I started habitually smoking weed when my spouse abandoned me and my daughter to be with someone else. At first, it managed the pain. Later it was for the anger and the loneliness. And when I finally healed enough and moved on, the pandemic hit, and it was for the boredom. And when it lifted, it was because I just plain liked it.

Eventually though I took a break. And when I did I noticed how many moments of my own life I was oblivious to, I decided to extend my break. Suddenly things I’d given up on seemed much more possible. Things that seemed impossible seemed much more worth the effort anyway. Then I tried another joint because I missed smoking with my partner — I didn’t especially enjoy it, but I found a reason for another, and another, and soon enough I was high again all day and it took months for me to notice what had happened: I was no longer doing all these things that I was proud of, and was not even feeling more satisfied with my life. I was just highly motivated to seek out that specific kind of satisfaction, which came to the exclusion of so many others.

I’m glad weed was an option, but it is addictive, and that addiction leads to rationalization designed to dismiss the steep opportunity cost of being lethargic through an induced contentment.