The Seventh Day Will Follow the Sixth

I have not imbibed any marijuana for six days. I have had a couple of icky meltdowns, one of which resulted in my beloved sleeping a night on the floor. I have screamed at both of my children. I have sobbed at the office and at the house and in my car. I have slept poorly and my motor skills feel off. I may have bottomed out yesterday when I was kicked in the ass by hopelessness and rage and desperation, and morphed into the Angriest Dog in the World, "the dog who is so angry he cannot eat. He cannot sleep. He can just barely growl...bound so tightly with tension and anger he approaches the state of rigor mortis."


I sold concessions for the Children’s Theatre all weekend, elbow deep in ice water, fishing out cans of sodas. I perform this big job four weekends a year and am always left exhausted but the time with dear old friends was particularly tonic and while I am still miles from inner peace, I do take comfort in the community of families we have nurtured. As I come out more and more about my reliance on pot and my resulting confusion to my friends, it surprises me that there are still snickers and snorts, which I doubt would result if I said I was struggling to come off of Prozac. I wonder if marijuana is too sullied with its outlaw history to ever be taken seriously as a legitimate medication. Still, I felt shitty and at sea and being with my friends made me feel better.


Saturday Spuds and I attended services at Knesset Israel, one of the two little backwater synagogues we belong to. Both of our tiny congregations have survived due to an influx of Mexican congregants, some of which apparently have discovered some Ladino roots and others who have found Judaism as a jumping off point from evangelical Christianity. I presume most have completed some official conversion process and noted that they knew the songs, prayers and responses far better than I, who have been attending synagogue, albeit erratically for over fifteen years. The prayer at Knesset is very intense and raw and it feels primitive. There is shuckling (swaying) during prayer which is not too common at Conservative shuls and to my knowledge seldom practiced in the Reform movement, where it is probably perceived as being too hardcore, like speaking in tongues. The Rabbi and Cantors covered their heads with their tallit, epileptic ghosts, as they prayed for the sick and ailing and I prayed as hard as I could, given my current diminished focus. This is how they must have prayed at the Temple before it was destroyed or in the shtetl or in the camps and I was innocent and open and touched and maybe I even believe a bit that these fervent prayers may heal me too.


I have sent out my SOS and dear friends have reached out and this makes me feel better. I have exhausted myself at bootcamp and this makes me feel better. I have donned my yoga face and stretched and this makes me feel better. I have indulged more than ever in the comfort of music and this makes me feel better. My beloved has returned to our bed and this makes me feel better. I do not though feel as good and clear and hopeful and focused and confident slogging through the travails of being a mom and a wife and a daughter and a business owner as I feel on the days when the marijuana I imbibe is neither too weak nor too strong. The burning question is whether I medicate myself due to some real biochemical need or because my circumstances are simply beyond my endurance. Am I chemically fucked up right now or just lucid? Tonight begins the festival of lights and celebration of miracles. Tomorrow I will have abstained from pot for a week and while I feel beaten down and haggard I do believe in miraculous light. I have seen it and trust in God that I will again.