This was a few weeks after my “life partner” told me our six-year love relationship was over.
She’d been my best friend, stoner buddy, grow helper, a goddess in bed, the light of my life.
I’d loved and trusted her way more than I’d ever loved anything or anyone, even my marijuana plants. Had invested most all my money, time, hopes, plans, and dreams in her.
She’d promised to be my life partner…and I counted on her to honor that promise. So when she suddenly said that the love, home, and life we created together wasn’t good enough for her anymore, I was torn up.
I couldn’t shake the heartbreak and depression, whether I smoked pure THC or no marijuana at all.
It felt like I’d been stabbed in the chest. I became suicidal.
I found a Swiss organization named Dignitas that would help me die peacefully, but only if I was terminally ill and could pay tens of thousands of dollars.
Then I tried to procure black market Nembutal (pentobarbital), the so-called “peaceful pill” touted as a sleepy, painless, reliably effective suicide method.
But pentobarbital was only available from the notorious “Silk Road” website. The U.S. government shut down Silk Road as an allegedly criminal enterprise before I could get my order placed.
I couldn’t buy the peaceful pill so I bought the gun.
My marijuana grow op was the only thing that kept me anchored to life as I watered, trimmed, trained, fed, and monitored my crop of 12 large marijuana plants.
Three specialty strains, with mild phenotype variation in each strain. The result of many years of growing, caring, and breeding.
Four weeks into bloom phase—my favorite time of each grow season.
In my hydroponics marijuana garden, life almost seemed worth living.
But pain and loss always returned. Every time I saw her or thought of her, I felt again the cruel loss and futility of all the love, care, and attention I’d given her.
More and more I focused on suicide.
I guess that somewhere buried deep beneath the pain I knew it was “wrong” for me to kill myself. It would hurt family and friends, and end my future.
But there was a powerful tide pulling me away from life and towards death.
One sad day I got my loaded gun and suicide note (it had taken me weeks to write) and shuffled out to the shed I’d chosen as the place for my self-execution.
Put the cold barrel of the gun in my mouth, imagining the explosion of the bullet into my brain, a searing burst of final pain, the bloody, stupid mess I wouldn’t be around to clean up.
Suddenly, I put the weapon down and went to my hydroponics grow room.
The glistening buds smelled like oranges, pepper, mango, pine, lemon, skunk, and roses.
One last time I inhaled terpenoids from those THC-rich flowers, and breathed pure oxygen created by my marijuana crop.
I don’t know what happened, but suddenly I felt a lift. Perhaps it was a “terpenoid high.”
I went back to my gun and suicide note, but I was thinking of my cherished marijuana plants and the sticky harvest to come.
Finally, I emptied the bullets out of the chamber, and tore up the death note.
Only those crystal-clear resin glands, those sweet terpenoid aromas, and the joy of growing marijuana kept me alive.