I turned a blind eye to the heavy drinking, the daily marijuana use, the bottles of Vyvanse and Viagra that were empty but not yet due for refill. I heard him when he told me his ex-girlfriend had felt he wanted a servant more than a partner, but I didn’t really listen.
As a 29-year-old self-identifying feminist, I thought I was immune to guys like Elijah.
I was not.
…
I had invited him to join me on the drive home for the holidays—a 2-day adventure up the west coast to Washington, where I would be staying with my parents until leaving the country for South America. It was, objectively, a rash decision, but I was pleased by the prospect of a car buddy. Plus, I was feeling free and spontaneous.
Three nights before the road trip, I was over at his home eating take-out Indian food and making eggnog cocktails. We settled in to watch a show and Elijah pulled out his weed. I had told him about my one and only prior experience with cannabis, which was traumatizing both for me and for those around me. But when he offered me his joint, some little part of me wanted a psychological adventure with him. Without risk there is no reward, I thought. I took a hit—and then two or three more when he told me I need not exhale so quickly.
I had thought I felt comfortable with him, but my body and mind, under the influence of the drug, told otherwise.
The evening took a turn for the paranoid after less than a minute. I was high, my heart rate was accelerating, and my breaths became shallow and rapid.
“I think I’m dying,” I said. “I need you to tell me I will be okay.”
“You’ll be okay,” he said. I asked again.
Soon, I was face down on his sofa, sobbing hysterically. I felt alone.
“I haven’t seen this before,” he commented, which certainly didn’t help the situation.
“Make it stop,” I cried. The minutes felt like hours, stretching on in cyclical misery. I was experiencing my own personal inception-like hell.
I must have asked him twenty times to tell me I wouldn’t die. Which is annoying, no doubt, but it’s the price you pay to smoke with me. Elijah was compassionate and calm, at first. Then, perhaps not understanding the profound fear I felt, he started to mess with me. “Wait, what? You shouldn’t feel it anymore,” he said, turning on his podcast about alternate universes.
The next time I asked for reassurance, he snapped: “Will you just shut up and let me listen?”
I turned to my side and cried, my tears forming a puddle on the soft brown leather.
