Addict.

Currently on day three of quitting weed.

If you work with me, no you don’t.

I’ve been chronically smoking without a break for almost five years. It started a couple of months before Morgan died.

Marijuana had recently been legalized in Michigan, and my best friend was actively dying.

They tell you that pot isn’t addictive. They’re absolutely wrong.

I became a creature of habit, smoking throughout the day—anything to keep my baseline as numb as possible.

I successfully quit nicotine after two or three years of vaping. This should be easy as pie, but it’s not.

Not only do I have the same tongue waggles (oral fixation), but I’m also sweaty and vibrating out of my skin. Marijuana helped me sleep. It kept me stable when no one else could.

The sheer anxiety I would feel when I was running out of bud, or when I had to go somewhere long-term where I couldn’t smoke, was unusual for someone who supposedly wasn’t “addicted.” My irritability would skyrocket.

On day two of quitting, my mood swings were completely out of control. Granted, I’m choosing to do this during my luteal phase. Silly me.

It’s just time. I ran out. There’s no buying again.

Along with the mood swings came the desire to self-harm.

I told my partner, partly just so he’d be aware of how fragile I was feeling. I’ve been met with so much support, and I’m sincerely so grateful for him.

This desire terrifies me, because I haven’t self-harmed in thirteen years.

Everything I’ve been suppressing is bubbling over.

And then today, the nightmares started.

I visited all of my usual “dream” buildings—the kind that feel familiar enough that you know exactly where you are, but there’s just enough wrong with them that you can identify the fact that you’re still dreaming.

In this nightmare, Morgan died again.

By drowning.

I saw people I used to work with at Tyson working at my current job. They brought the hostility with them.

My ex-husband’s grandma was there, and she hated me.

My current partner hated the speech I gave at my ex-best friend’s wedding, even though I wasn’t invited in real life.

That event took place in the strange, massive auditorium connected to a high school I’ve visited countless times in my dreams.

Then there was the bizarre family house, where every room was connected by a door—like my aunt’s house growing up, or an old motel where two suites connect through an interior door.

I was being stalked by my ex.

I saw dead animals. I’ve witnessed a lot of animal death over the past half decade.

These are only the things I can remember.

When I woke up, I was drenched in sweat and shaking.

I woke up my partner to let the dog out because I needed to shower before I could walk her. Then I broke down in panic-attack tears.

My heart was racing. The adrenaline from five years of tragedies was coursing through me.

I haven’t been as hungry. The munchies were one of the first things to go.

I can only hope and pray this helps me lose a little weight.

HOWEVER, I also understand that the food wars are about to start, so an extra 60 pounds might mean the matter of life and death a couple of years from now.

Allegedly, this gets easier after about a week, and by a month, it should be MOSTLY out of my system. If I can make it to 21 days, it’ll be a broken habit.

One of the worst parts is the boredom.

Sleeping used to be one of my hobbies, and now I don’t want to touch it with a ten-foot pole if it means I have to go back to that nightmarish hell.

And yet, I’m very proud of myself.

I’ve tried to quit this so many times, but I always failed. I’d let the anxiety consume me until I couldn’t take it anymore, and I needed to be saved from another hit.

This time, I ran out.

And there’s no buying again.

After all this, my only vice left will be energy drinks.

And you can pry those from my cold, dead hands.