J
JohnJacobson
Poor little rich kid. I struggle with those four words every day of my life.
I started smoking weed at age 16, because it helped me focus in school, and it helped with my anger towards the entire female race and my parents. Marijuana gave me, and still gives me, a reason to get up in the morning.
I never stole from my parents to get marijuana, nor was I in any way, shape, or form, a bad kid. There was no disobedience in my home growing up. My parents were strict, controlling, overbearing micromanagers, who wished to live in a drug-free home...well...a marijuana-free home...my dad's a psychiatrist, and swears by any thing man-made by a doctor, even if it makes me suffer unbearible side effects.
Like most kids, I got caught smoking weed by my parents, but they took it to a whole new level. I was grounded for a year and half, not allowed to see or speak to my marijuana-only using friends, was constantly told, "you put us through hell." It makes me sick to my stomach, just writing those words. Of course, I tried so hard to quit marijuana, but couldn't. I'm not good at anything else. I'm a guy, so the choice of friends I have are sports or gaming freaks, douchebags, fratboy bros (I don't drink), and I have co-ordination difficulties, so I can't play sports or most video games, without getting pathologically and hazardously frustrated. So...I smoke weed, and hang out with potheads...
What's the big f*cking deal? I'm a straight-a student, with a job, who's respectful to his parents, the only thing wrong, was that I smoked weed.
Well...if I didn't change my ways, I got constant threats that I would be kicked out of the house. My dad and brother drove me to two homeless shelters, and asked to book tours. The people at both places gave my dad a wierd look, and told them that wasn't possible.
My dad wants a drug free home, and by god he'll get one.
When I was able to lie my way into getting the least bit of freedom, I was subject to strip-searches and interrogations every night, when I got home. It made me feel less than human. I think this is a little over the top for weed, and this was when I came home on time, I wouldn't dare come a minute late.
Anyways, I eventually got caught, and kicked out of the house, in the middle of winter, with a cold.
Now this may not seem like a big deal, but I was 21 years old, and not allowed to ride my bike in the park after dark, so hopefully that gives you an idea of how sheltered I was, and how behind I was emotionally. My parents thought I was this rebellious infantile retard, and treated as such. What right did they have, after sheltering me, and shackling me up, to throw me to the wolves??
I had to move from my nice home, and warm comfy bed, to a hardwood floor, and I had to constantly worry, if I was going to have enough money to make it through the month. I did not want to have to come crawling back to them.
Anyways, things are going ok, and then BOOM! Around march, april 2009, the 2008 us recession begins to hit us, and then of course, hours are cut across the board, food prices go up, and I can no longer afford to sleep on a hardwood floor, in one of the poorest neighbourhoods in the city.
I eventually moved in with a random customer, I met at the grocery store where I worked.
This woman, bless her heart, only had good intentions, when she said I could live with her. She had an awful time of things, growing up. She was abused, raped (by both her father and stepfather), and has every disadvantage that a person could have in our society. She was also quite volotile, and used to scream at me, over the smallest things. She threw full on tantrums, and freaked out about everything. Coming from a stern, respectable, middle class home (an actual nuclear family), this was quite a distressing culture shock....but hey, at least I can smoke all the weed I want, right? It was the stress of living with this woman, that drove to start using harder drugs to cope with my anxiety. Now I didn't want to use hard drugs, it's just that I had to stuff my emotions down, so I could put food on the table, and save up for first and last month's rent, so I could get out of there. I lived there for 5 months, and it was hell. I became a heavy alcoholic, and that stopped working for me pretty quickly, so I graduated to amphetamines, MDMA, and my personal favourite, DXM.
I became good friends with another fellow, she had taken in years ago. This kid was kicked out for being gay. He had a very very very hard life. Anyways, I eventually moved in with him. I tried crack cocaine with him, and I inhaled, and I loved it! He dissappeared the next day, and I never saw him again...this was after I gave him the first and last month's rent that I had spent months saving up.
So here I was...out of a place again...I was finally able to move in with some friends, and had great run of things, until one of my roommates ends up in jail, and my other roommate and I can't afford the place on our own...so now, I'm out of a place...AGAIN...
It's funny, even with a crack addiction, I was still able to hold a job, and pay my rent...ON TIME...at the beginning of every month!
My last option was to ask my dad to borrow money for first and last month's rent. My dad would only lend me the money, if I decided to go through treatment. I said ok.
With my most honest, and forceful efforts, I was not able to stay sober for very long. I relapsed multiple times in treatment, all of which my parents don't know about.
My parents think that someone can just magically wave a wand and make their addiction stop, and it's that easy.
Well...after several years of harassment from my parents, 1.5 years of near-homelessness at the mercy of society, and 4 months of unneffective treatment, I'm pretty much tired and useless at this point.
I now rely on my parents for handouts, even though I was perfectly able to work, and support myself before.
After I left treatment, I was so sick, I couldn't even leave my room. I had severe anxiety, and I couldn't eat or sleep.
I started looking for tempwork, and with my great references, I quickly and easily got work. Just low-wage, general labour-type stuff. I met a friend at one of my jobs, who had constant access to MDMA, and I started doing that again, and I was finally able to feel human again.
I went from hating food, hating eating, to loving food, and loving to cook. I still suffer with terrible flashbacks and intrusive recall, but it's not as debilitating as it once was.
But every week or so, I'd get a phone call from my dad, threatening to cut me off, if I dared relapse.
I have been living a lie for two years, my parents have been supporting me, and I know that they'll cut me off, if they find out I've relapsed. Once I get on the hard drugs, it's hard to stop. Crack is a waste of money, but I still like DXM, speed, and MDMA, and weed. I take MDMA intravenously, because no medications work. I've jsut gotten a psychiatrist now, after 2 years of waiting, and...well...I'm sure I don't have to tell anyone here, how shitty the mental health system is...
Right now, I'm tired...so tired...and no one will validate me, or my trauma, and I'm wondering if what I went through was actually a trauma. Therapists won't give me a straight answer.
Maybe you guys can.
Thank you very much for taking the time to read this.
Sincerely,
J.J.
I started smoking weed at age 16, because it helped me focus in school, and it helped with my anger towards the entire female race and my parents. Marijuana gave me, and still gives me, a reason to get up in the morning.
I never stole from my parents to get marijuana, nor was I in any way, shape, or form, a bad kid. There was no disobedience in my home growing up. My parents were strict, controlling, overbearing micromanagers, who wished to live in a drug-free home...well...a marijuana-free home...my dad's a psychiatrist, and swears by any thing man-made by a doctor, even if it makes me suffer unbearible side effects.
Like most kids, I got caught smoking weed by my parents, but they took it to a whole new level. I was grounded for a year and half, not allowed to see or speak to my marijuana-only using friends, was constantly told, "you put us through hell." It makes me sick to my stomach, just writing those words. Of course, I tried so hard to quit marijuana, but couldn't. I'm not good at anything else. I'm a guy, so the choice of friends I have are sports or gaming freaks, douchebags, fratboy bros (I don't drink), and I have co-ordination difficulties, so I can't play sports or most video games, without getting pathologically and hazardously frustrated. So...I smoke weed, and hang out with potheads...
What's the big f*cking deal? I'm a straight-a student, with a job, who's respectful to his parents, the only thing wrong, was that I smoked weed.
Well...if I didn't change my ways, I got constant threats that I would be kicked out of the house. My dad and brother drove me to two homeless shelters, and asked to book tours. The people at both places gave my dad a wierd look, and told them that wasn't possible.
My dad wants a drug free home, and by god he'll get one.
When I was able to lie my way into getting the least bit of freedom, I was subject to strip-searches and interrogations every night, when I got home. It made me feel less than human. I think this is a little over the top for weed, and this was when I came home on time, I wouldn't dare come a minute late.
Anyways, I eventually got caught, and kicked out of the house, in the middle of winter, with a cold.
Now this may not seem like a big deal, but I was 21 years old, and not allowed to ride my bike in the park after dark, so hopefully that gives you an idea of how sheltered I was, and how behind I was emotionally. My parents thought I was this rebellious infantile retard, and treated as such. What right did they have, after sheltering me, and shackling me up, to throw me to the wolves??
I had to move from my nice home, and warm comfy bed, to a hardwood floor, and I had to constantly worry, if I was going to have enough money to make it through the month. I did not want to have to come crawling back to them.
Anyways, things are going ok, and then BOOM! Around march, april 2009, the 2008 us recession begins to hit us, and then of course, hours are cut across the board, food prices go up, and I can no longer afford to sleep on a hardwood floor, in one of the poorest neighbourhoods in the city.
I eventually moved in with a random customer, I met at the grocery store where I worked.
This woman, bless her heart, only had good intentions, when she said I could live with her. She had an awful time of things, growing up. She was abused, raped (by both her father and stepfather), and has every disadvantage that a person could have in our society. She was also quite volotile, and used to scream at me, over the smallest things. She threw full on tantrums, and freaked out about everything. Coming from a stern, respectable, middle class home (an actual nuclear family), this was quite a distressing culture shock....but hey, at least I can smoke all the weed I want, right? It was the stress of living with this woman, that drove to start using harder drugs to cope with my anxiety. Now I didn't want to use hard drugs, it's just that I had to stuff my emotions down, so I could put food on the table, and save up for first and last month's rent, so I could get out of there. I lived there for 5 months, and it was hell. I became a heavy alcoholic, and that stopped working for me pretty quickly, so I graduated to amphetamines, MDMA, and my personal favourite, DXM.
I became good friends with another fellow, she had taken in years ago. This kid was kicked out for being gay. He had a very very very hard life. Anyways, I eventually moved in with him. I tried crack cocaine with him, and I inhaled, and I loved it! He dissappeared the next day, and I never saw him again...this was after I gave him the first and last month's rent that I had spent months saving up.
So here I was...out of a place again...I was finally able to move in with some friends, and had great run of things, until one of my roommates ends up in jail, and my other roommate and I can't afford the place on our own...so now, I'm out of a place...AGAIN...
It's funny, even with a crack addiction, I was still able to hold a job, and pay my rent...ON TIME...at the beginning of every month!
My last option was to ask my dad to borrow money for first and last month's rent. My dad would only lend me the money, if I decided to go through treatment. I said ok.
With my most honest, and forceful efforts, I was not able to stay sober for very long. I relapsed multiple times in treatment, all of which my parents don't know about.
My parents think that someone can just magically wave a wand and make their addiction stop, and it's that easy.
Well...after several years of harassment from my parents, 1.5 years of near-homelessness at the mercy of society, and 4 months of unneffective treatment, I'm pretty much tired and useless at this point.
I now rely on my parents for handouts, even though I was perfectly able to work, and support myself before.
After I left treatment, I was so sick, I couldn't even leave my room. I had severe anxiety, and I couldn't eat or sleep.
I started looking for tempwork, and with my great references, I quickly and easily got work. Just low-wage, general labour-type stuff. I met a friend at one of my jobs, who had constant access to MDMA, and I started doing that again, and I was finally able to feel human again.
I went from hating food, hating eating, to loving food, and loving to cook. I still suffer with terrible flashbacks and intrusive recall, but it's not as debilitating as it once was.
But every week or so, I'd get a phone call from my dad, threatening to cut me off, if I dared relapse.
I have been living a lie for two years, my parents have been supporting me, and I know that they'll cut me off, if they find out I've relapsed. Once I get on the hard drugs, it's hard to stop. Crack is a waste of money, but I still like DXM, speed, and MDMA, and weed. I take MDMA intravenously, because no medications work. I've jsut gotten a psychiatrist now, after 2 years of waiting, and...well...I'm sure I don't have to tell anyone here, how shitty the mental health system is...
Right now, I'm tired...so tired...and no one will validate me, or my trauma, and I'm wondering if what I went through was actually a trauma. Therapists won't give me a straight answer.
Maybe you guys can.
Thank you very much for taking the time to read this.
Sincerely,
J.J.
