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CHAPTER TWO: It’s Never Time to Panic
— The following events took place in early September, 2018
It is late morning on a Monday. I stumble across the living room aimlessly, shoulders bent forward. My heart is beating forcefully, and my vision seems blurry. I am no longer sure of what I am doing. You’ve accomplished nothing today, my inner critic slams me. And now, look at you, walking around the house like a mad man, with no clear purpose. I suddenly feel confused, unable to think. What am I looking for, anyway? Was I searching for my cell phone? What for? I can’t contact her. I mustn’t. It’s not a part of the deal. We are now separated, at least for the next three months. I must figure this one out on my own.
But how? At this point in the game, I am out of options. Only a miracle, it seems, would save the day, both literally and metaphorically. The gravity of my situation sinks in, and I suddenly see it all in a new, bleak light. I have thrown it all away; somehow, I fucked everything up. The money is gone; I have three or four months left, at best, before I’ll run out of cash. It would take that long to sell the house, which would be the only way out of this mess. And what to do with all the stuff we’ve accumulated over the years? Who has the energy to go through it, anyway?
How the fuck did I allow myself to get to this point?
A thought crosses my mind, and I shudder. Was it the marijuana that brought me here? It seems myopic, but who can argue with the facts? Ten years ago, I was making big bucks as a corporate executive. We then moved to Spokane. I smoked my first hit of pot right after that, at the age of thirty-five. Four years later, I quit my job and focused on my research, determined to figure out how the psychoactive elements in the plant were impacting the perception of time and space. And now look at me – my life’s savings are depleted, and my wife is living elsewhere. Sugarcoat it all you want, my inner critic continues – she had no choice but to leave you in order to save herself. A chilling sensation shoots up my spine. It’s true. I lost it all. I am nothing but a lost soul; a childless, jobless forty-four-year-old. Even my 401K is gone. And my research – what do I have to show for it? My thesis is yet unfinished, let alone my book, which I was still unhappy with. Who writes half a million words and have no book to show for it? What the fuck is wrong with me? Worst thing of all, I am on the verge of losing the best thing that ever happened to me – my beloved Diane.
I gasp. Seriously, was it all because I smoked marijuana? Did it cause me to see a distorted view of reality all along? Was I, as Diane continuously claimed, grandiose and unrealistic? Did I imagine it all? Here I am, unaltered, my mind is marijuana free, clean and sober, and yet suddenly everything looks different. I am no longer sure what is true and what is not. Who is the real me? It’s a cliché, it seems, to think that smoking marijuana can cause one to spiral down monetarily, but the objective reality can no longer be ignored. Diane was right all along. I drove our financial future to the ground, and now, because of me, we are at risk of losing our home. It was a chance I was ready to take, but what about her? She, too, could lose her home! The scenario is her biggest nightmare, and I singlehandedly made it possible.
A chilling shiver climbs up my spine as I digest this new, appalling perspective. My heart sinks even more, and my breath shortens. I notice how my mind is racing increasingly, my thoughts are short, scattered, unfocused. You are having a full-scale panic attack, I think to myself. Don’t miss this documenting opportunity. Even now, as I am facing inner and outer calamity, my obsession with my research has not diminished. That is the thing with the mind – a brain can be researched in a lab, but our conscious perception can only be evaluated as it is being experienced, and only by ourselves. Each of us is the only witness to our own conscious existence. I search for my black journal and notice that my hands are shaky. Where the fuck did I put my diary? I take a mental note of my symptoms. The pressure in my chest is building up. My heart rate is increasing. The room suddenly seems smaller, the walls are closing in on me, and I struggle to breath.
My phone… here it is. I pick it up and unlock the screen with a trembling thumb. I seem to be hyperventilating loudly, cold and hot at the same time. I crumble to the floor abruptly, unable to think. I watch my fingers type as if from outside my body. “ARE YOU CLOSE,” I type. “I NEED HELP. I AM SORRY.” I can barely breath, and tears start to flow down my cheeks. What the fuck is happening to me? Who is this man who is disintegrating in front of me? What happened to the old me, the tough guy who could handle anything? The more I explored my mind, it seemed, the more I got to know the crippling edges of human experience. Who needs this shit?
“What’s going on?!” she types back, clearly alarmed. I burst out crying. I love her so much. God, how I miss her. It had been merely a week since we gathered our friends for an impromptu separation party. We announced in the presence of our friends that for three months we would live separately, so we can find ourselves again. She left the next day, her eyes wet, and moved into the little bed and breakfast she built with her portion of our retirement money. We split everything last year when she threatened to leave; “This way I’ll know you won’t be using it all,” she told me. “I don’t understand what you are doing, this research of yours. I must take care of myself financially. If we don’t split it, I won’t feel safe.” It made sense to me. Being older than I was, I gave her the lion’s share of our equity, keeping the 401K for myself, and liquidated it so I can finish my research.
Obviously, its wasn’t quite enough.
It seems that throughout the past few years, I managed to break virtually every promise I made to myself or to Diane, and I am now breaking that last promise of seclusion, the commitment to detach from each other for twelve weeks. But who else could I turn to? It is only our partner who can contain all that we are, and be there for us in those dreadful moments of inner dissolution. They know us best, being the ones who committed to love us in sickness and health. Am I sick? Is that what’s going on? “I NEED HELP,” I type again. “PANIC ATTACK. PLEASE HELP ME...”
“I’ll be right there,” she types back, and I drop the phone to the floor. Knowing she was close allows my tears to turn into a full-scale sobbing, and I bury my head between my hands, permitting myself to surrender to the cleansing sensation. A yearning for the life I used to have is piercing my awareness. I used to be so powerful, so emotionally resilient. Sure, I was suppressing every vulnerable emotion known to man, but at least I was highly functional. And now… what would become of me? Will I ever get my breakthrough? Was it all for nothing, all those years of research? And now this, a complete disintegration in front of the woman I love, the one who I want – more than anyone else – to see me succeed and thrive, to admire me and respect me. It is those we love the most that we most fear to lose. Diane has seen me in almost every situation, but this… this is a new low. If she previously thought I was lost, she will now surely be convinced that her decision to separate herself from me was in place. I am a living testimonial to the validity of her dreadful projections.
Diane has been there for me every step of the way during my long years of research. She overcame her dread as I kept altering myself using marijuana, tracking the effects of the various strains I kept in labeled jars. As one of my mains research subject, and the only other person I was able to track throughout the entire period, Diane patiently listened to my diarrhea of mental analysis and attempted to answer my abstract questions as best she could. I would choose which strain I wanted her to smoke and grilled her with questions for the first half hour of the high, knowing that her attention span would diminish quickly. Is your mind going slower? I would ask. Faster? Do you see more imagery in your mind’s eye? Less? Can you hear your auditory inner dialogue? Better or worse than when unaltered? What about music – can you replay music in your mind? Can you understand this abstract paragraph I just read to you? How’s your sense of smell? Is your hearing more acute now than before? How is your time tracking on this particular strain? We would alternate activities – sitting in the hot-tub, playing ping pong, playing ball with the dogs, watching movies, having sex – all along while I took notes. “I am nothing but a research subject to you,” she once said bitterly, as I rose out of bed right after we made love so I could write an important mental discovery. “Nothing is scared anymore,” she mumbled. But what could I do? Marijuana allows us to shift our consciousness and pave new neuropathways by changing our perception of time and space, but this comes with a cost, often reflected as short-term memory loss, fatigue, mental fogginess, and – the most challenging side effect with some strains – a diminished ability to verbalize one’s thoughts into meaningful, contextually sensible terminology. It took me years to develop the discipline – and method – of documenting everything in my journal while being high. Without writing it down, the revelations I accumulated would dissipate into thin air within seconds after they popped into my head, or after Diane verbalized them. Tracking data when you are high is like trying to follow someone’s dance moves while listening to someone else speak. It takes discipline and commitment to document ones’ mental activity while being altered. I had to develop an entire system of symbols in order to save time, since several new revelations would emerge in the time it took to write the previous one.
Diane does not share my natural, almost innate ability to analyze my own mental experience, and has a hard time thinking about the manner with which she was processing information in her mind. Still, she cooperated, even when her concerns mounted. Diane is a concrete thinker; my abstract research did not make sense to her, and from her perspective, her husband was spending his entire time – for years on end – getting high and jotting cryptic notes in his notebooks, mumbling endlessly about the importance of his strange “research”; all while dismissing her repeated requests that he’ll find a job, even part-time. “I don’t have the luxury of looking for a job right now,” I once told her. “I am so close to figuring this out. Finding a job will distract me.” I felt that I had no choice; there was so much to study. What is the mind? How does memory work? How does the mind of the ambidextrous differ from others? How do deaf people think? What about the blind? Dyslectics? Autistics? Each revelation sent me in a new direction, and the constant stream of books I kept ordering from Amazon continued to flow, contributing even more to Diane’s mounting anxiety about our financial situation.
This went on for years. What used to be weekend smoking became a daily habit. For a while, I was lost in my research, not sure how to ground it. But then legalization came, and I was able to increase the accuracy of my tests. I finally had a breakthrough in my research and was able to develop a core theory about the impact of marijuana on the mind. I then expanded my testing into full-scale marijuana parties. Our pot-smoking friends would come over and select their choice of strain from a row of labeled jars. These parties allowed me to test the effects of the same strain on multiple people, or how different strains impacted the same person in multiple opportunities. I would first ask them questions to determine their mental polarity in an unaltered state, then recommend to each guest the strain I thought would provide them with their desired mental experience. I would then interview each one of them to find the patterns in the manner that their mind was altered, taking notes and comparing results as people chuckled at what seemed to them as pointless efforts, or “a fool’s errand,” as one friend called it. “That’s my obsessive, mad-scientist of a husband for you,” Diane would often apologize in a mix of endearment and embarrassment.
Nevertheless, she continued to support my wild journey with admirable devotion until our recent separation. I cringe, even now, as I think of what I made her go through; researching the mind with marijuana was not always a joyful, pleasurable experience. To test the edges of my conscious perception, I often subjected myself to intense dosage as well as strange patterns of intoxication. She watched helplessly as I kept testing the edge of my mental endurance, experiencing an entire array of frightening states of consciousness. Intense insomnia, temporary dementia, temporary loss of speech, obsessive food cravings, depression, development of temporary autistic and dyslexic symptoms, hallucinations, and even a few episodes of borderline schizophrenic attacks.
One story at a time.
“I can’t wait until you write this book and be done with it,” she would tell me repeatedly. “I thought you figured out your theory already. Better is the enemy of done.” I struggled to rationalize my need for more time. “I am reverse-engineering the mechanism of the mind here,” I would attempt to explain. “This is hard. There is research about how marijuana impacts the brain, but very little documentation about its impact on our conscious perception of reality. I can’t just publish something without a coherent, complete theory of sorts.” She would shrug her shoulders and sigh. This meant nothing to her. Diane is a woman of action; if she doesn’t see some form of a tangible result in front of her, she feels like she is wasting her time.
In the present moment, this tangible result is in the form of her defeated husband who is weeping on the floor, crippled by an anguishing, debilitating anxiety attack. She walks in with the dogs, who rush towards me and start licking my wet face.
“My love… what happened?!” She calls out, grabbing a box of tissues on her way towards me. “My poor man. I am here. Tell me what’s going on. Breathe!”
A yoga teacher and a seasoned emotional warrior, Diane is no stranger to tears. It was she who taught me how to cry – with the help of marijuana, of course. “A strong man knows how to express his feelings,” she told me once when I told her I was embarrassed to cry, even on my own. “Sometimes, shedding a tear takes more courage than facing the barrel of a gun,” she added. I wonder if she still feels this way now, as I am struggling to straighten my spine, hyperventilating and choking while unsuccessfully trying to speak. How embarrassing, I think. If my family saw me now… No one can ever know about this.
“I am…” I sniffle. “I am so sorry… I shouldn’t… shouldn’t have called…”
“Nonsense,” she dismisses me, wiping my face with a layer of tissues. “I am your wife. Who else would you call?”
“I am so sorry,” I erupt again, disbanding completely. “You were right… I failed us. I failed you. I wasted our life savings, and got… got… got…”
“Breathe!” She commands.
I inhale as hard as I can. “…and, and, and got nothing to show for it,” I manage to complete my sentence.
“Let’s get you up,” She grabs my shoulder and helps me rise. “Breathe, expand the chest. You are not breathing deep enough.”
During a panic attack, the chest curls in, crushing the lungs under the pressure of what seems to be a swirling vice-grip under the diaphragm. The mind loses focus as it continues to race faster and faster, until the ability to maintain a coherent thought diminishes completely. This is not the first attack I had experienced, but the handful I had the dubious pleasure of enduring seemed to be happening closer and closer to each other, each more intense than the previous one. Am I losing my mind, or is it simply the fact that I am under so much pressure to finally publish my work before my money runs out, after so many years of intense labor?
Thirty minutes later, we are walking the dogs in the woods silently. My mind is numb. I can tell something shifted in both our psyches. With every additional emotional barrier dismantled, we became closer than ever. The witnessing of each other in extreme, vulnerable situations is a heart opening experience when done skillfully, and there is no person more skillful than Diane when it comes to the matters of the heart. I feel humbled and defeated. With every rebirth of our personality, something within us must die, I remind myself. Today, a big chunk of my ego was chiseled away. I have been rendered ever more naked and brittle in the eyes of the one person who needed me to be strong, who relied on me to be her rock during the first years of our marriage. Now, she is my rock.
It is a cruel cosmic joke that the inevitable disillusion of our emotional masks can only happen in front of those we wear them for.
“So, what about your trip,” she asks. “Are you still going to go though with it?”
She is referring to my west-coast book tour, in which I was to promote The Metaphysics of Marijuana, a reality book I decided to publish in real time, as well a new podcast. The idea was simple – to travel to major cities in Washington, Oregon and California and interview people in order to understand how their mind worked – pre and post smoking marijuana. To do so, I built a mobile podcasting station, and had a van wrapped with eye-grabbing images.
I take a deep breath. “I must. I owe it to myself. I have been planning for this for too long; too much money and effort went into it. I will regret it forever if I don’t go. I think, however, I must put it a bit, and ensure my theory is solid and carefully documented.”
I can tell she is disappointed. Deep down inside, she was hoping that this latest episode would finally get to realize I have run out of time, and perhaps go get a “real” job.
You rarely get a chance to seize all you ever wanted. This, right here, is my chance; it’s how I will recover from this episode that will determine my fate, I note to myself when I am back home, not the panic attack itself. The walk with Diane helped me; I am now able to take a deep breath and think. I revaluate my financial situation, which suddenly seems dire. I need another couple of months to complete my plan. I have funds left for about three months; but selling a house takes at least that long, even in a hot market like Spokane’s. Just packing and deciding what to let go of versus what to put in storage takes weeks, let alone finding an agent, prepping the house, and putting it on the market. If I am to sell our home, which now seems like an almost inevitable option, I needed to start right away. And yet, this is not a viable option, as it will distract me from the launch. I suddenly find myself doing what was unthinkable just a few hours ago, and text a trusted old friend, despite the fact I haven’t been in touch with for quite a while.
“Hey,” I write. “A bit out of the blue here. Diane and I are thinking about selling the house. I might need a bridge loan. $50K, 6 months or so. Feel free to refuse. I’ll love you just the same.”
He answers almost immediately. “If you need it, you got it. I hope all is well.”
I relax a bit. I now know I have an option for a worse-case-scenario; I just bought myself another six months if the shit hit the fan and was now able to re-focus my mind on the plan. The next step is to clear my mind, go over the tasks and, most importantly, nailing down the theory documents.
Alas, being alone in the house again, so shortly after the attack, feels claustrophobic. I feel the chest pressure starting to mount again. My mind is still foggy, and I am unable to focus. If I could only smoke, a thought passes through my mind.
OK, let’s backtrack a bit.
I mentioned earlier that I was sober for a while. Habitual and intense marijuana smokers know that after a period of continuous, daily smoking, it is hard to distinguish between the real, clear state of mind and the altered one. Reality loses perspective, and a desire rises to pulse life from a place of mental clarity. As I was focusing on finishing my theory, I felt that it was even more important to stay clean. Marijuana helps me overcome many mental obstacles, but I found that habitual smoking created concrete challenges when it came to getting shit done; specifically, I get demotivated and have a hard time making decisions. It was now a time for a focused, intense action. A clean, unaltered mind appealed to me. Also, the separation from Diane posed its own emotional challenges, and I did not want to “escape” the reality of such an important moment on our journey.
But now, as the anxiety mounts, and since I can no longer think clearly, this decision seems moot. The moment you find yourself, you lose yourself, says an occult proverb. My autistic nature constantly seeks definite patterns, and I tend to be rigid once a decision is made. Life is dynamic, and I find that when I become too strict in my attitude towards it, it immediately teaches me how to rebalance myself. This is especially true for someone like me who has an addictive personality – I am constantly taught to seek balance when I escape toward the definitiveness of abstinence.
This, of course, was not the first time I took a break from marijuana. Breaks of various lengths were taken as a part of my research, all the way from a few days to one that was a year-long. Every time I considered smoking again, I was on the fence, reluctant to let go of the clarity that I got accustomed to. I also remembered, however, that I never regretted smoking again. Ingesting marijuana after a tolerance break is like draining the plug of our emotional bathtub. The murky, dirty water finally has a chance to escape our awareness. This is especially true after an emotional chain of events like the ones I endured over the past few weeks, not to mention the one earlier that day.
I make up my mind – I’ll smoke.
I pop into the nearest pot store. My previous stash is at Diane’s place, and I do not want to go and ask her for it. I feel embarrassed about her knowing I was about to smoke after what I have just been through. I note this in my journal. It is only our self-judgement that is causing us to feel judged; there is no more powerful medicine than marijuana for anxiety, and I need help. At this point, the only barrier is my own frustration of not being able to gain that same clarity of mind without the substance. No time for that now, I think. Time is running out. I got to get back to work.
I choose to steer away from a Sativa hybrid, which would cause my mind to run even faster, focusing my thoughts on the abstract aspects of my work, such as my thesis. Instead, I purchase a familiar strain called QuerkLE by a WA company named Root Down. I experienced this strain before and knew how it impacted me. I know it to be an Indica-dominant hybrid that slows my mind down and allow me to focus my thoughts on concrete tasks. Unlike many other Indica strains, this particular one did not cause me fatigue, but in fact, made me energetic and motivated while present in my body.
I go back home and sit outside, taking a few deep breaths. “What do you have to lose,” I mumble to myself. “The day doesn’t seem to get better; might as well give this a chance.” I take a moment to ask for what I want. THC, the psychoactive component in marijuana, closes existing neuropathways and opens new ones. This allows us to think, allowing us to think differently; now, which new neuropathways open and which existing ones close, is up to the subconscious mind. Verbally asking for what you want, I found, helps guide the subconscious mind in selecting the proper neuropathways need to accomplish the task.
“I need a miracle,” I whisper. “I need help. I’ve worked too hard, for too long, to fail now. I know I am walking on the edge here. I’ve risked everything. Help me see things clearly; if I am hallucinating as for my chances of success, help me see that. If I am to continue and finish this research, help me see that, too. Either, or; help me to refine my existing plan or form a solid, new one that would allow me to move forward.”
I inhale, holding my breath in as long as I could. I smoke very little; I have found that I do not need much to be altered, and when I smoked too much, I couldn’t function, take notes, or maintain a focused line of thought. Furthermore, I am clean; smoking for the first time after a while always hits you hard.
As experienced as I am with marijuana and its impact on the mind, I am yet again blown away by the speed with which the anxiety disappeared. We perceive reality with two separate minds, not one. One mind thinks about reality, and the other experiences reality through the senses. Anxiety is felt when the thinking mind locks on a possible undesired future scenario – however likely or not – and rendering it inevitable. Stuck in a mental groove, the thinking mind then starts racing back and forth, projecting an entire false future based on that initial false assumption. In short, the story we create in our mind becomes linear – we determine that something will inevitably happen and forget that life is always three dimensional. In the consciousness movement, fear is known as an acronym for False Evidence Appearing Real. What we know at this moment is limited to our current understanding of reality; there are always unexpected developments, and the story always evolves in ways we cannot imagine. I trained myself to repeatedly remember this important fact. Today, I forgot this simple truth. Sometimes the current is simply too strong to fight against.
The grandiose sensation that we sometimes get when we ingest THC is because of the opposite effect. We come up with an idea and the mind linearly determined that it would work, ignoring concrete considerations and unexpected developments that are always present. When we come down from the high, we suddenly realize that the idea wasn’t that great. Not because of its content, but because of the practical steps needed to actually implement it. Again, the real story is always three dimensional; here, the linearity of the mind is a double-edged sword. It can lead us to anxiety or to a false sense of security. Both are detached from reality. Like all other mental exercises, this, too, is an act of balance.
Marijuana can eliminate – or create – anxiety, by speeding or slowing down the thinking mind. Thought is light; like a beam omitted from a flashlight, it is sharper when focused. Once my mind locked on the possible scenario of losing my home, as likely as it was, I became unfocused – the light beam of thought became wide, and my thoughts scattered hectically and frantically, going through doomsday scenarios due to the seemingly inevitable future. The faster the mind races, the higher the anxiety; while I know some Sativa hybrids that can bring it back to focus, it requires attention and a relaxed disposition. When a serious anxiety attack is in play, Indica is often safer for me, for it slows my thinking mind down, which reduces my anxiety.
Almost immediately, I start seeing the clearer picture. The vast amount of work I have done over the past six months – and all that I have managed to accomplish – finds it way back to my recollection; my situational, myopic point of view quickly dissipates. My mind started listing my accomplishments: My new state-of-the-art website. The one-of-a-kind podcasting station I constructed, with a mobile battery bank that can run it for days. The versatile YouTube studio I built from scratch. The countless times I refined my theory, practicing my speech. The hundreds of hours I practiced writing, re-writing, then editing various pieces of content, so I can get better at my craft and become intimately familiar with what I do. The lectures I have given, the workshops I delivered, the skills I taught myself such as editing videos and publishing podcast episodes. No, I decided firmly. I am ready. I can do this. I WILL DO THIS, I call out loudly. This was meant to be.
As sometimes happens while influenced by marijuana, the decision feels like it is touching a deep place of truth in me. Something changed, instantly. A new way of thinking, a new way I choose to view the story. A dramatic shift of consciousness has taken place. The sensation is intuitive, deep and at the cellular level. I suddenly know I can do this, and the fear disappears as if it was never there.
I am checking myself. Am I being unrealistic because I am altered? Which reality is the real one – the horrifying one I was in a few moments ago, or this new, promising one? Why did my situation feel so dire before and now seems OK? Am I allowing myself to relax too much? Is it time to panic? I review the situation again and again; no, it’s never time to panic. I wasn’t fooling myself; the situation was edgy, no doubt. I force myself to revisit the dire possibilities, so I can see how it feels now. Nothing in my perception of the concrete reality seems to have changed; I still know I’ve taken a huge chance; that I am at risk of losing my home; that my wife and I might not survive this difficult time. But something changed. Instead of being paralyzed from the fear, I am now able to weigh new evidence and data that is suggesting otherwise – that despite how impossible what I am trying to accomplish seems to other people, it is, after all, possible. It requires hard work, focus and attention to detail, and yes, a little miracle – but possible nonetheless.
“I will not lose this house,” I declare out loud, ensuring that the words feel true in my core and not just sound hopeful. “I will launch my book! I will launch my theory! I will go on my trip. I will make this happen. A miracle will take place. It already has. I am back from the dead, from the worse panic attack I have ever endured. I will not give up. It is my time to shine.”
I spend the next few hours refining my plan. I will re-write the second chapter yet again, I decide. It’s a reality book; why not write about what happened today? I push aside the embarrassment that rises within me. It is only through self-exposure that we can be liberated. This is who I am. Love me or hate me, that’s me. The toughest part in the journey of self-acceptance is exposing our true self to others.
Concrete faith in a desired outcome grows when the plan is clearly defined, and we see our ability to perform its steps. This ability diminishes with the rise of anxiety. Hence, reducing the anxiety can increase our faith in our ability to make things happen. Marijuana is merely a powerful catalyst, a potent instigator, a dynamic fertilizer, a valuable impetus. The actual agent of change must be an action we choose to take. We create the magical effect of the plant; it is us that we must believe in.
Abstract Faith, like believing in a much-needed miracle, grows when we believe in our cause. I believe in my cause with all my heart. Marijuana helps millions with their anxiety, stress, and other mental un-ease. By understanding how marijuana changes our perceptive of time and space, we can use it to enhance our lives and help ourselves realize our potential. It is this conviction that drives me forward and motivates me to push myself as my journey unfolds.
I wake up the next morning at dawn and write this chapter. Don’t be embarrassed, I remind myself. It’s your story. There are many out there who struggle. Sometimes it takes more courage to name our emotions than to face a physical danger. There are many types of soldiers; I fight inward. I will not stop until I find what I seek – that inner diamond that is truly me.
By sharing my story and how I used marijuana to solve the puzzle of the human psyche, I will show you how to navigate your own mind and discover your unique mental superpowers. Marijuana can be used as the personal trainer for your mind. All you need to know is how the mind creates our perception of time and space, and how marijuana changes them. I will then show you how to choose the right strain-type ratio suitable for the outcome you wish to achieve – that is, to slow down or speed the mind as desired, and pave new neuropathways in order to maximize your mental potential.
To learn how marijuana impacts the mind and how to use it to pave new neuropathways, as well as to download a PDF of this chapter and be notified when new ones are available, join http://CRIORG.univeristy
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