BECAUSE I COULD –
Nov. 6, 2025 – I’ve always been good at quitting obligations (see: piano lessons, ballet classes, infinite sports teams, and, in one memorable instance, a babysitting job that would have required me to fly from New York to Los Angeles in sole charge of an eight-month-old). But when it comes to vices, I have a hard time letting go. I love to ride the absolute wheels off the things I love—even when they stop loving me back—and, to that end, it took me about three years of near-constant cannabis use to realize that my relationship with weed was taking more from me than it was giving.
The language of recovery has been part of my life ever since I started attending Overeaters Anonymous meetings in my mid-20s to attempt to deal with what I had only recently begun to recognize as my binge-eating disorder. But it took me longer than I’d like to admit to apply the warning signs I’d learned in OA to my fondness for marijuana. Intellectually, I knew that popping higher and higher doses of edibles multiple days a week or sparking a bowl early and keeping it lit throughout the day wasn’t what one might call ideal, but I told myself it felt good whereas bingeing felt bad—so wasn’t that different enough not to be troubling? (This is even though many of my binges took place while I was high, but until recently I was studiously avoiding connecting the two issues.)
