deeper contemplation, it is almost as though the creation of the baby within the mother is the seed of the psychedelic medicine itself. The baby contains the spark of life just as a plant does.
His or her energy field becomes one with the mother’s, continuing in this way for the duration of the entire pregnancy, birth, and the first three to six months postpartum.
This is by divine design, and,
when encouraged and supported, mothers and babies can essentially experience a year-long psychedelic transformation that expands their minds, opens their hearts, and prepares them for life in its entirety.
Those who journey with mushrooms and the like experience a post-psychedelic afterglow and integration period, just like a newly reborn mother does in the hours and days after naturally birthing her baby. Even the baby is having a psychedelic adventure post-birth, as it has recently been acknowledged that an adult’s brain on LSD functions in a similar way to that of an infant. Infant brainwave states are wildly special, allowing them to simply live in a dreamstate.
“Mothers have taught me that it is not appropriate to interfere with this important stage of birth (the return, the immediate postpartum),” Whapio states. “This is an incredibly high and holy moment and if we truly understood birth and the ramifications of returning from an altered state…the reintegration…we would protect the privacy of the mother and baby at this time more than any other.”
When understood in the context of psychedelic sciences, birthwhich creates a naturally transcendent synthesis of hormones within the human body - can be seen for its potential and benefit as opposed to solely its inherent risks.
Psychedelic plants and pharmaceuticals simply mimic what birth has been designed to do all along. This is why the plants and the fungi are calling us back.
They are here to remind us of our true nature, to elevate our relationships with ourselves, each other, and our shared cohesive environment. Nothing is separate. Birth is not separate. Birth is an act of creativity, love embodiment, and ecstasy. It is fear alone that introduces pain and discomfort and disconnect from Source and intuition, and it is a lack of reverence for mothers and birth that breeds the fear.
When choosing how, where, and with whom to birth, a mother should look to the ways in which a person plans for an intentional psychedelic trip. She must avoid anything and everything that is unnatural and invokes fear. She must prepare for transcendent bliss, and settle for nothing less. This is her birthright. This is her baby’s birthright. The generations that came before us and that will come after us deserve all of this, and more. Every birthing mother can be the catalyst for profound healing in her family and the world at large if she simply surrenders to the psychedelic birth experience that is built into her and her baby’s cells. It is theirs for the taking, and it is guaranteed to be the trip of a lifetime.
Kaitlin Coghill is a divinely inspired writer and editor who has devoted her life to elevating motherhood, plant medicine, and the power of story. Her work can be found in a variety of print and digital spaces, such as her own website - kaitlinpearl.com. When not co-creating her reality with the assistance of plants, Kaitlin can be found living and loving alongside her husband and their three daughters in Southern California, where they honor the ocean and worship the sun all year long. Follow her journey on Instagram: @the.elevatedmother.
Photo Courtesy of Kaitlin Coghill
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By Connor Anderson
Prices in Bermuda vs. The UAE
Until recently, possession of any amount in the United Arab Emirates (UAE) carried a minimum sentence of two years. One would think the risk would juice prices up far higher than those in Bermuda, where possession under seven grams is decriminalized. Yet, research says Bermuda still reigns supreme. Perhaps this is due to the UAE's proximity to other countries, which makes smuggling easie. It could also be a result of its lower demand.
magine this.
You're researching locales for your next vacation. An ad pops up for Bermuda, featuring a couple sipping champagne
I champagne on a balcony overlooking a light pink beach, where gentle waves roll ashore from shimmering, crystal waters that stretch out into the horizon - blissful hues that make you wonder whether someone slipped a quarter tab in your morning coffee.
Goodness, you think. This is the most idyllic smoke spot I’ve ever seen.
Google shows that Bermuda is not in the Caribbean. It’s about 600 miles east of South Carolina, the middle of nowhere. But, it’s an island. Islands mean reggae. Reggae means pot growing between every crack and crevice, and Rasta stoners toking around every turn. Jackpot!
Naturally, you book a trip.
Your flight lands. You grab your bags and hail a cab. You make the usual inquiry, half-expecting a $50 ounce to plop in your lap in response. Instead, he digs around his glove box and passes you a tiny baggie of condensed bud that looks suspiciously shy of an eighth.You slip him a twenty. He glances at the bill and says, “You’re 130 short, mate.” You laugh awkwardly, hoping this lunatic is making some sick Bermudian inside joke that you don’t understand.
He’s not joking. You have to stop by an ATM to afford the $200 all-inclusive 20-minute round trip.
An Eighth of Good Weed in Bermuda Costs $150… Ain’t That a Trip?
The upside is that, upon closer inspection (and a brief test joint), it’s pretty good weed. Pretty much American weed, you think, well-versed in the geographical variances of your beloved tree.
American weed that’s been jam-packed and vacuum-sealed for months. The downside is that you just spent $150 on something that costs $30 anywhere else.
This is the realization that hit me when I made my first purchase in the states. Except worse, because it wasn’t a one-off vacation purchase; it was a weekly expense. I felt like a clown for the amount of cash I’d wasted. Yet, I still pay the exorbitant sum every time I return home to Bermuda. W hat choice do I have?
A few sources list the UAE’s price at $110 per gram, but it seems they misconstrued the standard amount. An article on Business Insider claiming that UAE weed costs $110 per gram also claims a gram costs $124 in Bermuda - a statistic I know as false. The uninitiated writers probably meant to refer to prices on a pereighth basis.
I found a better, stoner-operated site, priceofweed.com, that uses self-reporting to aggregate prices in various countries. It lists the UAE’s average price per eighth as $106, and Bermuda’s as $158, which is pretty close to spot on.
The discrepancy shows that, despite worldwide progress, information on cannabis remains globally sparse. Misleading information continues to be distributed by people who can’t distinguish a weed leaf from a four-leaf clover.
Holy Spicoli! Why is Weed So Expensive?
Bermuda has one of the highest costs of living and GDP per capita in the world. We produce 0 percent exports, importing most goods from abroad. This results in high taxes and overpriced products. But, larger disposable incomes make high prices more affordable.
It works similarly with weed, except with an absurd tax. The risk of getting busted and the cost of importation are blamed for the dizzying prices. Historically, good bud has been imported, either via air with bribes made to airport staff, or via sea on fishing boats and in shipping containers. Reggie comes from Mexico and only costs $50 per eighth, but it's riddled with seeds and barely gets you high.
Since there are only a few Kingpin-like players leading the game, price-fixing defines the market. W hen COVID halted travel and opened up the market for local growers, prices didn’t budge. A local eighth still carries that $150 price tag, even though around 20 percent of good weed is now homegrown.
Maybe it was fitting compensation 10 to 15 years ago when most states still considered weed illegal and Bermuda had yet to amend its cannabis policy. Nowadays, however, weed is readily available in every state regardless of legal status, making it far less costly and complicated to purchase and import. Charging 500 percent more than our neighbors in 2022 is villainous.
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How Bermudians Handle the Price
Buying in bulk and portioning are some prevalent money-saving tactics. But, according to a 2020 marijuana survey conducted by the Bermudian Department for National Drug Control, most Bermudians favor joints and spliffs - a method often called wasteful by stingey stoners.
There’s another trend that’s picked up speed in the past few years. While in the stoner section of a party on a recent trip home, a friend-of-a-friend took out papers, some nug, a metal knife, and about seven grams of dabs ($700 worth). He placed a glob on the knife, and used a lighter to heat it up. When goey, he lathered it onto the paper, sprinkled on some reggie, and rolled up a long, perfect, skinny doobie.
Joints rule supreme, and the introduction of dabs is helping Bermudian tokers save money.
The Art of the Bermudian Joint
Nothing represents the island stoner like a spliff. You’ll never catch a Reggae God rhyming about his love for the bong.
Bermudian joints are of a different style than those you are accustomed to, and they are at the center of Bermuda’s stoner culture. Many of us pride ourselves on our joint-rolling skills, producing doobies in outstretched palms to gather nods of admiration from an eager smoker circle.
Unless it’s a special occasion, we use as little weed as possible to roll thin joints packed to the brim to make the experience last. Sometimes we clip portions from the paper’s non-glue end for a slower smoke.
When we aren’t rolling pure weed joints, Bermudians roll American-sized spliffs that contain a ton of tobacco. Tobacco’s inclusion varies by personal preference, and some use it in their toothpick-sized joints to maximize pot preservation.
The Fight for Legalization
We almost passed The Cannabis Licensing Bill, which would have issued licenses for cultivation, retail, research, import, export, transportation, and manufacturing, and allowed adults to purchase and possess.
Since Bermuda is a UK territory, our laws are subject to Royal blessing via the governor. If passed without British blessing, UK vs. Bermuda relations could deteriorate. The governor expressed worries that the bill went beyond what is permitted under UN conventions. In the end, it was defeated in the senate.
We’re still hopeful that a revised bill will make it into law. Legalization was a driving force behind current premier, David Burt’s, campaign for office. He needs to follow through and prove that legalization wasn’t merely a route to other agendas.
Legalization would lead to massive positive changes for Bermuda. It would stimulate our local economy, encouraging local entrepreneurship and creating one of the only locallysourced and taxable markets on the island. It would also drive tourism, our main industry, on- and off-season. Perhaps most importantly, though, it would curb gang-related violence.
The Bermuda weed game is almost entirely operated by a few competing gangs. Though firearms are illegal, an increasing number of guns reached our shores in the last few years. My main dealer was gunned down earlier this year in our usual spot, less than a half-mile from my parents’ house. He was 24.
Though gangs import other drugs, weed is their main market. Stripping away their primary income stream would significantly curb their ability to take on new members, who are often high schoolers. Legalization might finally bring an end to Bermuda’s gangs, thus improving the life trajectory of the youth and lowering the prices of herb for all.
Connor Anderson was born and raised in Bermuda and studied English Literature at the University of Virginia. He now works for WaxNax, a cannabis packing company, and writes fiction stories in his free time. His cannabis advocacy is spurred by his belief in the inherent corruption of government and large corporations in industries like big pharma. Find him on Substack (as Connor Anderson) to read more of his work.
Photo Courtesy of Riley Taggett
by Adena Justice
Yields 86 turtles
2 cups brown suga
1 cup infused coconut oi
1 can condensed mil
1 cup corn syru
1 tsp vanilla extrac
1/2 tsp sea salt
2 cups toasted pecan
2 cups milk chocolate chips
4 Heath candy bars (chopped)
Pecan Prep
Prepare two large cookie sheets with parchment paper. Next, pile your pecans in sets of three to make clusters. Make sure your clusters are about two inches apart.
Candy Bar Prep
Prepare two large cookie sheets with parchment paper. Next, pile your pecans in sets of three to make clusters. Make sure your clusters are about two inches apart.
Caramel
Place a medium-sized pot on the stove and set heat to medium. Add two cups of brown sugar, and one cup of coconut oil. Stir with whisk until combined, continuing non-stop throughout the caramel making process.
Next, add one cup of corn syrup, one can of condensed milk, and a ½ tsp salt. Continue stirring while waiting for caramel to come to a boil.
Once caramel is bubbling, let boil for about eight-and-a-half to nine minutes, or until candy thermometer reaches 243 degrees fahrenheit.
Once caramel has reached the proper temperature, remove from stove. Add vanilla extract. Stir caramel until slightly thickened.
Melting Chocolate
Add chocolate chips to a microwave safe bowl, melt for 30 seconds. Stir, and repeat at intervals of 15 seconds until chocolate is melted and smooth. Place chocolate into a Ziplock bag, and set aside.
Turtle Assembly
Spray measuring cup with cooking spray. Next, add caramel to the measuring cup and pour evenly into the center of each pecan cluster. Once all pecans are evenly covered in caramel, cut the corner of the bag filled with melted chocolate. Evenly top turtles with melted chocolate. Finish by placing Heath candy bar pieces on top of the melted chocolate. Allow turtles to cool (or don’t) and enjoy!
Freezer Storage
Add to freezer-safe container with a piece of parchment between each turtle. Store in freezer for up to two months.
Adena Justice is a wife, mother, and self-taught confectioner. She believes in making medicated confections that feel like a gift, looking just as beautiful as they are delicious. One of her goals at Whatz Up Farmz, is to get her products into the hands of many people across the country one day, not just her patients. Follow along on Instagram, @whatzupfarmz.
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Photo Courtesy of Adena Morris
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Artwork by Justin Pence
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Photo Credit Pomme Home
Teas are created by blending the cleaned cactus into a pulp and then boiling. This process went on for hours, and, while it boiled, the Native Americans that were doing the ritual sang songs and chanted. It was very peaceful. The reason tea is used as the means of consumption is that it lessens the often violent GI upset.
The members of the Rainbow Family of Living Light that I was hanging out with in Sante Fe joked about Jim Jones and the Kool-Aid in Guyana as they prepared this unique drink. Admittedly, the anticipation of chugging some down and leaving this plane of existence for a bit was overwhelming.
By Mike Robinson
e was lying down, getting a drink of water, and wanted to talk.
On the trip of all trips, wandering down a path at
H Eagle Rock Lake in New Mexico, I stumbled across a sizable deciduous pine - a fallen victim of the 2015 construction project on this lake. I have no idea the size of the dose of peyote I had taken that morning, but it was enough to spend the night out on the lake in a very colorful and spiritual way.
Peyote is a small, button-shaped cactus native to the southern United States. Potent compounds in the plant, such as mescaline, cause strong hallucinogenic effects in humans. Historically, peyote was used as far back as the Mayans for ceremonial purposes, and was also utilized by the Olmec, Zapotec, and Aztec civilizations.
"You need this. You go first," a Native American guide instructed. "We're taking you to a place to heal, as you must have health in your mind to help others."
As we arrived, a young Native spoke about the Spirit of Trees and how they could talk to us. Paying attention to her was difficult, as I was already sick from the tea.Thankfully, the expected GI upset associated with mescaline/peyote passed quickly.
On the way, the guide explained that the lakeside had crews working every morning and that we'd have to leave at sunup. "Stay off the equipment; this is a spiritual experience. Allow the moon, the stars, and nature to guide." His advice seemed fair enough, and a new reality had already kicked in with vivid colors streaming across the gorgeous pink, purple, and golden sky.
A massive tree was lying there, taking a break from growing, and asked to talk to me as I approached the lake. "Be careful, Mike, that's going far out into the water," a human voice rang out. I can see signs ordering all to stay away from the shore and not touch the equipment, providing warnings of prosecution, and more. But, the trip was on, and the music started blaring.
"Sign, sign, everywhere a sign. Blockin' out the scenery and breaking my mind. Do this, don't do that. Can't you read the sign?"
"The signs say listen to the tree," came flowing out of my mouth, and the music shut off. With that, the conversation with the fallen pine started and got very deep, very quickly.
"You can crawl on me; it's safe." He was lying on Mother Earth and told me to have a seat; that she was distraught. The sky turned dark purple, or so I thought, and the younger Native with me warned that I needed to be safe. I told her I had things to do; it was sort of like my last moment of near-reality.
My mama was a hippie and taught me how to respect the forest and Mother Earth. She always told me everything was alive, and I knew that tree had a reason to be asking for a conversation.
I was in this far-off place in my mind: "I'm a Civil Rights lobbyist, and there's no reason not to protect this," I told the young lady with me as I scooted along further out into the lake with my legs dangling on both sides of this monstrous tree.
Photo Courtesy of Chris Leipelt
It went on for hours. She started taking videos on her phone at one point. I wanted to know - I needed to know - what was on the tree’s mind and why it had to rest there. The tree told me the story of Earth and how it was born. It shared with me its life and how, eventually, a man decided a lake should look differently, which caused the tree to lay down in the water. It shared with me it had no choice in these matters; mankind decides whether or not it gets to live or die.
"I'm just like that pot plant!" he yelled out, knowing what was causing the highest level of grief inside of my soul.
"Why not just get up and face them?" I asked. I was overwhelmed by the desire to know why this 100-foot tall tree couldn't take on a construction crew, or, better yet - the world. At 7 a.m., when the workers started to arrive, they allowed more water into the lake, and it hit my feet. That pulled me out of it for some reason,
“Shoo, no, it's on my shoes. Why, shoe? NO shoo!" Water had soaked my shoes, and when I turned back, the guide was there along with the young lady, who I later found out was his daughter. She had watched all night.
She came and talked me into getting off this enormous tree I'd straddled all night, knee-deep in conversation. She said I'd been there for the past seven hours, and we had to leave. People were coming, she told me.
"WHAT? People? No, tell them to leave now!" I told her that the spirit of the tree spoke through me. It had taken over my voice and was demanding that the crews leave. The guide's voice rang out an order that my melting mind couldn't argue with. "It's time to leave nature to its works. Listen to the spirits - not your own voice. Let's go."
The tree shared so much. He knew my life, as he was alive before I was born.
In depth, after decades of internal struggle, the tree shared with me why my son was autistic. The tree also told me the tale of a man with an ego so large that even he couldn't measure up, and that's why I wrecked the racecar. He went on to share why I'm going to see the end of all trees and that only humans that can fight for survival will save them, and for him, it's too late.
"I'll end up being someone's firewood."
When I asked “why” after everything he said, he told me I'd know the answers when my time with him was over. I remember being sore from sitting on this colossal tree, but every time I got up, he asked me to please be still, and I'd end up blending into the bark. I laid back on it and became part of the forest; the squirrels loved the tree and sat on it with me.
What was hysterical was watching the videos because, of course, the tree never spoke out loud. "Only you could hear that message, as it was meant for one person only," the guide shared with me.
For weeks after that trip, I kept having these small aha kind of feelings, to which I'd say, "That's why," and it was always about something the spirit of the tree told me. Six years later, that tree affects just about everything I do. The spirit of the tree will always be within me.
Mike Robinson is the founder of the Global Cannabinoid Research Center and three-time Cancer Survivor. Named to the Top 100 Most Influential People in Cannabis by High Times, Robinson is the former Director of Communications for the American Academy of Cannabinoid Medicine and the past founder and Director of the American Cannabis Compassion Alliance - an entity that gave away cannabis oils to those in need across America. He's known as a global educator in plant medicine, but gained fame for adopting one of his cannabis compassion patients, Genevieve, while beating cancers and opioid addiction through the intentional use of cannabis oils.
Photo Courtesy of Raul Luna
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Photo by Florian Van Duyn
“This is the city, Los Angeles, California. Throughout the city, hundreds of crimes are committed daily. I should know, I carry a badge.”
Long before cell phones and body cams, and decades before Cops, there was Dragnet, a police procedural whose prologue contained a variation of these words above, delivered in a “just the facts ma’am” monotone by protagonist, officer Joe Friday, who was played by producer/director Jack Webb.
There have been several iterations of Dragnet. “Classic” Dragnet aired in black and white from 1952-1959, and was itself a reboot of a popular radio program. In 1967, in response to a world seemingly filled with weirdo hippies, threatening characters, and other events, Joe Friday returned to present the ‘law and order’ response to the turbulent era’s events and social issues.
The story’s dramatic turn occurs six months later, when police are finally empowered with federal and state statutes prohibiting LSD use. Armed with these new laws, Friday and Gannon hit the Sunset Strip in search of “Blue Boy.” They are alerted to an acid party taking place in the Hollywood Hills by multiple informants, including two teenage girls Sandy (15) and Edna Mae (14), who officers previously had helped navigate a bad trip. Friday and Gannon raid the party, finding all the guests acting odd. A girl is trying to literally climb the wall while an artist keeps putting his paintbrush in his mouth. More synesthesia? But Blue Boy has already split the scene of the crime.
Dragnet experienced an acid “flashback” less than a year later with the episode, “The Prophet.” In this story, Friday and Gannon engage in a battle of wits with “Brother William,” a character inspired by Dr. Timothy Leary. The police suspect Brother William of selling LSD to minors, but have no proof. Friday and Gannon are dispatched to visit Brother William with orders to let him know the police are keeping tabs on him.
Photo Courtesy of Catwalker
When Friday and Gannon leave the “temple,” Gannon crumples some literature he took from the temple and tosses it into the gutter, implying that police are allowed to litter. During the epilogue, the audience learns that Brother William was eventually arrested and found guilty of (gasp) selling drugs to juveniles. The narrator informs us of his 10-year minimum sentence.
Artifacts like Dragnet were produced for a reason. When the program debuted, things were happening in America that were perceived as a threat to mom, pop, and apple pie. Joe Friday and Dragnet reassured people that the forces of law and order had things under control.
Today, the episodes are played as campy fun, but in 1967, some dude in blue and yellow facepaint tripping his brains out scared the crap out of those in the heartland.
In total, Dragnet devoted a full nine episodes to America’s burgeoning drug problem. Sandwiched between the two LSD episodes, “The Big High” (AKA “Baby in the Bathtub”) provides the same campy fun, only with marijuana as the focus.
Need a good laugh? The episodes are available on YouTube. And remember, “The story you are about to see is ‘true.’”
Dan Isenstein, the author of Tales from the Kentucky Hemp Highway, is a cannabistorian with multiple interests. Prior to writing about cannabis, Dan spent 20 years in various management functions at a plastic injection molding facility. His background provides a broad perspective with which to observe the emerging cannabis industry.
LinkedIn: Dan Isenstein | Facebook: Hemp Highway of Kentucky | Website: kentuckyhemphighway.com.
Photo Courtesy of Pawel Czerwinski
By Rob Sanchez
M and the craftsmanship in cultivation and manufacturing. I started cultivating during Colorado’s medical days, and was making solventless hash before moving into software. Seed-toSale software and compliance have been my focus for the last five years. I’ve contributed to 365 Cannabis, Viridian Sciences, and Ample Organics before joining BLAZE as the Product Manager of Wholesale (Cultivation, Distribution, and Manufacturing). As an Agile Coach, I help companies utilize Agile and Scrum to optimize the value created.
y name is Rob Sanchez, and I am a Certified Ganjier. I have 15 years of experience with the plant and have always enjoyed the nuances of different cultivars
quality
Apartment 113 is working to help spread knowledge, connoisseurship, and appreciation of cannabis along with Agile and Lean practices through the industry. We’re earching for quality to celebrate and for those with the passion to create it in today’s THC-dominant market. The Ganjier program teaches you how to appreciate cannabis flower and concentrates. They’ve created an assessment process using four major pillarsappearance, aroma, flavor, and, of course, experience. Outside of quality products, the other focus for Ganjiers is service; each customer interaction is unique, and we’ve been trained to narrow down the wide product range found on the shelves today to help find the right product.
Connoisseurship really has no limits; in all industries there are different tiers of products. Those at the top are near-perfect forms of the product, or artisanally created versions showing a deep understanding of the product. This is what the cannabis industry is still building and what Apartment 113 is looking to catalyze. Newer markets, however, are pushed into selling higher and higher THC, as that’s what the consumer asks for. Oftentimes this is because the consumer doesn’t know about the entourage effect.
The entourage effect is the full combination of cannabinoids, terpenes, flavonoids, and more that create the experience or “high.” But one high is much different than another, and there are chemical reasons for that. As the industry has matured, we’re learning more about these individual compounds. For example, CBC has antimicrobial and bone stimulant properties, and myrcene is associated with sedative effects.
The
The Ganjier program has created an assessment process using four major pillarsappearance, aroma, flavor, and, of course, experience.
lab results of a product can help set the stage, but the product itself isn’t a stat sheet that tells you everything. It needs to be smoked to be appreciated and assessed. The Ganjier preferred consumption method is a hand-rolled joint. The ritual of the joint is slow and methodicalpreparing flower, rice paper, and a crutch. There’s something relaxing about the origamilike process, and hand-rolled joints are above and beyond pre-rolls. If you’re not rolling yet, today's the day to get started! I’d recommend Elements Ultra Thin Rice Papers. All this being said, combustion may not be the best fit for everyone.
I’ve been fortunate to try many different cultivars, and have started to build up a library of Certified Ganjier reviews. I prefer potent
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Photo by Rob Sanchez
cultivars with heavy effects and strong aroma, but have started to appreciate less sedative and more flavorful citrus cultivars as well.
One of the best I’ve assessed this summer was a harvest of Durban Poison from Luxury Loud in Detroit, Michigan. This flower was taken down at just the right time and absolutely jumped out of the jar with a classic Durban Poison scent. Durban Poison has a funky fuel smell with a burst of sweetness that creates a cloying intoxicating aroma with light notes of grape. It’s a gem when done properly.
The flower was covered in a dense layer of short trichomes. The ends of these trichomes are the heads where the cannabinoids are concentrated. Improper handling at any stage of cultivation, manufacturing, or distribution can knock these off and start to degrade the product. My sample here was exquisite; many of the heads were still intact.
The smoke on this was very smooth with a medium body. The pungent sweetness of the aroma becomes a candied spice flavor on the inhale. The flavor in your mouth after exhaling is potent and long lasting. The effects came on in a reasonable amount of time and brought balanced results with a euphoric wave at the beginning. The Ganjier review is a strict one, and this cultivar really hit it out of the park. Near the heart of Detroit, Luxury Loud is creating quality.
For more of my Ganjier reviews check out future issues of Fat Nugs and visit apt113.com.
Rob is a Certified Ganjier and the owner of Apartment 113 Cannabis Connoisseurship & Consulting. He has a lifetime of cannabis experience, having started as a cultivator and hashmaker in Denver's medical days. He now works as a product manager and Agile Coach for BLAZE Seed-To-Sale. Apartment113.com
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By Matthew Jerome
As I have a think on it, I quite possibly have a fair claim to the best job in the world. Not only do I get invited to judge various cannabis and hash competitions/cups nationally, but I also get to work as a medicinal cannabis advocate and consultant, speaking at conferences all over the world about the therapeutic benefits of cannabis, as well as writing for incredible publications like the one you’re reading right now. One of the coolest things that my job affords me the opportunity to do is highlight and review some of the most incredible cannabis that Canada has to offer, as well as the passionate people who grow it.
One of these people is David Remillard of Sugarbud. Dave and I met earlier this year at an expo held annually in Toronto.
We immediately hit it off over a joint, griping about the early days in the industry, handcuffing regulations, criminal taxation, and everything in between. I asked what he did at Sugarbud and, to my surprise, learned that he was the head grower. I say “to my surprise,” because it’s usually the first thing out of the mouths of head growers you meet. Rather than a sales pitch, he simply asked if I’d like to smell or try some of his bud, which I gladly accepted.
Sugarbud, a craft cannabis producer in rural Stavely, Alberta, is backed by the philosophy of being “part of the brand that will define quality and value for those that appreciate the finer things in life.” I was pleased to learn that Sugarbud is also a main employer of the local township, which hosts a population of about 540, and discovered that they insist on paying a working wage base salary to all their employees. Furthermore, I was keen to hear that Sugarbud prides themselves on their involvement in local community-based events.
During my recent interview with Dave Remillard, I asked what he thought was most important to the success of growing the kind of quality herb required to achieve the goal of their philosophy. He calmly replied, “Empowering my team is everything. Close attention to all the details involved is vital, but a team with vested interest that takes pride in their work is unstoppable.”
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Photo by Andrew Interisano
He went on to state that, “a culture where all steps are taken with the utmost care is achieved by helping one’s team build confidence in their own abilities. It’s done by arming them with the reasoning behind the steps taken and the techniques used. You can’t take any shortcuts to true quality.”
Consistency in both quality and delivery of expectations are crucial to earning brand loyalty and to creating the brand ambassadors I mentioned earlier. These types of ambassadors are not only proud to buy the quality you provide, but they wholeheartedly recommend it to others. Quality sold itself to me and will continue to for the rest of my life. With that, I introduce you to Sugarbud’s Mule Fuel.
Its appearance scores an 8.3, with a beautiful tight structure, and gorgeous dark colours and hues with hints of orange. It has substantial trichome coverage with intact, resinous looking points, and looks to be cured properly with a great “nerf”-like springback. There are no signs of foreign materials, powdery mildew, or mold.
The aroma comes in at 7.9 with notes of tangy sweet moss, lighter fuel, clementine rind, ferment, loam, and wet wood chips.
Its flavor scored a 7.4, as it is pleasantly complex. It tastes of fuelsoaked lemongrass, and reveals a salty, rich, increasing crescendo of flavour as I move further into the joint. With a very smooth, moderate-bodied smoke, it's strong but not .......///////......overwhelming.
I urge those in the industry to focus on humbly growing and selling a quality product. In doing so, you won’t create customers, you’ll create ambassadors.
With such a thoroughly enjoyable sesh, Mule Fuel scored 7.8 on overall experience, and would be recommended for an end of the day/after work smoke. It has an intensely relaxing, balanced, nostalgic body feel. Delightfully stoned about 7/8 through the joint, with a solid perma-grin, I had a sustained, relaxing, and calming experience. This was some of the smoothest retail bud I’ve smoked in Canada. I highly recommend this for anyone looking for stress relief and wanting to find their place of zen.
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by Nigel Despinasse
W depression, and anxiety. Companies worth hundreds of millions of dollars are hard at work trying to make pharmaceutical products using the active components found in these psychedelics. Before companies like MindMed, Compass Pathways, and Cybin were exploring the therapeutic uses of psychedelics, Ann Shulgin and her husband, Alexander Shulgin, were synthesizing and administering psychedelic therapies to thousands of patients.
hen people hear “psychedelic therapy,” most think of an investment opportunity or an offhand study someone mentioned once about mushrooms,
For well over 10 years, Alexander had a license from the Drug Enforcement Agency allowing him to synthesize Schedule I substances. This license provided Alexander and Ann with a safe environment to create and work with over 200 different psychedelic compounds. Ann and Alexander published two books, PiHKAL and TiHKAL, both of which got an austere response from the DEA. These books gave a step-by-step approach to synthesizing many of the drugs they made. The DEA revoked Shulgin’s Schedule I license and tried to renounce their association with him.
Ann and Alexander continued their work regardless of this revocation, synthesizing new drugs, experimenting with them, and then giving them to their friends so they could take detailed notes about their experience and report back. They worked in groups with artists, psychologists, philosophers, and doctors to discuss the nature of these drugs and the effects it had on them.
Growing up overseas in different locations, Ann’s childhood spanned from Italy to New Hampshire. She eventually found herself in the Bay Area, where she studied commercial art. After becoming a mother, Ann switched from art to medicine, a field in which she worked as a transcriber. After three marriages that ended in divorce, Ann met Alexander “Sasha” Shulgin, a genius chemist, whom she eventually married.
With Alexander being the chemist and Ann being the therapist, their skills were a match made in heaven. Alexander sought to innovate drug research and invent tools for exploring the human mind. Ann wanted to help heal those who are hurting and work to help them grow through their traumas, as well as work with them on a spiritual level. Despite not having any classical training as a therapist, Ann helped people make tremendous strides in their own psyche.
Those who fight the good fight because they know it’s right are the people who are sewn into the culture.
Ann Shulgin passed away from chronic obstructive pulmonary disease on July 9 of this year at the age of 91. She is survived by her daughter Wendy. Alexander succumbed to liver cancer in 2014 at age 88. The details of their burial sites are unknown.
They are the pioneers who made strides where others would not step, and the radicals who sought to change both hearts and minds so as to bring humans forward. Entities like the previously mentioned public companies came to work with psychedelic therapy to capitalize on an opportunity, whereas Ann Shulgin viewed her work as a sacrament and a privilege. She brought invaluable research about psychedelic-assisted therapy to the world and paved the way for mind altering plants and substances to change the lives of people suffering from addiction, depression, and many other ailments.
Thank you for your work, Ann. The world is evolving into a better place because of your dedication to, and love for, humanity.
Nigel Despinasse is a cannabis nerd, entrepreneur, and writer who has been working in the legal industry for the past five years. He holds a Business, Entrepreneurship, and Organizational Studies degree from Brown University and loves house music. Find him online @nigel_deez.
Giving Our Flowers to the Late Great Matriarch of Psychedelic Therapy
Photo Courtesy of Getty Images
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By Dan Russell
Iget stoned…and I get high. I also differentiate between the two which is probably a very fine, if not indefinable, line for people who aren’t regular cannabis users.
There’s a time and place for each, or maybe even for both. But what’s what? Sure, you like to smoke. Or maybe you’d rather vape. Perhaps edibles are your cup of tea? Maybe tea is your flavor of canna-beverage? These are easy options to choose between. But the real question, and one that is rarely asked, is, when you are consuming cannabis in all its different forms and iterations, do you prefer to get stoned or be high? Or get high and be stoned? Is there a difference?
For me, the difference is best understood by the situation I expect to find myself in. To paraphrase the Gambler, my situation tends to dictate the condition of my condition. For example, if I’m going to sit down and watch a movie I want to be stoned.
You want me to melt into a couch for two-plus hours, maybe eat some popcorn and Gobstoppers while zoning in on one thing? Stone me.
I like to cook and I’ll cook stoned or high, but my molasses-likeinertia is much more difficult to break through when I’m stoned….unless I have a plan. If I have a plan or a task to follow through on, then I love to be stoned. It’s a joy to be stoned If I know I need to clean, wash, and dice the potatoes and onions to fry them up for dinner. I might obsess over how finely diced they are, but it’s a joyful obsession, like scratching an itchy mosquito bite.
If I’m being honest, I’m always happy to be high. There are certain mornings when I really love to get high. I enjoy catching a great buzz with my morning coffee while I collect my thoughts and ruminate on the coming day. It gives me the feeling of being lighter on my feet and quicker on my toes - both literally and figuratively. When I’m high, I feel tapped more directly into the creative part of my brain. Varied and tangential thoughts skim perpendicular to the main thoughts in my head, tempting me to think in new and different directions. It’s easy to get distracted when I’m high, and I occasionally get lost. Being stoned, however, allows me to sit more heavily on those thoughts and delve deeper into them.
I guess it’s all very simple; and it was staring me in the face the entire time. The words themselves can be taken quite literally. Stones tend to sink because they are heavy. They are weighted down and slow moving. Despite everyone telling me I was wrong, I always thought Eeyore was stoned. I correlated his droopy eyelids, slow gait, drawn out speech, and his can’t-bebothered attitude to one of stoned apathy towards his fellow stuffies’ shenanigans.
Keeping with the Pooh analogy, Tigger is high. Tigger’s high isn’t the exact equivalent to Eeyore’s stonage because Tigger probably dabbled in a few things beyond cannabis.
He is enthusiastic and positive and, of course, bouncing….high. Like Tigger, high is in the sky, energized, and giving fives. High is rocking a rhyme that’s right on time ‘cause it’s not tricky; it’s just something Tiggers can do and Tiggers can do anything (cause they're high).
There are caveats. If you get too high, that spark turns into a jumpy fire of agitation and paranoia. Get too stoned and you’ll just fade away and fall asleep.
I also love getting stoned after a wonderful home cooked dinner. The combination of food coma and marijuana washes over and stones me in such a way that I find myself extremely comfortable, and at times too pooped to poop. But, if i’m going to take my dog on a walk, it’s more fun to be high. It’s great to be high, get outside and interact with nature, walk and talk to neighbors, while waddling my dog around the block.
There are certain activities where I don’t differentiate, like cooking.
Was I high writing this column, or was I stoned? It’s an amorphous line penciled into quicksand…an ever-shifting point of delineation on a long drive over this keyboard. I know I feel good, and that’s good enough.
Dan Russell currently makes his living selling rolling trays, flying discs, and all the branded swag you can imagine. Currently living in Chicago with his wife and dog, Dan has had a lifelong interest in cannabis culture. He is a veteran of many Phish tours and a lover of all things phatty. Find him on LinkedIn.
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Photo Courtesy of Catwalker
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Retailers - click here to book a demo!
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by Marcus Loke
By Rian Kochel
Growing up as a queer youth in rural Montana during the late ‘80s and early ‘90s was less than ideal. I did, however, learn a lot of things, such as the difference between loneliness and isolation.
People often use the words interchangeably, but they are quite different experiences. The relationship between the words isn't so much synonymous as it is yin and yang. Isolation feeds loneliness.
I became vividly aware of this nuance in syntax because I lived in a town of roughly 3,000 people. The symbiosis of the two words unfolded in front of me shortly after realizing I was “different” around the age of nine.
Fun fact to know and share: my hometown is located just 10 miles east of the Gates of Hell. For you geography buffs out there, that's 30 miles - as the crow flies - due south of the precise end of the world.
It's called Shelby. It sits under the charging skies of Montana on the high plains, out where dinosaurs once roamed. Now, sporadic oil wells punctuate a vast expanse of winter wheat and alfalfa fields that stretch out as far as the eye can see. It's a landscape that feels unforgiving and relentless, with sweeping vistas that recall paintings by Andrew Wyeth, albeit with more desperation.
This was especially true during my adolescence, when the ‘80s were rolling over into the ‘90s. There was no internet. There were no smartphones. The closest mall was a 90-minute drive away. This was a time when people legitimately relied on encyclopedias for knowledge.
My scope of the world at that time was confined to a tiny rural town. I couldn't conceptualize anything outside of this reality because I'd never been outside of it. The idea of meeting another gay person in my lifetime seemed impossible. I had only ever heard people talk about one gay person. He was from the neighboring state of Wyoming. His name was Matthew Shepard, and if you don’t know that name, you should. He didn’t ask to be part of history, he had no choice. He was born into it.
All that to say, I had to create and manage a persona that I thought would match the expectations of my environment. By the time I graduated high school, I learned to play the part so well that even I was starting to believe myself.
That all changed when I moved to New Orleans, site unseen, at the tender age of 19, but we will come back to that in a bit. First, I want to clarify that Montana was not the worst place to spend my formative years. Some folks might even use words like "quaint" or "charming" to describe my hometown. Actual humans with free will and average cognitive ability choose to live there. Much like there are also people in this world that use their cognitive ability to put carpet in bathrooms out of their own free will. Who am I to blow against the wind?
One specific place in Montana holds a very dear place in the caverns of nostalgia that are carved into my heart - my family’s tiny, no frills, A-frame cabin. It was located just across the Middle Fork of the Flathead River from Glacier National Park, and it was magical. There was an energy in that corner of the universe that was so specific, yet impossible to describe. Small but mighty magical occurrences were the norm during weekend getaways and week-long vacations.
The magic could be found in the way the coffee smelled in the morning, and in the purity of awe that could be induced by nighttime thunderstorms as they roared with window-shaking thunder - flashing lightning so bright it cut through the ink of night with the saturated brilliance of the dawn.
Of all the experiences I was fortunate enough to be granted through that cabin, one weekend will always stand as the ultimate testament to the power that place contained.
I had just turned 19 and was home for the summer after my first year of college. Pretending to be straight was taking a toll on my mental health, and the freedom I was given through no longer answering to my parents found me learning lessons of consequence, one of which was flunking out of school.
I chose not to tell my parents about any of my woes despite occupying the same house. I was terrified by the thought of disappointing them. Instead, I picked up two full-time jobs and worked my ass off. The ultimate goal was to save as much money as I could before I left in September. My parents were under the impression I would be headed back to college, but my real plan was to leave my hometown and pursue a new life in New Orleans.
During an extended weekend in July, I took two of my closest childhood friends up to the cabin. Included in our scant provisions for our weekend was an ounce of cubensis mushrooms.
Upon arriving at the cabin, we dumped the bag of mushrooms into a large bowl and placed it in the middle of the kitchen table. Over the course of the weekend we nibbled away at them leisurely.
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The perfect combination of place and people (two key components of a successful psychedelic experience) provided a space to sort through the issues I was grappling with at that time, all through the lens of psilocybin.
The mushrooms allowed me access to an ancient understanding of the way the universe works and my place in it. They showed me how that knowledge lived in me at all times, like a collection of books I’d forgotten about that had been stuffed in the back of a closet in my mind - I had just been unaware of it.
Most importantly, I was given the epiphany that my life was mine to live and no one else’s. Not my parents, not my friends...it was all my responsibility, and I was the only one putting limits on what I was capable of accomplishing. I realized that contentment in living your life starts and ends with being truthful with your words, your actions, and above all, with yourself.
When I left Shelby, Montana, and headed out to New Orleans at the end of that summer, I may not have made the most graceful exit, but it was an intentional one. I let that intention guide me and I ended up in a place where the isolation and loneliness I’d always lived with gradually gave way to a new life; a life filled with acceptance and the support of a community.
It took a few more years to officially come out to all my friends and family. Regardless, the catalyst for that outcome was a direct result of that weekend spent with my childhood friends at the magical cabin on the outskirts of Glacier National Park; a weekend during which the universe whispered sacred knowledge to me in a dialect of absolute truths, and I had enough sense to shut up and listen.
Rian is a beach leisure enthusiast with a penchant for hyperbole. He creates with words and with music compulsively. His pappy was
a pistol, and he’s a son of a gun.
Find Rian on IG: @biffpowbang.
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Photo Courtesy of Steven Cordes
AI ART by Rob Sanchez
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by Rob Sanchez
iolet light exploded across the dunes. The barren white sand stretched for miles, farther now that he tried to focus. He searched for the horizon. That line of
V familiarity and grounding was lost now as the night sky blended in a seamless wash of dark purple with bursts of starlight. The constellations he’d grown accustomed to were distorted and moved organically like creatures alive and unaware of him watching.
He didn’t have time to address the thought further. It seemed the creatures grew fearful of something and began to move from the sky.
He could feel a hint of anxiety deep within as new stars came into focus. Wavering at first, they grew in intensity before forming the shape of a woman. She was walking across the sand toward him; the dunes formed as a result of her colossal footsteps. She was mentally and spiritually difficult to observe; bright light that brought tears to his eyes. He wanted to look but could hardly bear it. A multitude of colors raced across her form as she leaned forward and picked him up from the sands where he watched. In her hands, he rose into the sky with a rush of wind. It was clear now that he hadn’t been watching anything from on high; in fact, he had been deep within something resembling a crib. The figure showed him the world from her perspective. He could see it had really only just begun.
Her face was dark and featureless with brilliant eyes shifting from pink to red and back again. Although there was nothing said, he felt her intentions were good. The wind increased and the dark sky spread out before them. There they stood together looking out above reality. Nothing was left but darkness until a spark in the distance caught his attention. It was a city that moved with the same erratic and beautiful light the woman was made of. Every building seemed to twist in an Escher-like zigaraut, spiraling upward. As he made it out and tried to look closer, she moved away, carrying him into the darkness. In two steps, they were near the desert again; he could see it from here.
There was no formality to her departure or his descent; she was gone a moment later. The camping chair dug into his sides where her arms had been. The stars seemed to have got the memo as well, resuming their natural places. Restless dunes were dormant now as if hibernating for the next season. The fire moved in slow motion casting odd shadows for a moment before speeding up unnaturally to catch up and fall into sync with reality. He wiped a hand over his eyes and reached for the water at his foot. He took a deep breath while listening to the silence of the dunes and the crackling fire nearby. Content and connected, he smiled.
Rob is a Certified Ganjier and the owner of Apartment 113 Cannabis Connoisseurship & Consulting. He has a lifetime of cannabis experience, having started as a cultivator and hashmaker in Denver's medical days. He now works as a product manager and agile coach for BLAZE Seed-To-Sale. Apartment113.com
There he sat, as if a spectator of an event, witnessing chaos emerge from nothingness.
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Photo Courtesy of Jimmy Larry
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I closed my eyes, and that's exactly when I entered the galaxy.
First, my chest started to feel that feeling of impending doom mixed with elated happiness. It's called passion. It takes over and I usually don't know what to do. So, I grabbed my chest and hoped to magically heal my heart. I started crying and then the emotions were released. I closed my eyes. I saw a shape. I saw a heart. I saw an entire new world.
I felt compelled to wipe my tears and grab my journal. I knew something was happening. My chest felt so passionately eager to reach someone. To reach her. To reach....SANDRA. My hand started to write out, "Sandi, where are you!?" In my state of mind, I knew I didn't know who Sandra was, but I also knew to blindly trust this passionate feeling I had in my chest for her.
I could see her, my purple goddess. We were floating, again, along dark pipes, elevated and somehow suspended, yet not floating. It wasn't dark enough in this world. I could see some daylight, which was something I never experienced with her.
The intricacies of his feathers and attachments to his head gear were breathtaking. The precision in detail was out of this world. And I guess I was too.
With such a vision, I had lost Sandra. Soon after, I recall lying on my bedroom floor and remembering that Animal Collective was going to be coming to town in concert. I decided to listen to their song, “In the Flowers.” I label songs as "my favorite" if they have a hook that is unlike any other part of the song. I like that this song is filled with higher notes that tend to drop without any mid-range notes in between. I don't know why this is. It feels similar to a roller coaster; the way you spend so many emotions cycling through the mystery of what the drop will feel like, and then when you're finally suspended, it lasts seconds that feel like the fastest seconds of your life.
The middle part of the song, at roughly 2:25 - "If I could just leave my body for a night..." - is when my body jolted up and decided to take action. The amount of chaotic noise produced in that instance of the song is quite beautiful to me. Submerged in the high, light notes you can hear a drum, consistent with a tribal beat. That drum
As I danced in the dark to my modern-day passion band, I knew I was receiving a message. The song was coming to an end, my emotions were slowly diminishing. I knew I had to take action. The first thought that entered my head was my sister. I grabbed my phone and somehow figured out to take it off airplane mode (this is always a practice I do before liftoff).
As I fumbled through her text-thread, I started to type, "Please help me with the logistics of buying a ticket for the Animal Collective concert this Thursday." After a few more dozen frantic pleas, she agreed. Once I saw the ticket purchase, my emotions of relief came over me. I sat on my bed with my heart rate quickly dropping. I breathed heavily after dancing in my room. What was happening? I was going to a concert alone. I closed my eyes and asked why?
My fears keep me closed in as a hermit, usually. I had heard the band was going to be coming to town but I instantly visualized myself in a swarm of sweat and airborne diseases. I could visualize myself dropping to the ground as random pops continued to go off. And the worst part of it all was going to be the drive across the bridge of water to get to the concert venue.
No, I wouldn't do any of it. I have never seen Animal Collective live and, yes, I imagined it to be something amazing, especially on a little bit of mushies, but me and my safe ways would not allow it. Until now. Until I closed my eyes and asked why. I saw a large globe with a cartoon face smiling at me. A skinny hand extended off this playful globe. He said, "You came to this earth to have experiences! Well, here's an experience!"
I could see a makeshift band performing on a stage that he somehow enlarged like a magnifying glass, stemming from the Florida peninsula. I telepathically begged to know why again. "This is where you'll find your tribe. You must go!"
I don't usually get out. I have slowly diminished my desire to be among adventures. I tripped while sitting in my mother's back porch lanai, enjoying the most beautiful fireworks show in the sky.
We used to go to the movies on firework nights because the theaters were empty. The last time I entered a movie theater was in 2013. My father died the next year. He loved the movies. He wanted to see Sandra Bullock in that space movie. I remembered we both didn’t particularly like it, however he thoroughly enjoyed watching her in films because he considered her as an intellectual with sharp looks.
I am genuinely writing this from my heart, and I am just now realizing what just happened here. I am a little spooked. I write like water. I just let it flow. Sandra Bullock. Sandra.
Perhaps there is a divine thing going on; maybe my father’s spirit is persuading me to have some fun again.
I have
chased romance for so long that I missed out on a lot of adventures. I am in love with my purple goddess, Sandra. She is in control, possessing maternal love, confidence toward my will, and an absolute eternal beauty.
Once I looked up the meaning of the name Sandra, I gasped and yelped out "Oh my god!" like I always do when I get punched in
the stomach with a synchronistic moment. The name Sandra means “helper of mankind.”
This is the kind of stuff that breaks your ego down. I remember being so atheistic and sticking my nose up at people who believed they were meditating. Yoga was just a part of being "posh." Fast forward to the present moment, and I'm all of a sudden wanting to rewatch Gravity.
I think this time I will cry my eyes out.
Nurse Natalie is a psychiatric and pediatric nurse who recently transitioned into the cannabis industry, and has been giving Florida’s medical cannabis patients guidance and knowledge on how to treat their ailments. She’s currently blogging to spread awareness on the medicinal qualities of cannabis and psychoactive plants.
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Photo Courtesy of Jurian Kersten
Photo Courtesy of Polygraphus
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I remember my daughter was sick and had to be hospitalized the day I bought my first eighth from her.
That day is burned into my brain for the rest of my life. I remember looking out the pediatric unit window, then looking back at my helpless, almost limp child. I felt empty. For the first time, I felt absolutely nothing. Then, the thought crossed my mind. I have weed at home… When I get home none of this will matter anymore, and I can smoke.
By Scarlet Weaver
he first true experience I had with cannabis was in my late teens. In high school, I had a handful of people I knew who had smoked cannabis before. They always
T have the whole “Say no to drugs!” bullshit in school. You know the one, where they show you pictures of drug addicts and tell you that’s what will happen to you. I must admit I never once believed that cannabis would do any of the things they said it would. Being in the Bible Belt, I pretty much assumed most things I was taught were highly exaggerated because eternal damnation was on the line.
After many years of having less than stellar “parents,” I was a little damaged, and cannabis started to seem more and more enticing. So, what does any 17-year-old with a horrible parentchild relationship and years of sexual trauma do? We find a stranger who can get us what we want. Long story short, I spent my 17th birthday higher than Jesus, eating my body weight in food at Denny’s, and checking out animals at the pet store.
Yes, It Is Indeed Ironic
A week after my introduction to the stoner world I was pulled over and arrested for possession. I’m sure you can imagine how well that went over with my mother. This experience sent me on a path of prescription drug abuse and self-destruction. I truly don’t know how I came out alive. There were nights I didn’t think I would wake up. When I got clean, doctors and psychiatrists told me weed was what made me a drug addict, but I still didn’t believe them. I had my experience, and I knew better than what they were telling me.
In the years following my arrest, I got married, pregnant, and separated, then moved halfway across the country. My love affair with the green goddess had been on pause for some time, but, just like a faithful lover, she came back to me - and oh, how sweet she was.
There was a beautiful woman I met who changed my life. Her personality was electric. She was gorgeous, bubbly, successful, and established - and she was the biggest stoner I had ever met.
At that time in my life, I felt like I was in a living hell. I worked so much that I never got to see my daughter awake. I wasn’t eating, and liquor had become my best friend. My boss threatened to fire me every other week and had people following me around work. I felt as though I had no escape from my circumstances, but cannabis was always there for me to take a mental break from it all. While I don’t necessarily recommend using it to escape your life, that is exactly what I did. For a long time, it worked for me rather well.
Allowing the Space for Healing
Then along came my current partner, Brad. When I met him, the way in which I used cannabis changed dramatically. Through him I was able to quit my job and become the stay at home mom I didn’t know I wanted to be. I decided that having all of this newfound extra time was the perfect excuse to finally relax a little. At that point, the occasional cannabis use became my therapy. Not in a self-discovery way, but more so in a way that allowed for the deepest level of relaxation I had ever experienced. After a year or so of relaxing my nervous system, the traumas I had experienced began to bubble up.
Photo of Writer Scarlet Weaver
Thankfully, because of cannabis, I was able to avoid opioids and my second baby was born healthy and strong.
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Photo by Ahmed Zayan
