Podcast, Cannabis and Sarah recovery🎤

 

Jane's Podcast The long road recovery🎤

(35 minute podcast)

purchase Sarah story Cannabis beyond the high🕮

Join Jane and Sarah  on "The Green Road Back," a raw and honest podcast that dives deep into the often-unseen struggles behind cannabis use. In this powerful series, one woman bravely shares her harrowing journey from dependency and homelessness to a hard-won recovery. This isn't just a story about cannabis; it's about the long, winding path back to self, exploring the complexities of addiction, the resilience of the human spirit, and the essential steps toward healing. Tune in for candid conversations, profound insights, and a message of hope for anyone navigating their own challenges.

Snippet of book

Chapter 1: The Haze of Holloway Road

    The rhythmic thud of the Tube beneath Holloway Road was usually a comfort, a subterranean pulse to London's sprawling chaos. Today, it was a dull ache resonating behind my eyes, each vibration sending a fresh wave of nausea through me. My throat was sandpaper, my tongue felt like a forgotten sock, and a bitter, metallic taste coated everything. This wasn't the aftermath of a big night out; this was the familiar morning-after of a session that had stretched into days, blurring the lines between waking and a low-grade, perpetual dream.

    I stumbled out onto the street, the morning rush a blinding assault. Buses hissed past, their exhaust fumes mixing with the faint, sweet-yet-stale scent of cannabis that always seemed to cling to my clothes, a tell-tale shadow of my constant companion. Every face I saw seemed to rush past, their lives neatly compartmentalized, purposeful. Mine felt like a shattered mosaic, each piece disconnected, meaningless.

"Just need to... clear my head,something to take the edge off" I mumbled, the words catching in my dry throat. My hand instinctively patted my pockets, a frantic inventory: phone (dead), wallet (empty), keys (to an address I hadn't been to in weeks). The only thing I found was a crumpled, empty baggie, the faint residue of my last escape clinging to the plastic. Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of the haze. The familiar craving started to build, a subtle hum beneath the surface that threatened to erupt into a desperate, all-consuming roar.

    My eyes darted, searching. Not for a pub, not for a bottle, but for the tell-tale shimmer of foil, the glint of a discarded roach, or the quick, furtive hand-off between shadows. Piccadilly, for all its grandiosity, offered little of what I truly sought. This side of town, closer to the anonymous corners and hidden alleys, felt more like home. A public bin overflowed nearby, its contents a grim testament to urban consumption. I hesitated, pride in a faint, dying ember within me, before plunging my hand into the lukewarm refuse. A crumpled newspaper, a half-eaten kebab... nothing. My stomach growled in protest, but it wasn't hunger for food that truly gnawed at me. It was the hunger for the haze, for the sweet, enveloping cloud that made the world slow down, made the edges soft, made the screaming stop.

    Street life was a brutal teacher. Survival meant scavenging, a constant negotiation with indignity. The kindness of strangers, often found at charity street kitchens, provided sporadic meals and the occasional clean socks. Small mercies in a life stripped bare. But even these moments of reprieve were shadowed by the constant, nagging need.

    I remembered a few weeks ago, a flash of red and blue lights, the sharp command of a police officer. They'd found me slumped in a doorway, eyes glazed over, the lingering scent of skunk thick around me. Instead of a cell, it was a stern lecture, a leaflet for support services I immediately crumpled, and a warning to "move along." I was just another statistic, another shadow in the city's underbelly.

    The physical tremors were starting now, a fine vibration that ran through my hands. My jaw felt tight, my muscles ached with a dull, persistent throb. The world seemed too bright, too loud, too sharp. I needed to escape, to sink back into the familiar, comforting numbness. But there was nothing. The empty baggie mocked me, a cruel reminder of my depleted stash. Desperation began to curdle in my gut, hot and nauseating.

    As the morning sun, weak and watery, began to paint the grime-streaked buildings, I knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was my reality. This was my life: a never-ending chase for the next hit, a desperate effort to block out the searing clarity of how far I'd fallen, and the ghost of the girl I used to be.

---

The Unfurling Green

    It wasn't always like this for me, Sarah. Once upon a time, life was a kaleidoscope of possibility, vibrant and sharp. I could still see a younger version of myself, barely fifteen, perched on a worn sofa in a friend's damp basement. The air was thick, heavy with the forbidden, sweet scent of cannabis smoke. It was a novelty, a whispered secret, a gateway to a world that seemed thrillingly mature.

"Just a puff," my friend Chloe had urged, holding out a crudely rolled joint. "It'll chill you out. Everyone's doing it."

    I hesitated, my heart thrumming with a mixture of fear and excitement. I was always the quiet one, the observer, perpetually awkward in my own skin. School felt like a pressure cooker, my parents' arguments a constant low hum in the background. I yearned for an escape, a way to quiet the endless chatter of anxiety in my head.

    I took a tentative drag, the smoke harsh in my unaccustomed lungs, sending me into a coughing fit. But then, a strange, beautiful calm began to unfurl. The basement walls seemed to expand, the music became richer, deeper. Chloe's laughter sounded like bells. My own self-consciousness seemed to melt away, replaced by a comfortable, almost detached sense of well-being. I felt witty, insightful, connected. I had found a version of myself I actually liked.

    That first high was a revelation. It wasn't about being wild or rebellious; it was about peace. A profound, enveloping quiet in my mind. The world, which had always felt too fast, too demanding, slowed to a gentle, manageable pace. Soon, "just a puff" became a regular after-school ritual. Then it was every evening. Weekends were a blur of hazy afternoons and late-night giggles. My grades, once a source of pride, began to slip. My parents' concerns, once irritating, became background noise, easily drowned out by another joint.

    I didn't see the shift, not really. It was so subtle, so insidious. It started as a social activity, a way to bond with friends. But soon, I was the one suggesting it, the one with the stash, the one who couldn't quite relax without it. The initial joy morphed into a quiet dependence, a crutch. I told myself it was harmless, "just weed." It wasn't like alcohol, where you got drunk and made a fool of yourself. It wasn't like the "hard stuff" you saw in movies. This was natural, relaxing.

    The stereotype of a cannabis user back then was a chill, laid-back hippie. Not an addict. An addict to me was someone in an alley with a needle sticking out their arm. Addiction was for the truly desperate, the ones who had lost everything, strung out in an alley. I was functional, mostly. I still went to college, even if my attendance became erratic. I still lived at home, even if my room smelled perpetually of burnt herbs. I was in control. Or so I believed. My ignorance wasn't denial; it was a genuine, terrifying naiveté about the subtle, suffocating grip that a seemingly harmless plant could exert until it became the only thing that filled the growing void. I never imagined I'd become the very shadow I now saw reflected in shop windows. 

purchase Sarah story Cannabis beyond the high🕮