A normal person would call you on the phone and start the conversation with something normal, like, say. My dog died. That way I could give the proper sympathies that are due. My friend, who I shall call Darrin, is not normal. Ring. Ring. Hey, do you want the left over low-dose capsules of edible oils I had made up for the dog? Why? Oh, well, the dog’s dead. Oh Darrin.
Trying these was never the plan. But three things happened around the same time. One. The above. Two. My other friend explained how her prescription edibles were helping her anxiety really, really, well. And three. Not sleeping properly, ever, for as long as I have, is very trying, and will make you amenable to almost anything that might help.
My responsible friend shows up with the bag of capsules, and very carefully explains, take one, if you feel nothing, take two the next night, repeat until you see if they work. Okay fine. The first night I take two. Nothing happens. The next night, three. Same results. I opened them up under my tongue to really make sure they took effect, too.
The next night, I’m sitting beside my husband watching things: One. Is this really gonna work? Two. Three. Will it really make me feel anything? Four. Five. What does being high actually feel like? Six. How’s the movie? Eight. Nine. Oops I’ve absently minded taken a lot of these, time to put them back in the fridge.
Its kind of like being a teenager and never having been drunk before. You know being intoxicated is a thing, you’ve seen it. But you can’t actually know what it feels like because well, how do you know what it feels like until you’ve tried it. So can you actually genuinely believe that just drinking a liquid is going to make you start behaving like an idiot? And then before you know it you’ve had way too much alcohol, and all your friends are laughing at you because you’re lying on the ground asking, “Are you sure I’m drunk yet?!!!”
I think this is what my brain was doing. Doubting.
Now all would have been fine, and this story simply wouldn’t be, except my husband decided he was going to start a conversation with me. I was tucked in on the couch, with my laptop, watching Youtube, half asleep already. I mean, that’s what I was taking them for, right? To sleep?
But he had to ask me a question. From the kitchen. I proceeded to get up and that’s where the fun starts. I stood up and swooned into the archway between the living-room and diningroom. “Oh this is fun, do you think I might be high?” And I proceeded to repeat this. Stand up. Swoon into the next room. Fall over. Giggle. And ask, “Am I high?” Stand up. Take two steps. Swoon onto the floor. Giggle. Get back up. And do it all over again on purpose.
After watching me take a nosedive into the kitchen chimney for the fifth time and laugh about it, and having been asked if I was high for a about tenth time, my long-suffering husband grabbed me just as I was about to start on my fourth trip back and forth between the kitchen and the couch. He frog-marched me across the apartment and brought me to a halt in front of the bathroom mirror. Never failing to be completely logical about things, I took one look and pronounced, “Hey look, I’ve got no pupils! I must be high!” Whereupon he muttered, Finally. Marched me back to the couch and placed cheesy hotdogs in front of me, presumably to keep me in one place for more than five seconds. However, that’s where my laptop was.
So I thought it would be fun to start messaging people, and who better to start with than my friend. “Hey Darrin, guess what, I’m really high.” No. Shit Sherlock. “I told you to only take two or three. Are you okay? Are you sure? I don’t want to be responsible for one of my favourite people…”
“I’m your favourite person?!!!!” I type-yelled back. I’m sure he probably finished with “coming to harm.” (But I apparently really liked the idea that I’m his favourite person.) I didn’t. My husband eventually tucked me back under blankets on the couch where after a few hours of alternately blathering about all the problems in the universe, bawling my head off, and giggling a hell of a lot, and basically simultaneously having all the happy and all the anxiety ramped up to ten, I did eventually fall asleep.
I decided the next morning, much to the amusement of my husband, that I think I prefer my regular falling asleep routine. Which usually includes not falling asleep for a very long time, watching all the interesting crimes youtubers like to profile, finally becoming exhausted enough to sleep, and then promptly having nightmares about all it. I have also since come to the conclusion that if I am going to try an edible that might have a chance of working, it should probably be formulated for me and not for Darrin’s dog. Rest in peace, Maggie.
I told my friend that I was writing this article, and he goes, “Yeah you’re a bonehead.” I told him to remember that I was the writer of this article and I could either make him the hero, or the villain, so he should be careful what he says. Grin. He totally is the hero though. He’s the guy who came to my hospital room and brought me every single snack I could think to request from Bulk Barn. And, “But I brought everything in tiny amounts so you can’t over eat anything.” Yes. Because my figure is exactly what I’m thinking about whilst about to start my first chemo treatment. Oh Darrin.
Upon hearing about this post my another friend magically produced a made-for-humans version, but I’m reserving judgement until I’ve followed all the instructions for a while. However, it does seem to help me sleep. Night!
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