Last Dance with Mary Jane
Where the Sunbeams End: Chapter 12
My parents were ill prepared to deal with their eldest son losing his marbles. But there was a plan and the doctors assured us that if I took my medication I could still live a normal life. It was a lot for me to take on. The diagnosis itself was confusing. It’s a strange thing being told by a doctor that you are mentally ill. Your mind can’t help but search for the problem, which in itself becomes a problem.
“I’m crazy.”
“It’s not your fault,” answered my father.
I wasn’t convinced, and perhaps I’m still not.
~~~
I stood at the foot of my parent’s bed. That small old television set with the silver buttons to the right of the screen was spewing out the morning news. Something about Marijuana induced psychosis.
I gawked at the T.V. before letting out a short chuckle.
~~~
Plump blueberries dangling in the summer sun, their sweet aroma nearly intoxicating. Trimming the vines along the fence line that enclosed that blueberry patch, before the days of bipolar, before the drunken encounter with the van window. The trimming was tedious and my mind would drift, thinking about books I’d read, which would often lead to thoughts of God and the divine.
You could walk from Crums Church to Ted and Alice’s home where the blueberries grew. Ted was a retired public school teacher who now worked at the church as a youth minister or Sunday School teacher. Ted was tall and lanky, as were his sons Will and Ben. Alice, blonde and beautiful. They were gentle souls, full of faith and compassion. I had gone through confirmation in the church with Ted and I’d grown quite close to the whole family.
It was Ben who introduced me to the glorious flower we called bud. He showed me how to hold the bowl, using one finger to work the carb to get just that right burn. Clarke County is located along the Shenandoah river, rich with farm land and loaded with old country roads, just calling out for you to cruise and blaze.
There is something about smoking herb, a special communion with nature, that has always made me feel closer to God.
In college I mostly smoked in the summer for a couple months. I was focused on soccer and there was always the threat of a drug test during the school year. After spring break one season, I was selected to provide my urine for a screening. I’d been piss tested throughout high school as well, but NCAA Division 1 athletics is a little more in depth.
I was handed the small plastic cup and walked to the designated stall.
“I know this is a little uncomfortable, but I have to watch you,” he said.
I stood sideways in the stall, pants around my ankles with my penis held loosely in my hand. This went on for longer than I would have preferred, but I was unaccustomed to pissing on command, especially with an onlooker.
It wasn’t until that last semester at Radford that I really amped up my cannabis use. It was time to complete my student teaching, which in turn meant I would miss too many days of practice, thus eliminating me from competing for a starting spot. I was more of a player coach that season. I still helped with training and would practice with the squad. Ironically enough I was in the best form of my college career. I would often go to training after a small toke session and completely dominate in goal. For me it seemed to function as a performance enhancer.
But what did happen that December? Did I simply smoke myself too close to God?
Ted always claimed that when he was young he didn’t think about God or being a Christian. This always struck me as interesting. I had always been someone who considered and contemplated God and the divine. I wasn’t a religious kid, I couldn’t quote the bible or anything, but I spent time with my version of God. That’s really what I think that manic psychosis was all about. Truly finding God and being completely unable to handle the experience.
~~~
A counselor named Kara recommended that I lose her number. But, first thing upon arriving home from the hospital I called Judith.
I stood in the driveway; my heart jumped as I heard the crunch of gravel beneath her silver Toyota. I surprised her with a gentle, yet passionate kiss and welcomed her into our home.
I could tell my parents were nervous about where things were going between Judith and I, but I rushed through the pleasantries and introductions before leading her down the stairs to the basement.
Judith was 31 at the time, 9 years older than me. She was a mother, I knew that much.
I stood staring at her. She wasn’t a girl, but a woman. I could see in her eyes that she had experienced life. The pain, the sorrow, the joy. That’s the moment I knew I loved her. And I thought she loved me.
“They’re not much,” she said as she unstrapped her bra.
“It’s not much,” I said as she unzipped my pants.
She smiled up at me.