Lighter

o n e

we'd get so high
we got lost coming d o w n . . .

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Smoking is an escape for me. Some people go to the gym, some bury themselves in their work, and others rely on their sense of creativity to relax. Anything to get away when life is too much to handle. But me? I light up and get high.

Yet this comes with a catch. I don't smoke because "I'm a pothead who doesn't give a shit about life", and I certainly don't do it to make people think I'm "cool". It's nothing like that, but I almost wish it was.

Getting high is just an easier form of medication for me. Suffering from anxiety and PTSD takes a toll on you, and sometimes I just want to relax without having to rely on a pill. Of course my anxiety medication helps, but it sure as hell doesn't cure it. Nothing cures it, and unfortunately I've grown to accept that after having my prescription for nearly six years now.

Anxiety is the feeling of too many things happening all at once when literally nothing is happening. It's when you don't even realize that you've been picking at your nail polish that you just painted on the day before until it's in crumbs on the floor. It's incessantly worrying what people will say and what they think about you when really, it doesn't matter, but your brain says otherwise. It's the blood in my veins feeling too warm, the air feeling too tightly wrapped around me, the thoughts in my head seeming completely ridiculous and yet there's nothing to stop them.

It's relentless, it comes in waves, and it can make you or break you.

Maybe in my next life, I'll get to know what it's like not having to live with a devil on my shoulder, persuading me that everything's going to be okay when he damn well knows it's not. But this devil doesn't have horns. He's not painted red. Christ, he's not even carrying a pitchfork. This kind of devil can't be mistaken for a Halloween costume because it takes on the face of a friend; someone you trust and believe in.

It's someone that knows every little weakness you have and uses it against you in any way possible. They dig deep down into the parts of yourself that you didn't know existed, and bring all your demons up to the surface. The demons you can't recognize anymore because you've become too accustomed to what they look like. It's not until you're crumpled in a pile on the floor like the blankets on your unmade bed, tears streaming down your face, blurring your vision and your mind that you think, what am I even freaking out about?

Add in the post-traumatic stress disorder that keeps me awake at night every bit as much as the anxiety does, with graphic reminders of the first time I ever truly experienced loss in my life at too young of an age, and I'm a walking disaster.

So yeah, living with all of this shit makes me want to get high every once in a while for the sake of feeling nothing.

In the backseat of my good friend Tommy's car was where I found myself on a Tuesday night doing just that. With it being late August, it didn't matter what day it actually was. I had in mind to keep living like I was in an endless paradise where the days never started or ended. At least, until classes began in about another two weeks.

Kurt passed me the joint from where he was situated in shotgun in front of me, straining his arm so I could reach it. Once I got it, I held it carefully between two fingers and my thumb, lifting it to my lips and inhaling. It was a routine I'd grown accustomed to, in the Buick that once belonged to Tommy's grandfather. After he passed away, Tommy got the car because he left it in his name. It's easily seen one too many days, in all types of weather, all around the Southeast, but by some miracle, it still worked. The leather interior was worn, there was a one in ten chance that the radio would work every time you turned it on, and the heat on the driver's side never worked. Nonetheless, it was a hell of a hangout spot.