In retrospect, something deep inside me knew that something was coming.Some major change to my very being. The whole thing started with a dream, but the funny thing was, I could never remember the details of the dream. Four hundred years ago, I would have blamed an incubus.Demons. Witches. A curse. I would have gone to confession, at the very least.
But this was the new roaring twenties. Instead, I blamed the edibles.
I don’t normally take edibles because most forms of marijuana (including edibles) give me panic attacks. Sometimes, when my thoughts are too loud, I will partake of a tiny, minuscule amount of indica in order to smother them into silence. That night, I had a bite of an edible that my best friend, Dee, gave me.
It was a mistake, of course, as I should know that edibles and me always are. My heart began to pound. The nighttime sounds of the suburban neighborhood where I lived – summer bugs, the occasional car, a dog here and there barking at suburban threats – became a combination of too far and too close. The worst and most pervasive effect: imposter syndrome. I began to think about all the ways in which I did not even marginally measure up to the standard of a typical American woman in her early forties.