Chronic Illness, Mary Jane & Me

Content Warning: suicide, mental health, chronic pain, abortion

I’ve been smoking pot for 18 years.

It’s one of the longest relationships I’ve ever had, with “Mary Jane,” and things are going really well. We’re pretty non-monogamous, but that’s half the fun with cannabis — sharing it with others.
I also have endometriosis.

Endometriosis (endo) is a chronic illness that affects an estimated 200 million people worldwide, but numbers are likely higher. It occurs when tissue similar to the lining of the uterus grows elsewhere in the body. Endo lesions have been found in every single part of the body, and symptoms include chronic pain, digestive issues, pelvic pain, painful sex, fatigue, and infertility.

It takes an average of seven to nine years for diagnosis, which can only definitively be done via laparoscopic surgery, and often symptom management is lifelong. Excision surgery — that is, surgery that removes endo lesions from the root rather than ablation, which burns them off — is currently the “gold standard” of endometriosis treatment.

My diagnosis came ten years ago this November, after more than a decade of suffering debilitating period pain, ovarian cysts, chronic pelvic pain, severe depression and anxiety, and consistent medical gaslighting. I forced my way into a diagnostic laparoscopy, and the surgeon performed ablation on the endo lesions they found.

Like many with endo, I took birth control for most of my teenage and young adult life which (sort of) helped mask symptoms throughout school. When I stopped taking the pill at 28, the 13 years of hormonal consistency petered out and all of my symptoms returned with a vengeance.

Not long before that, I’d taken a break from cannabis because of increasing anxiety and paranoia related to unfamiliar chest and pelvic pain. I was having regular panic attacks and it was severely impacting my life. Before legalization in Canada, I was always at the mercy of whatever my dealer-at-the-time had on hand. I’d definitely never heard of terpenes or cannabinoids, but all I knew was suddenly it wasn’t hitting me the same way any more.

I soon discovered an endometriosis support group in Toronto that helped me find a specialist and get my medical cannabis authorization. Not to mention it opened me up to a whole world of other humans with endo that I couldn’t imagine existed. That’s really when everything changed.

I immediately started devouring anything and everything I could on endometriosis and cannabis — articles, books, activism, history, sexism, cultural significance, cannabinoids — and learned all I could about CBD and THC, terpenes, methods of consumption, plant life cycle, you name it. I was thrilled that with CBD there was the potential for me to not only manage my endometriosis pain, but maybe dip my toes back into the soothing waters of THC I missed so much. I am a pothead at heart, after all.

I had excision surgery in November 2017, where this surgeon found significant lesions in my pelvis and on my ribcage. That was too risky to remove, so I was sent on my way and advised to try getting pregnant, or to come back if I started coughing up blood. Seriously.

After that, cannabis became my primary method of pain and symptom management. But it hasn’t been without its ups and downs.

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Living with endometriosis impacts a person’s work, friendships, romantic relationships, self-worth, physical abilities … the list goes on. Medical and personal gaslighting can make you feel like you’re not worth taking the time to listen to or be cared for.

That’s not true.

I spent two-thirds of my life believing that the world would be better off without me, because it felt like my pain wasn’t worth acknowledging. Multiple attempts to end my life, months on end of depressive episodes, a loss of identity — this was my world and I didn’t know how to even try to go about figuring out how to get out of it.

So I talk about it. And write about it. And get f*cking loud about it.

Cannabis helps me do that.

I write about endometriosis and cannabis most of the time. Last year, I wrote a love story about endometriosis and cannabis because I was desperate for a way for people to understand what this plant had given back to me. I didn’t know how to process the possibility that I’d been self-medicating all of those years without realizing it, feeling ashamed of it, keeping it in secret.

When a surprise pandemic pregnancy totally derailed my entire sense of self and what I wanted in life, cannabis was there to bring me back to who I was, what I wanted, and how to take care of myself. It was instrumental in dealing with the physical and emotional trauma of my abortion, not to mention nearly two decades of having my reality dismissed by most of the people around me.

Weed has brought me back to myself time and time again, and anyone who knows me will probably be annoyed that I suggest it for everything that ails them.

The community, caring, and creativity I found in cannabis informs everything I do. I smoke weed to be able to eat in the morning, to fuel the creative process or process difficult emotions. I take CBD and THC oil, infuse my own for topicals and suppositories, use it in food, and use it to connect. I use it during sex (solo or otherwise), when I’m in pain, or when I just wanna be fuckin’ high and laugh my ass off.

Nothing connects me to myself and others the way cannabis does. It helps me understand the synergy between body, health, nature, and each other. It brings people together, starts conversations, settles arguments, heals pain. Cannabis even has exciting therapeutic potential against COVID-19 — and still, stigma stays.

Communities like HiVi remind us of the power in shedding stigma and telling our stories. Learning from others and finding shared experience is how we change the narrative around cannabis — and endometriosis! And virtually anything else that exists!

Perhaps legalization makes it easier for folks to talk about cannabis use, but stigma, shame, and propaganda is so woven into society’s understanding of it.

Like many fellow potheads or casual cannabis consumers, I’ve faced judgment from people in my life because of stigma. I’ve fought with people I love and lost some, and it hurts. But what I’ve gained is so much more than that.

Living as someone with pelvic pain, the world teaches us that there’s something wrong with us. If sex is painful, it’s our fault or it’s up to us to deal with it anyway. BUT, don’t talk about it, because that’s shameful.

The irony in all of this is that cannabis and stigma may go hand-in-hand, but it’s thanks to cannabis that many people like me are able to finally shed the shame that stigma causes in the first place.

Being a pothead is part of my identity. So is being a person with endometriosis. Both of those things have contributed to a lot of the suffering in my life, but they have brought untold joys. Both of those things make me worthy of love and respect, and I finally believe it.