A good friend of mine — now a mother and wife — spoke to me about drug experimentation and her particular exposure to it during late youth. Personally, she had not so much as puffed a joint her entire life, but almost all of her friends had used some substance or another growing up, and to my amusement, she insisted that it was actually normal to experiment with hallucinogens and narcotics — this was coming from a 40-something year-old woman who had never felt the need to let herself “get lost” in the whim of young life like everybody else seemingly had. I thought if anybody could understand my bias against drugs, it would be her. Nope. She too had that open-mindedness I envied.
Now that I’ve ended my freshman year of college and entered that age where I’m still at the peak of my youth as a sophomore in college, and yet old news to every frat guy on campus, I’m already looking back wondering if I did it right. Yeah, I’ve got three (or four, depending on the program) more years ahead of me to make similar mistakes, but I see what I did with that freedom this past year and I can’t help but be a little disappointed in myself for not doing more. Not in terms of academics, but in terms of really letting loose.
This is my one shot to be an idiot and I feel as if I’ve already blown it. At 18, I have the magical privilege to be as dumb as I want without any of the social consequences because — lucky for me — everybody else is acting just as stupid as I am. In lamest terms, this is my one chance to dress scandalously and not be the talk of the town. And truth be told, I have done little to nothing with this gift.
I have friends that lived the party life and friends that would rather stay home watching Vampire Diaries. I felt at home with both, and yet a foreigner on each of their turfs. I can’t help fighting with the idea that I’m doing college wrong.
Where is my desire to rave? And why has popping pills never occurred to me as a perfect way to intensify my already wonderful highs? I know I should take pride in these realizations. That’s what every mother would want to hear, that I’d rather be sober enough to soak up all 100 percent of my life, and not a clouded mixture of chemically enhanced experiences instead. I wonder if I’m just scared. What if what I opt out of during my college years, comes back to bite me later in my life? What good is my word in saying I’m past a certain stage when in reality, I just never got the nerve to live it?
The best writers I can think of have all had substance problems. I know Stephen King did cocaine for a while, and Ernest Hemingway used alcohol as a crutch for the majority of his life, and whether their stint of genius happened during or after their time spent “living,” their work demonstrates an incredibly deep level of understanding, one I fear I may never reach. It’s as if they’d seen the gates of heaven or the depths of hell and can illustrate either with ease. How can I write something entirely out of this world when I refuse to visit any other?
I’ve researched ecstasy and I’ve looked up long and short-term effects. The findings are incredibly convincing and in its favor, but I still have major roadblocks when it comes to actually trying such a drug.
It’s now or never, the way I see it, and it scares me that I’m near ready to write off that part of my life forever. What could’ve been, what maybe should’ve been, I’ll never know.
Now, I’m not saying it takes an addict to produce something abstract or truly insightful. I’m not saying I’ll cave from curiosity either. All I’m saying is that maybe these “dumb risks” some choose to take early on end up producing a more enlightened perspective later in life. In some instances, at least.
Haley Pearson is a sophomore industrial design major and assistant opinions editor for the Summer 49er.
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