This post is Part 1 of a 5-part series exploring my journey with cannabis — from the early days of blow to becoming a medical user with purpose and understanding.
Back in the ’90s, we didn’t call it weed — and we rarely saw any. What we had was blow. Soap bar. That black, rock-hard lump that stank like burnt tyres and looked more like something you’d scrape off your boot than smoke. Though sometimes, depending how it was cut, it weirdly looked like a Kit Kat.
It came wrapped in tinfoil, handed about in whispers like it was top-secret. No grinders, no wee glass jars. Just hash, some tobacco from a busted-up ciggie, and a pair of shaky teenage hands trying to roll it into something half-smokable. That was it. That’s what we knew.
I was 13. Still half-seeing the world, still figuring myself out. I wasn’t bullied or anything — just never the one anyone fancied. I learned early that ‘included’ didn’t always mean ‘wanted.’
There was no one educating us about what we were actually smoking. No mention of THC, terpenes, or sativa vs indica. We just knew if it was soft, it was probably better. If it was hard as a brick and full of plastic or petrol stink? You smoked it anyway. Why? ‘Cause it was all there was.
It wasn’t about getting high in some chill, mindful way. It was more about escaping. Getting away from whatever was happening at home, in your head, or in your body. You didn’t say you were anxious or sad back then — you just had a few draws and hoped it made things feel less crap for a while.
Sometimes it did. Sometimes it just made you quiet and paranoid, wondering if anyone could tell you were stoned. Sitting in someone’s freezing cold bedroom, passing around a blunt while somebody played Prodigy or Nirvana or whatever CD their older brother had lifted using their five finger discount from Golden Discs.
It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t cool. It was just what we did — trying to feel something different, or maybe nothing at all.
And aye, there were laughs too. Like the time I got the munchies so bad I ordered a chicken curry with fried rice — off the breast, no onions — and a pepperoni pizza. When they landed, I poured the whole Chinese onto the pizza, rolled it up like a wrap, and sliced it into messy, greasy Chinese pizza sandwiches. Disgraceful. Glorious.
We didn’t talk about feelings. Or trauma. Or sensory overload. You were expected to just get on with it. Especially as a wee kid, . But underneath it all, there was always this low hum of pain — stuff we couldn’t name yet. Things we didn’t even know we were trying to numb.
We who were born in the 80s got used to hearing violence that had been carried out — the previous night, that morning, or even earlier that afternoon. As we settled down for dinner, the local Northern Ireland or Ulster News would be on in the background. And it wasn’t normal. We’d hear horrors about bombings, body parts found after a pub or local business got blew-up. Helicopters being shot down, hunger strikers in prison starving to death. Our parents would try to shelter us — some more successfully than others — but the truth is, they hadn’t a clue how. They were struggling with their own emotions, often blocking it all out, trying to live as normal as possible in an environment that wasn’t normal at all.
So we learned to shut things out too. We internalised it. Normalised it. Laughed when we should’ve cried. Got stoned instead of asking questions. And that’s where blow came in — not because it was glamorous, or some kind of rebellious high, but because it was there. And it helped dull the edges, even if just for a little while.
So that was my start with cannabis. Not joints with fancy filters or strains with exotic names. Just blow. Scraped together, passed around, and smoked by kids who didn’t know any better — but somehow knew enough to know they needed it.
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