many things

April 9, 2013

I’m not dead. Yet. I’ve just been knitting and watching documentaries.

I have also been slowly recovering from a spike in rapid cycling, which sometimes happens. I distanced myself from people and gave myself some time alone. It helps me to become reclusive. People tend to set me off, and I don’t want to hurt them by saying something ridiculous that I didn’t mean to say.

During these times the dumbest things come out of my mouth. For one, I can’t speak straight, so my words are jumbled, and sometimes I stutter. Once one of the new hires at work got very suddenly too close to me and it frightened / unnerved me so much (because if there is one thing I hate with a passion, it is people getting too close to me without prior permission) that I started hard enough to gasp for breath and immediately hit a s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s. I had been trying to say the word “six”.

She giggled and asked if I was okay. All I could do was mumble yes and get back to what I had been doing, as far away from her as possible.

See, all of this comes back weeks after it happens. I couldn’t have written about this instance directly after it had happened; not even days afterward. It had to settle and boil down and be analyzed from top to bottom. I think I hurt her feelings, because she seemed to approach me gentler after that. Anyway, she only showed up for one more day, then quit.

I was relieved. I could not have dealt with extremely sudden invasions of my personal space. Work is stressful enough and my manager doesn’t have any understanding of personal space because she is affable and touchy and grew up in a house where you reach out and lightly smack another every time you say something you feel is remotely funny for some reason. One more closing in on my space makes me feel sick.

I’ve been known to say things that are entirely inappropriate. Hell, it’s my specialty. I don’t say these things in a comedic kind of way, though–oh no. I have to be awkward as hell. I have to turn a shade of puce when I talk and look suspicious because I fidget and lose eye contact.


But, it’s okay. It happens. The best thing to do I have found in this situation is to just keep your mouth shut and try to think what it is you want to say rather than actually say it, even if you do feel it is relevant, because it probably is not.

It helps, it really, really helps, to have a conscious rein on things. My rein is “okay it’s time to go hide inside and knit for days upon days now.”



March 20, 2013

And fuck if I don’t feel like I fit in anywhere. Is alienation a symptom of bipolar disorder or am I just paranoid right now? That “no one understands me, baw” feeling. Ugh, I hate it, it is pretentious, but fuck if I don’t feel like I fit in anywhere.

But you know. Bawww, whine, whatever. I was raised to believe that nothing I said had merit and people don’t pay me any mind anyway, so I don’t feel as if talking about this feeling is–well, let’s just say that when I feel this way, another voice tells me “shut up, cuntface, who the fuck gives a shit” which is true, completely true, wholly true.

Little Piece

March 12, 2013

My preferred smoking method is a pipe; after that, bong, vaporizer, joint. Pipes aren’t the best way to imbibe cannabis–you tend to inhale ash and sometimes resin, if you don’t use a screen and your pipe is super dirty. But I love the art of glass pipes, bongs included. They’re beautiful. Pipes also collect resin, which can be rolled up into balls, sometimes in piles of cannabis powder (called kief) and smoked when cannabis is not available. Resin extract gives you a different high than smoking actual cannabis, and it is disgusting–it stinks, it turns your teeth yellow, and it tends to give me a headache, nausea, blegh, but it has helped me sleep in past dry spells, which is the most important thing.

I collect every last bit of cannabis that I can for reuse, barring seeds and stems. I will smoke 75% of a bowl and save the rest for the end of the week, when I’ve just about run out and am waiting on the paycheck / dealer. It doesn’t taste great, but it’s about ten steps above resin.

Seeds and stems can be recycled for things like edibles and teas, but I just don’t have the motivation to get that crafty. Plus, echinacea tea will do in a pinch if one needs a tea that induces a high.

People in town know I smoke; at least, those that smoke do. You have to share with the people that know you, in the event that one day you will need them to share with you. Cannabis culture is as unique as the area it exists in, and in our area, the community is linked by who you know, who has helped you when in need, and who has fucked with you or yours. Society is always a jungle, most especially when it revolves around a valuable substance.

The best way to conserve your cannabis, at all, is to keep the fact that you smoke to yourself.

Life with cannabis is peaceful if precarious. It’s a completely wonderful atmosphere–mostly, people are kindly and gentle-hearted, willing to commune with each other and help the needy. Mostly.

But you never turn your back on a drug, as Thompson once so wisely advised.