“I’m a survivor in more ways than you know,” that line from a song has always sat with me. Of course, I have a list of traumatic events out of my control, but also, the things I did to survive life haunt me. I have delayed reactions, or delayed conscious reactions; for the most part, I don’t realize something is wrong until I take a step back and analyze the situation.
At nineteen, it wasn’t when I became a survivor but when I decided to use alcohol to cope. I grew up Muslim, and I have a family history of addictive personalities. I never thought I would indulge in alcohol. Then, in my second semester of college, I became curious and dove in. Initially, I hated the taste and thought I’d only drink during social events, but nothing I’d volunteer to drink.
But then, in the summer of my freshman year, I earned a new badge and joined a new statistics of survivors, and this time, I turned to liquor. And when I say I can drink as a result, I fear for my liver in the future, lol.
At first, I thought alcohol was amazing! Despite the taste that I eventually became accustomed to, it numbed the pain and mostly the fear. While inebriated, it was easy to blame myself and put myself through a constant cycle of self-hate and acting out because I felt worthless. I wasn’t terrified because I genuinely didn’t care about my life. I purposely put myself in dangerous situations, and alcohol encouraged all of my self-destructive habits. The liquor made it easier to abandon my morals and values because the truth was, I was terrified to say no again, and alcohol helped silence my voice while a constant reminder of my pain. Yeah, alcohol was amazing at ensuring I never healed. Still, two significant events showed me that it’s time to put, as my dad can say, the haram juice down. I blacked out, one too many times that I care to mention, and my baby brother saw me in one of my states of self-loathing.
I guess something good did come from the pandemic because I moved back home, and there was no way I could get drunk in my Islamic home, so I finally took my step back from alcohol. I was able to fully process how bad it was for me mentally and take back a bit of control of my life. Then, out of boredom or stress that the world was falling apart and I was sitting out my twenties, I decided to eat an edible. Yes, I’ve had an edible here or there in college, but it was hell-no for me for the most part. I believed every negative stigma that came with weed, and it’s crazy I had my nose up to weed while slowly killing myself with liquor.
What I discovered while under the influence of cannabis was a revelation. I didn’t despise myself. In fact, I felt profound sadness for the way I had been treated by others. It made me focus on my thoughts and challenge my intrusive thoughts. Yes, it did numb the pain, but not in the destructive way alcohol did. It numbed in a way that sparked a desire to heal myself, or at the very least, to refrain from acting out. I channeled the positive energy and endorphins rather than the depressant of liquor. I even noticed my therapy sessions were more productive, and I could move past my stuck points. This experience ignited a deep dive into research into cannabis. You can read about my cannabis journey at Leafwell.com. But I can tell you now that it was the beginning of my journey towards becoming a medical cannabis activist.
With cannabis, I found it wasn’t a crutch or a necessity but more like a warm embrace when life became overwhelming. I’ve learned to take tolerance breaks and utilize my coping skills, tuning out the harmful noise and focusing on the positive. As the 10th anniversary of a significant event approaches, my nerves are on edge. But I can confidently say that I’m no longer just surviving. I’ve stopped running from life and am now facing discomfort head-on, with a sense of elevation, self-love, and the comforting knowledge that everything will be okay. I’m proud to tell my nineteen-year-old self that I’ve become a social drinker, and even then, only rarely.
I am The Misunderstood Afro-Muslimah for a reason.



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