Sometimes a pot brownie doesn’t end up relaxing you. Sometimes it leads to the worst night of your life, writes one Capsule guest writer… you’ve been warned.
Disclaimer: Obviously at Capsule we don’t condone drug use and literally nothing about this story makes weed seem like a fun time, but it felt legally important to put this disclaimer here.
The first time I tried weed – and I hope by referring to it as ‘trying weed’, you understand the nerd you’re dealing with – it was the most relaxed I had ever been. A group of friends and I went away to a cosy cabin in the woods, seeking a chill experience. There was a hot tub and a fireplace, and in the frenzied group chat planning beforehand, one of us had mentioned finding a pot brownie to really optimise our relaxation time.
I had a friend who considered himself a connoisseur of creating the perfect pot brownie, and he dropped it off at my work. I was absolutely terrified that this would be the time that my workplace decided to bring in a sniffer dog, which is hilarious, because if you’ve worked in media you’ll know that weed is probably the least-offensive recreational drug being used.
I treated the brownie like it was nuclear material and when we took it away with us for the weekend, we carefully cut it into four sections, took it to the spa pool with a glass of mulled wine, and zoned out. I can still remember all of us lying on the floor in front of the fireplace afterwards, in our towels and togs, thinking that my brain felt like a bowl of warm soup. It is a high I’ve been chasing ever since.
So, a few years later, when the option of a pot brownie came up again, I leapt at the chance. My boyfriend and I went away to stay with some pals who were – how do I put this – slightly more experienced with drugs (even as I write this, I feel like a narc because of my clunky way of describing drugs).
We were already planning to watch Netflix, make a platter. Your classic pals’ night in. One of them mentioned they had space cake in the freezer and I was thrilled. Finally, true relaxation would be mine. We (I) micromanaged every element of the night ahead of us – the plethora of snack options! The coziest of clothes! The viewing choice – Ali Wong’s stand-up special, Baby Cobra.
And then it all went wrong.
After eating what would have been one centimetre of space cake, I felt the warm bath of relaxation hit me – only to almost immediately be replaced by the cold shock of creeping anxiety. Death was… all around us?? It seemed likely that we were going to die here.
My boyfriend was happily eating a potato chip when I abruptly turned to him and said, “Be very careful about how you eat, because if you choke, none of us can help you and you will probably die.” He looked at me, dumbstruck. Quite an insane thing to be told when you’re just enjoying a salt and vinegar chip, but that’s me on drugs!
I quickly realised I was about to have a panic attack, so I decided to go outside for some fresh air, weighing up the reality that death was more likely to occur outside. “I am going outside to have a panic attack,” I told my boyfriend. “If I am not back in 20 minutes, call an ambulance because I have fallen down the stairs or frozen to death.”
This was taking place in autumnal Blenheim. It was probably 17 degrees, minimum.
Meanwhile, everyone else was having a great time. John* had reached the profound stage of pot, where everything seemed like it was philosophically important. For instance, Ali Wong was making a great joke about her pussy and he reacted by putting his hand over his heart and saying – very softly – “Oh my god.”
Maybe he shed a tear, I don’t know. I was busy clinging to the verge of imminent death. My other friend, David*, was in a happy, cosy little coma where he was melted into the bean bag and laughing like crazy. How lovely for him!!!
I had my outside panic attack, managed not to die, and then came back inside to ruin everybody’s night. At this point, my short-term memory had started to disappear – or, at least, I thought it had – and I was worried I had short circuited my brain.
I inflicted my anxiety spiral upon my boyfriend, who would later tell me that he was also quite panicked by all the drugs – again, 1cm of space cake – but that my anxiety was taking up all the oxygen in the room, which was indicative of our entire relationship thus far and ever since.
As my memory diminished, I told my boyfriend very intensely how much I loved him, how much I needed to go to hospital, that my brain was dying by the minute, and that I was worried that I was going to end up in a mental asylum that would bankrupt my family. Then I started throwing up. The only thing that kept me calm-ish was how obviously my very kind boyfriend was trying not to laugh every time I insisted that I was dying, because I was clearly fine – just very, very high.
At this point, Ali Wong finished and John slumped over to see what all the fuss was about, where I told him about the anxiety loop that was taking up all of my thoughts. Here I should mention that he is a therapist, which is ideal company when you’re losing your shit.
“Oh, you’re having THAT experience,” he nodded wisely, before telling me that he had experienced this in Amsterdam – of course – where his brain loop told him that he had wet himself, so he kept checking his pants every five minutes. “It doesn’t last,” he reassured me.
The loop continued – blinding panic, followed by the shakes, me asking the group ‘should we call an ambulance?’, a brief window of levity where I would start giggling at how ridiculous where I was being, then repeat, repeat again. At some point, I became aware of the pattern and started repeating the following sentence to myself – “panic, shakes, ‘should we call an ambulance?’, laughter.”
I did nothing but say those words to myself for the next hour, like a haunted doll repeating the same phrase, over and over again. Later on, my boyfriend would tell me that this was the most chilling part of the evening, where he started to worry that maybe I had actually broken my brain.
Sensing my clinging-to-insanity mood, our friends turned off Ali Wong’s second comedy show and started playing soothing whale music in an attempt to calm me down and/or stop the evening from getting any worse. After what felt like six straight hours of this, I was calm enough to get into bed – expecting the sun would be rising any minute, putting an end to one of the worst nights of my life. When my boyfriend and I eventually checked the time, it wasn’t even 10pm – while emotionally crippling, my anxiety spiral had at least been quite efficient, all taking place in a tight 90 minutes.
The good news is that I truly did feel like I had had a second chance at life after my near-brush with ‘death’, and that feeling of euphoria powered me through what was quite a grim hangover from the combination of space cake, sugar and wine. It confirmed many things for me – that my love for my boyfriend was quite literally the only thing that remained in my brain, that Ali Wong is magnificent, that space cake apparently gets stronger in the freezer and that drugs of any kind are very, very much not for me.
*I am still so worried about getting arrested for having 1cm of space cake that I have changed everyone’s names and made myself anonymous, byeeeeee.
