Some of my first memories are of my father and his friend talking while holding up a big bag of weed. I was probably 3 years old, I remember the smell of marijuana, thinking about how the aroma was pleasant and nice. I remember waking up early, to the empty bottles, empty glasses. On the coffee table would lay a 10x10 metal baking pan with zig zags, ashes, seeds, and remnants of a "good time". I would smell the bottles, taste the ashes, eat the left over chip crumbs and popcorn. All these things meant happiness and fun, or so I thought.
Shortly thereafter I remember being curled up in a ball on the floor as my mother and father argued, yelling at each other with only a lamp table between them as they sat in their opposing reclining chairs. I didn't know any better then, but they were getting divorced, we stayed with our dad who retained custody. My mom always blamed the drugs. More than once my mom said, "If not for he drugs your dad and I would still be together".
You see, marijuana is just one drug in the devil's arsenal of slavery and lies. My parents were also doing cocaine at that time, destroying their marriage along with my childhood security and happiness. I have many bad memories from my mother, enough to solidify my hatred of both cocaine and marijuana, both destroyers, one just more subtle than the other.
My mom got a job selling waterbeds. On Fridays my dad would drop off my brother and I at the store near closing time. We spent many hours playing amongst the displays and warehouse boxes, I actually consider those fond memories. But it was also here that she met a new man who struggled even more with drug addiction. It was during this time that she almost died from a cocaine overdose. I was there and remember the situation, my mother in the bathroom on the floor. I was too young to understand.
Having survived that ordeal, my mother would recall that frightful night, how she overdosed and almost died, how cocaine was the most evil drug in the world, how seductive it was, until it destroyed you. That night she flushed what remaining coke she had and vowed never to do it again... and after 1 or 2 more times she never did - having lost the desire for it. Marijuana became the drug of choice after that, after all, "Native Americans had been doing it for hundreds of years" and "It's natural".. I can't tell you how many times I heard that.
But lunch money never came before drug money, which is why we lived with our dad, whom despite his additions was a much more capable provider. My mother always said that my father was a "good provider" and she was right, he never failed to provide for our temporal needs, though he struggled as a father due to his own deficient upbringing. He had the common sense to hide his addiction but it resulted in long hours hidden away in his locked bedroom where kids were not allowed.
I look back now as an adult and I can see how my parents' drug use ruined their lives, not to mention the ripple effect it had on my life and the rest of our family. My mother remained a slave to addiction for the rest of her life, a mere 52 years. The man she me met selling waterbeds? - on permanent disability with severe mental and neurological disorders. Real freedom and happiness? Up in smoke years ago.