Personality, Depression, and How Weed Helped Me Find Myself Again.

There’s something about intoxication that feels good.

Maybe it’s all the serotonin or dopamine shooting off like fireworks, or the simple joy in a detachment from the body and its earthly limitations, but there is always a great appeal in the freedom to exist as oneself, free of self-judgement and its’ mental complications. I’ve always felt like the truest version of myself when I’m drunk, and I’d say the same about being high, although the difference is I don’t slur my words as much, and ironically, I’m way more productive.

My experience with marijuana leads me to believe that getting high allows us to dive deep into our minds, spelunking into its depths to dig out one’s true personality which is usually held back by the sticky, invisible webs that our lives have weaved, and by finding these threads, we can start to untangle them. In my case, I get to become the version of myself I want to be: confident, optimistic, insightful, and easily impressed (because it’s true what they say: sometimes the greatest joys can be from the smallest of things in life, and with the acute focus that comes with being high, these joys are blessedly palpable). Recently, I’ve begun to think that my high-self is my true self, smothered by the soot and ash of lost dreams, and embarrassing early life experiences.

I Think I Was Meant to be an Extrovert

When I was in high school, I bought these beautiful red boots that I was instantly attracted to in the store. They were sturdy, smooth, and gloriously proud; I loved them.

When I wore them to school, my French teacher was the first to point them out.

“Madam Bottes Rouges!” she would say, as if very happy to see me. I could tell she was a person of taste even if she was a bit eclectic; she gave off strong professor Trewlaney vibes from the Harry Potter series.

Soon after I started noticing people looking at me in the halls when I walked by, and I knew it was the boots. I felt their focus, and I didn’t like it. Wanting to retreat into the comfortable background I was used to, I’d walk faster to get to where I was going. I put my school bag in front of my boots when I stood, and I tucked them tight under my legs when I sat down, trying to make them disappear, and with it, the attention from others.

You see, my whole life had been built upon hiding. I became an observer—a conscious but damning decision I made as a child—in order to avoid distracting others with my needs when there were those in life who seemed to hold a higher priority. In particular, this was the attention my older brother needed from my mom, a single parent, through his battle with mental illness and learning disabilities. A child who self-sacrifices becomes afraid to claim space, so naturally, I became used to invisibility and silence. The discomfort of my reality led to an unarticulated depression, but whether it was a biological inevitability or a side-effect of my choices, I still don’t know.

I stopped wearing those boots to school because they made me self-conscious about standing out. Although it may have settled into the depths of my subconscious, it became a core memory that sticks in my brain to this day, and I get nervous when I feel I’m starting to make too much noise, or when I’m drawing too much attention.

In Social Studies we took an over-simplified test that lumped us into colours based on personality traits, and once we figured out our resulting colours, we were supposed to sit at the tables with others that got the same result. I got orange, which I didn’t think much of at the time, until I found myself directed to the table with the most boisterous classmates and started to panic. Everyone knows the type (it’s impossible to make it through any school system without encountering a group of them), these people stand out, whether through genuine popularity or reputation alone they attract others to them, talk too much, and generally seem like slackers.

My first instinct was that I had done the test wrong—there was no way I had anything in common with these people! They also seemed surprised to see me there at their table: the shy, quiet girl with a penchant for cynicism seemed grossly out of place, but instead of saying something, they just looked at me from out of the corner of their eyes and shot each other questionable glances in the silence that continued.

Personality Traits and Tests

The Orange

The orange personality is described as bold and decisive. Fun-loving, humorous, and witty, they go with their gut instinct rather than being overly analytical, although they do need some level of control over themselves and their situations. These people live in the moment and are typically spontaneous, constantly seeking challenges. They are non-judgmental and easy going, seeking companionship from others and love to socialize as part of a group, even though they often become leaders. Apparently this attracts others to them which, as natural extroverts, earns them a level of popularity due to their optimism, charm, and natural charisma. Some notable orange personalities: Elvis Presley, John F. Kenney, Lucille Ball . . . and Garfield.

In high school I was anything but an Orange. The only popular personality I even came close to identifying with was Garfield, the cynical cartoon cat with his love of lasagna, sleeping, and his hatred of Mondays. I felt like an imposter sitting at the table of my rowdy peers, but although I was eager to stay away from them, secretly I wanted to be one of them (don’t we all secretly wish to run with the popular crowd?). Regardless, we all knew I didn’t belong there; I must have answered the questions wrong—duh—I thought to myself, so I devised a plan to escape.

I backtracked to extricate myself, revisiting the test questions and changing the answers to those I more closely emulated when confronted with my reality, rather than choosing with my gut instinct. Perhaps I had been chasing a secret wish and dreaming myself into an Orange through a spark of optimism, or maybe I was following my intuition, believing myself to be free from growing pains and the judgement of others.  

I got green the second time. Greens are described as highly analytical and certainly less spontaneous than an Orange, preferring to gather all the facts before making a decision. They enjoy learning, but often get lost in their thoughts which tends to wear them out, and they need lots of alone time to ‘recharge’ their mind. Although they are stubborn, they are loyal and seek security and peace. Despite being governed by facts rather than feelings, Greens are gentle and supportive to others, and they crave love and appreciation. Some notable green personalities: Albert Einstein, Socrates, Barbara Walters . . .  and Mr. Spock from Star Trek.

Yes, I was happy with being a Green—I just needed to get away from the discomfort of the silent judgement of my peers. While the teacher went on with her lesson about the purpose of the activity I plotted, and during the next break into activities at our tables, I told her that I did the test wrong, and she let me join the green table. I was comfortable with my new brethren; they seemed like shadows like me, content to kept their heads down and learn, without engaging in any social fluff.

In retrospect, it’s all incredibly ironic considering the activity was meant to foster a sense of community, and I had purposely found a way to not fit in with the group I was supposedly most closely related to.

The (Other) Green

Decades later, I’d like to think I grew into those red boots, even though I have no idea where they are. I’d like to think I could sit at that table of Oranges and stand my ground, excited to dig beneath the surface of the social hierarchy and find something in common with them. I could be following in my mother’s footsteps, she always tells me she was really shy when she was young and has been making up for it ever since. (Don’t tell her I often space out during our daily phone calls, since she is more than capable of holding the conversation with only minimal input from my end.)

When I become high, I awaken. I still seek comfort in the shadows of anonymity, but I crave the attention that I once rejected. In private it becomes a tool, allowing me to test drive the version of myself I’m learning to become before I take it for a spin in public. It’s all about carving new neural pathways after all, and the more a pathway gets used, the shorter the road to a desired outcome becomes. Once the training wheels are off, the journey become even easier.

Marijuana as a Medicine

I use weed as a recreational medicine—kinda like how you would take Tylenol to ease a headache: It’s available over the counter if you need it, but like anything, it’s easy to abuse if you aren’t using it for its intended purpose, and with caution. In particular, it helps with my depression.

Depression is kind of like the diabetes of the mind: there is either a deficit of serotonin, the feel good neurochemical (similar to insulin in type-one diabetics), or our bodies can’t use it properly (like those with type-two). I’ve been on antidepressants for a lifetime, and it’s essentially the same principle: providing my body externally with what it needs internally.

There is speculation in the community of holistic health that the depression we experience might not even be related to a neurological deficit, but rather an absence of purpose or joy in our lives, psychological trauma, or a lack of meaningful relationships. Considering the capitalist nature of our western society which focuses on overworking, and materialism as a measure of happiness, it doesn’t surprise me that depression has skyrocketed in prevalence. Does it benefit us to assume it’s a personal problem that we cover with pharmaceuticals? I’ve been there, and done that. Personally speaking, weed does it better.

Maybe marijuana is just a short-cut to the precious serotonin I crave, but I don’t know if it really matters because it’s more effective than the SSRI blanket I’ve thrown on my lifetime of depression. The one thing that it has been able to do that conventional methods haven’t, is shift my perspective to dig deeper, allowing me to uncover the roots of my fear and negative perceptions. I finally feel like I’m becoming who I was meant to be—the truth was there all along—I’ve just finally been able to catch up to it. I’ve become more confident in who I am as a person by acknowledging and moving past uncomfortable experiences, and I’m eager to challenge my limits out of sheer optimism. I face myself objectively with compassion instead of blame, set healthy boundaries, talk more, and emote consciously to connect better with people. I know not everyone will agree with me, but I don’t let it hold me back from my truths.

Changing Perspective

I hope more research is done on the use of cannabis as a treatment for depression, but any real links between the two is sure to be unreliable, scientifically speaking. Our brains may have all the same bells and whistles, but every individual is different. I like to compare it to Penicillin: In the early 1900s when it was used, it was nothing short of a miracle drug that saved thousands of lives from common infections that were otherwise deadly. But I’m allergic to Penicillin, and there are thousands of people (if not millions) that are too. To some, this medicine saves lives, while for others, it risks them. For some, cannabis could work miracles, while for others it may not.

Cannabis, or marijuana, isn’t a “cure”, but it is just another type of medicine. For me, it works wonderfully for my depression, and the acute treatment of growing pains. I know it works, because I am not the same ‘me’ I was two years ago—or even last year—and the people in my life can attest to that. By learning to exist in the present, acknowledging the fluidity of growth, I am processing my thoughts and healing my past to create the future I want. God forbid they continue to get stuffed into some stuffy corner of my subconscious as another unhealthy a coping mechanism—It’s already really crowed in there.

Despite the early circumstances of mental illness, family dis-ease and a disappointing adulthood, deciding to try weed on a whim (despite being a strong advocate against it), led me to a happier place when all I was looking for at the time was a way to escape. Find out more context in my book Words of Weedsdom: A Memoir on Smoking Pot, Self-Discovery, and Existentialism.