With Weed I Am Wounded but Witty

When I smoke weed, it’s as though a veil is gently lifted from my mind… a veil I didn’t even realize I’d stitched together over years of fear, shame, and the instinct to protect myself from being misunderstood. The threads of that veil aren’t always obvious until they loosen. They’re made of past betrayals, quiet rejections, moments when I was punished for being too much or not enough. They come from the way people shrink from rawness, from emotional honesty, and the way I’ve learned to hide what hurts because I’ve been met, too often, with silence, dismissal, or that empty, glazed-over look people give when you’re saying something too real for them to hold.

I don’t suddenly become someone else when I’m high. That’s the misconception. I don’t float away, I don’t forget who I am. If anything, I remember more clearly. I become more myself. More whole. More present. The parts of me that are usually tucked away… delicate, complicated, sacred parts… step forward with less hesitation. Thoughts that are typically buried beneath panic, perfectionism, and people-pleasing begin to surface. Not like a flood, but like petals opening slowly under moonlight. They don’t feel dangerous anymore. They don’t cut or sting. They just are. And strangely, they’re beautiful.

Weed doesn’t erase my pain or confusion. It doesn’t take away the bruises life has left on my psyche or the inflammation that hums quietly through my body. But it softens the edges. It turns sharp glass into sea glass. And I can hold the pain then, without trembling. I can look at it and say, “There you are. I see you. And I’m not afraid of you tonight.”

There’s something about the way it quiets the inner critic… the voice that lives inside me like a ghost of every disapproving face I’ve ever known. That voice, so quick to interrupt every word I want to speak, every sentence I start to write, fades into the background. It doesn’t vanish completely, but it loses its power. And what’s left is a gentler, kinder mental space. A space where I can breathe deeply. A space where my own voice is allowed to echo, not because it’s polished or perfect, and it’s not…  but because it’s mine.

When I’m high, I can trace my emotions to their roots. I can walk through the dark rooms of my memory without flinching. I can sit in the presence of my own rage, sorrow, longing, and stillness without needing to apologize for them. I don’t rush past them. I greet them. Sometimes, I even thank them.

Weed doesn’t give me thoughts I don’t already have… it just unlocks the door I’m usually too afraid to open. The one where I keep the most wounded parts of myself, no matter how small or big. The memories that don’t have tidy endings. The questions I still don’t have answers for. The truth is, I don’t always know how to speak from that place when I’m sober. I feel the pull, but I resist it. There’s fear there. What if I go too deep? What if I speak and no one hears me… or worse, they hear me and walk away?

But when I smoke or eat edibles, that fear dissolves just enough to try.

What most, who judge me, even slightly, for the use of a plant, get outrageously wrong is… It’s not about escaping… it’s about entering. Entering myself, my soul.. Entering the places I usually seal off to survive the day. It’s like diving into water I was always too cold to swim in, and realizing it’s not as terrifying as I thought. It’s warmer than I expected. Calmer. Familiar.

I feel braver in the act of sharing. I feel less afraid of my own honesty. I don’t second-guess every word. I don’t talk in circles or dilute what I mean so it feels more digestible to someone else. When I’m high, I trust my voice. I trust that the things I feel deeply deserve to be felt and spoken. That my pain has poetry in it. That my wounds are not just open… they are speaking.

Science might say it’s just neurotransmitters, dopamine, or reduced activity in the amygdala. And sure, maybe that’s part of it. But what I feel is far more intimate than chemicals. It’s like an unlocking… a spiritual loosening. A returning. Vulnerability doesn’t feel like a trap or a gamble. It feels like truth finally allowed to breathe. Like I’m breathing with it.

Weed grants me permission I struggle to give myself… to be unfiltered, real, and wide open. Like I am inside my mind, soul, and veins. There is a sacred openness that blooms inside me when I smoke or eat edibles. I become less armored. Less performative. Less busy trying to prove my worth. I stop looking at myself through other people’s eyes. I just am.

And in that being, there is so much clarity.

I’ve lived with chronic pain, both physical and emotional, for what feels like lifetimes. The pain hums under my skin like a song only I can hear. It can make the world feel far away, unreachable. It’s hard to be present when your body is screaming and your heart is aching and your mind is sprinting from shadow to shadow. But weed doesn’t silence the song… it helps me harmonize with it. I stop fighting it. I stop pretending it’s not there. And in that acceptance I find peace.

It helps me reflect without spiraling. Helps me speak without unraveling. There are nights when I light up and the thoughts come out in perfect rhythm, like my soul is dictating lines to me and all I have to do is listen. Thoughts about my marriage, my stepchildren, the ways I’ve had to mother while still healing the child inside me. Thoughts about faith, loss, guilt, rage, resilience. The conflicting chaos of being soft and strong at the same time.

Writing becomes something powerful to me!

When I’m high, I don’t censor that. I don’t hide from it. I let it wash over me. And often, it brings me to tears. Not just from sadness… but from the relief of being allowed to feel without shame. That’s what it is, really. Weed removes the shame. The shame of being broken. The shame of being messy. The shame of wanting too much or needing too deeply. All of that falls away, and what remains is a woman who just wants to be seen. Heard. Loved.

Sometimes I speak aloud, just to hear the sound of my own honesty. Sometimes I write, scribbling poems and fragments and unfinished thoughts into the margins of old journals and all over my phone. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I laugh so hard I forget why I was ever angry. Every time, though, I arrive. At myself. At some small, tender truth that I couldn’t reach when I was stiff with fear and survival.

There is no ritual more intimate for me than getting high and sitting with myself… not to numb or escape, but to meet myself. To befriend the girl who still flinches when people raise their voice. To soothe the woman who carries too many expectations -and self-made ones- on her shoulders. To forgive the parts of me I’ve tried to banish.

I am not ashamed to say that weed is medicine for my spirit. It is a quiet lantern in the darkest corners of my mind. It is a balm for the wide-open places I usually guard so fiercely. And more than anything, it’s a bridge… between silence and speech, between isolation and expression, between hiding and blooming.

I don’t need to be high to be honest. But I do need to feel safe. And weed, somehow, helps create that safety inside me. It teaches me how to hold my truth gently. How to speak it without bracing for impact. How to exist in my full, aching, imperfect humanity without apology.

Maybe it’s not for everyone. But for me, it’s been a portal. A way back to the voice I buried long ago.

The one that still sings, still weeps, still hopes, still knows.

And I’ll keep listening.