A Few Thoughts about Drugs

I have no idea why I never became an addict.

As I have written previously, I had some difficult moments in my childhood and had to find a way to handle the pain in my life. Food was the only real option available, besides the reading, writing and guitar-playing. Of course, this was not a set of options that went unnoticed. My weight gain was commented on, but no one asked the question, “Why?” Why was I doing this to myself? Why did I eat so much when it reached the point where it was no longer providing any real pleasure? And why didn’t anyone stop me?

I can admit that I never really expected anyone to interfere with my habits. And I would not have listened, anyway. I felt that I was on my own and that no one could understand my pain. This turned out to be not completely true, but I would have to step outside of my family to find this out. And it did make me wonder about drugs.

It was becoming less and less easier for me to point a finger at the ones who chose drugs to deal with their pain. We are in the middle of an opioid crisis, having once faced the menace of crack cocaine, drinking and driving, marijuana and…well, haven’t we always had a crisis of addiction? People were once convinced that doing the jitterbug would turn their children into “reefer addicts”. Our teachers told us that there was a definite link between rap music and drug abuse. And I was once told, with all seriousness, that alcohol was safer than weed because it was “government-regulated”.

So, I could not take the warning seriously, and I could not point a finger at a junkie and say that it could never happen to me

And I learned that the best way to judge a drug was to judge its effects.

As a child, I was raised in a very large community of West Indians who worked hard and played hard. Weekends away from work involved picnics, parties, get-togethers, dominoes, broth, desserts, laughter, music and alcohol.

Yes, I remember those parties. I remember the alcohol and how it flowed and truly played its role as a social lubricant. The men – mostly them – needed it as much as they needed those dominoes in their hands in order to really communicate with each other (the women were usually in the kitchen with the food or Scrabble boards; not a drop of liquor in sight, or at least not out in the open). And I was offered a drink at a young age. I am still grateful to the uncle who let me sample his beer and enjoyed my gagging on the taste of that sour mash. Beer was never going to be a favourite of mine, but I knew that I was not alone in this. My stepfather could only finish a beer if it was the root of a shandy (you added ginger ale to the mix). I would accept brandy, whiskey, and the root of most West Indian cooking and drinking, rum (strange now to think how many of my non-West Indian friends preferred vodka, a drink that left a terrible aftertaste). And that acceptance came only at parties with families and close friends. Once I had tried to be a social drinker, I learned that I would be a complete failure as an arm-bender. Alcoholics Anonymous would never have me as a guest speaker.

So, what did that leave me?

Marijuana reared its head while I was in grade school, with some boys who claimed that the rolls of what suspiciously looked like binder paper contained cannabis in its best form. A lack of trust prevented me from diving in.

And then…acid. LSD, I mean. This was also another claim made by some of the same students, but this time it was not a lack of trust that prevented me from sampling the product. It was the response of the one user I saw that made me see the light, although perhaps not as many lights as that poor dumb kid. We were at a dance and I found him dancing on the floor staring up at the lights, moving at his own speed with the music changing tempos. He was just grinning his head off at the glitter-ball and bunting all around us. And he would not leave when the night was over. It could have been him just being an asshole – plenty of evidence to support that supposition – but this seemed legitimate. There would be other opportunities with people who were less asshole-like, less academically-inclined. It would always provide the same show. No thanks.

Then, I travelled overseas. I have spoken too many times about my life in Japan, but I also visited England, in the key year of 1988. The new school of hip-hop had just begun and techno was dominant on the charts. Now, you might wonder why I included this musical information. As I said, certain teachers were convinced that certain types of drugs were connected to certain types of music. And I did see some of this connection when I was just a fourteen-year-old kid and had to spend most of the time exploring the city on my own. Oddly enough, I did the same thing many years later in Tokyo. In the clubs, bars and other night spots I stumbled across, I found the same set of drugs: cocaine and speed. Both absolutely perfect for a sprawling and fast-moving urban jungle; both necessary for friends and the unwanted acquaintances I made in both cities…

And yet…I still resisted.

I could see the results of all those late-night chemically-induced runs. I even knew one man who was a drug dealer back in his home country (he seemed to be expanding his market); a man I considered a good friend; a man who tried to get me to sample his product.

No dice.

Now, I know at this point I might sound like the worst kind of fuddy-duddy, middle-of-the-road wimp who was afraid of any experience that came in pill or powder form…and you would be right. There were the casualties mentioned above. There were the extreme laws of Japan and other nations in the region to consider (one teacher was deported for having speed in her pocket and mistakenly letting it drop onto the counter as she was making a purchase at a variety store). But there was also the fact that I did not need anything to make my time extra special. Books, literature, movies, music and other arts were already filling up a gap in my life that I had no idea existed. And, as I repeat here, I judged drugs on their effects. I did not want to fit into anyone’s particular box of stereotypes or ideas about me or my erstwhile activities. It was better to face all of that pain with a clear head and a healthy body (most of that overeating came long before I was ever tempted with a colourful treat in a baggie or a hidden bottle).

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I wrote this just to vent my feelings about drugs. This is no reflection on those of you out there who are still on the chemical feed and feel that it suits who you are. There are enough articles and stories out there about the West’s peculiar relationship with drugs if you are interested, and I am actually in favour of legalizing and regulating the drug market. I just felt the need to share my own story here, and drugs, despite all my resistance, did make me who I am.

And now, you must forgive me. I have just had a run and need something for my joints. Maybe ibuprofen…or aspirin…or acetaminophen…or…

Well, we all need something, don’t we?

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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