One Bad Trip

Illustration by Ariana Kendricks | VOX Staff

By Name Withheld | VOX Staff

I could feel my high coming on, so I was about ready to leave my friends’ little weed-smoking get together and get back to school. However, I felt like I needed to lie down for a little while before climbing back behind the driver’s wheel of my mother’s car.

After lying down for about 10 or 15 minutes I tried to get up to leave, but I couldn’t stand. My legs didn’t want to work and all of a sudden I felt completely nauseated. I pulled myself up on the couch and knelt over it when I realized I was breathing really fast and I could feel my pulse start to race.

My friend Amber* came over to me and saw that something was wrong. She helped me get up on my feet, but almost as soon as she grabbed me I knew I was going to throw up. On my wobbly legs, I stumbled to the bathroom and started to blow chunks. I felt so sick so suddenly I thought I was going to puke up my stomach.

What’s wrong with me? I thought to myself. What have I done?

I threw up again, and at that moment I realized I was not having a good high. I thought I was about to die.

How Getting High Became a Habit
When I was little, my parents and my older brother constantly told me not to smoke. I call that the “Don’t push the red button” theory. If they told me not to do something over and over again, more than likely I was going to do it anyway. Besides, they all smoked all the time. I couldn’t help but wonder If smoking cigarettes is so bad, then why are you doing it? And they never told me why smoking is bad, they just told me not to do it.

I used to worry that my parents would one day die from smoking. And I thought it was a disgusting habit. But when I got older, you could say I finally pushed that red button and started smoking. By age 11, I occasionally smoked Black and Milds — my cigarette of choice. And by 13 I was a full-blown smoker. I learned it from my family, but I also smoked because many of my friends did, too. (See “Drug Prevention and Intervention” box.)

That’s where I picked up a habit of smoking weed. I tried it for the first time more than a year ago at a friend’s house, and I was surprised that nothing drastic happened from smoking the blunt. It was kind of relaxing, but nothing mind blowing. Once the high wore off, I went right back to my normal life at school and home.

I started smoking weed every once in awhile with my friends, but I never grew interested in anything harder. I didn’t drop acid or down a bunch of pills. I liked the mild, relaxing high of weed, and I didn’t want to experience anything more. I would go and just relax and chill with my friend Shayla* almost once or twice a week at her house.

But one day last fall, my outlook on weed completely changed.

The Day I Thought I Was Going to Die
I woke up the morning of Sept. 11, 2006 feeling odd, as if I knew something bad was going to happen to me. I dropped off my mother at the Indian Creek MARTA Station, and I drove her car to school. As I got close to school, I called Amber to see if she needed a ride, and she did. On the way to school, I got a call from another friend, Michael*, who wanted us to come smoke a quick blunt with him. We’d be very late for school, but driving in my mom’s BMW I felt very rebellious.

I looked over at Amber and asked, “You wanna go?” “Sure, OK,” she replied.

I remember what time it was because I took my birth control pill at 9:45 a.m. and then we started smoking. I had seen the birth control commercials saying that women are urged not to smoke if they’re on the pill — it increases the risk of heart attack and stroke — but I didn’t think it would affect me. Michael and I started smoking the blunt, and we were all talking to each other while Amber was doing Michael’s little brother’s hair.

And that’s when I felt that relaxing high followed by a scary low. At first I thought it had something to do with a bad reaction between the weed and my birth control, but later I learned that wasn’t likely the case. I just had a bad trip, and to this day I’m not sure why.

After I threw up everything that was in my stomach, Amber tried to give me bread and water, but I couldn’t keep it down. Finally Amber went to get me some soup from Publix and by the time she got back I was almost passed out on the floor. I had no energy to get up. I could barely put on my shoes and I had to leave. They all helped me up and put me in the car. Amber was so worried and careful with me. I’ve known her since middle school. She’s always been there for me, and this day was no different.

Amber drove me home, helped me take a shower and got me dressed. By the time I had done all of that, I was crying real hard and I just wanted my brother’s girlfriend Shanice* to come get me and help. I wanted her not only because she was in school to become a nurse, but because I felt more comfortable telling her first. I couldn’t bear to tell my older brother. I called her and started screaming hysterically about what had happened, and she came right away. When Shanice got to my house, she ran upstairs and checked me out. I could barely keep my eyes open, let alone stand. But I could hear her say to me, “Girl, you overdosed.”

All I wanted to do was to go to sleep again. My body just felt so tired, and I couldn’t hold myself up. She loaded me and Amber in the car, and while Shanice was driving I could hear her yelling at Amber, telling her that what we did was wrong and we should’ve known better — and we should have.

Facing the Aftermath
Looking back, I don’t think I could’ve died from that incident, but it felt like I was almost there. At Shanice’s house, I went upstairs and prayed that God or someone would help me and that somehow my parents wouldn’t find out. I could hear my brother come in and start yelling. I heard him get on the phone and tell my dad what happened. The next thing I knew, my parents arrived and took me home.

I felt so bad about myself and how careless I was. I almost threw away my whole life for a couple hours of fun. I was, and still am, upset that my parents didn’t ask me how I was. I understand I did something illegal and I disappointed them, but I am still their daughter and wish they would have asked me if I needed help. Although all they did was yell at me, I knew that they did care.

To this day I thank God that I had someone to help me that day. I have forgiven my parents — both for their reaction and for not doing a better job at teaching me about why it’s bad to smoke. I still know people who smoke weed, but I don’t anymore. Weed seems harmless, but now I know better.

The writer, 16, loves life and doesn’t want to do anything stupid to throw it away.

* Names changed to protect privacy.