One problem any dedicated stoner has is finding a dealer who can provide consistently high-quality cannabis. Spice is always consistent. It's a guaranteed hit at a guaranteed level. A weed enthusiast will use several strands of cannabis, some stronger than others, some with varying effects. For me, spice has only one guaranteed effect: stoned, passive, dead weight, heavy-hearted dullness. A pale-faced painkiller, shutting the world off to you and you off to the world. Other accounts suggest it's capable of sending users into a frenzy, with some harming either themselves or others. Either way, it's not exactly the most desirable high.Not long ago, the UK's legal high market flourished. A seemingly infinite range of new synthetic cannabinoids emerged, all with different names, but sold in the same near-identical vacuum-packed bags. Eventually they released the stuff branded as Black Mamba, which quickly became my smoke of choice. One evening around that time I was passed a joint made purely from extremely strong, high-grade, instant-amnesia cannabis. I inhaled and didn't feel a thing. I must have smoked about a half ounce that evening, trying in vain to get stoned.Related: How Synthetic Weed Is Ravaging Brooklyn's Homeless Population
I've stopped now, though; cut the tie Black Mamba had on me. In the weeks that followed my decision to quit, I felt fairly healthy. I ate well and considered myself to have a normal life.Recently, the situation has changed. A sickness. Doctors are involved. Blood tests. Stool tests. All they can find is an excessive white blood cell count, supposedly triggered by certain cannabinoids and high levels of stress. There's no concrete evidence as yet, but it would make sense that years of ingesting an unknown mix of chemicals might have some sort of adverse effect on my body.What alarms me most are the uncharted long-term effects of what I've been choosing to inhale. I'd done a bit of research, found nothing of any real concern, rolled another joint and carried on not really caring about anything: in retrospect, such a strange, dangerous approach to take.READ ON MOTHERBOARD: It's Really Easy to Create Your Very Own Legal High
Just over three years. A long time. Looking back it had an effect on everything. Money. Relationships. Operations. Friends. Family. It took first place. It always took everything.
The feeling has passed now. It lasts for about ten minutes. A short smash into whatever pit you were previously digging into. At first it is not the comfortable cradle one might associate with heroin, or cannabis. I pushed it. I missed it. To me, weed is the only sin I allow myself to commit. Or think I'm committing. Sometimes it is more about how guilty you intend to make yourself feel. There is no real evidence. Blood. Inability to get stoned, Frightening moods. And my creativity is weak. Dead. Dull. The light is something else. Some chemical, brutalized version. And boy does it mess your lungs up. Sick. Unavoidable. It's a melancholy trip. It does have positive traits. It is very addictive.
But I see it now for what it really is. The black snake all along. There is guilt; soul-kicking sadness. And the dead part of your chest wakes. Tell myself it's going to be alright. I have annihilated, eradicated my memories. I have emotive, strongly-felt memories. But details are my devil. I see it all now. How deeply layered the hold is. A drug that smashes, bends, and drowns all the elements of myself I'm too terrified to admit.