This long blog was written a few days ago and was too long to include until now.
Well, the inner-shaking phenomena (and accompanying insomnia) had this body up at 1:00 am (or was it the full moon or the time change-ha).
Unable to simply witness the fireworks dancing inside, I rise to sit and scribble; a true salvation only an innate writer can know. These mostly middle of the night episodes are one of the hallmark characteristics of both chronic neuro-lyme (dis-ease) and chronic blastocystis hominis (parasite infestation).
During the acute phase (occurring as I wrote this), it feels like a giant, malaria-carrying mosquito sting. Add to this a thick brain fog that suspends my neurons in a sludge. I am transported into Jules Verne’s Mysterious Island (the deleted scene).
In the last year and a half, there’s been a few interesting encounters not previously expressed on the blog page. Here’s part-1 of a 3.
Thirteen months ago the nausea aspect of whatever is playing out in the body here, reached a zenith. I decided that I needed a partner in crime, an assistant for my super strong ginger-peppermint-fennel tea combo–used to lessen the intensity of all things in the gastro-intestinal tract.
It was time for good old cannabis.
I knew the herb had evolved through high-end cultivation methods in the 3-plus decades since I initially dabbled in her wafting haze. (Okay, was on full-immersion retreat). The biggest change, legality issues aside, has come via the THC content, the plant’s psychoactive component. THC is was now 5-10 times more potent and truly drug-like in its effects. There was also the CBD form, a non-psychoactive extract of the plant made famous in the last decade for numerous astonishing reversals of childhood epilepsy- among others.The THC form is now being touted as a panacea for just about any ailment. This amazing plant somehow has the ability to bring about homeostasis, to bring one back to a biological baseline equanimity, thus allowing the body organism to reboot and restore itself with greater ease.
Decades ago cannabis as medicine, at least in the United States, was rarely known except for use with glaucoma and chemo-related nausea and lack of appetite. (read: chemo poisoning).
I knew I would be treading into an old vice, as during my high school years the herb was smoked for emotional disconnect and escapist thrills, playing the role of pseudo psychologist. The decision to see a cannabis-specialist, ha, lead me to Doc Deb – an entrepreneur of a rapidly escalating new practitioner paradigm: the stoner Doc. Though some of these Doctors are on the cutting edge and really helping the true people in need, many of these new age stoner Docs have found a lucrative way to tip toe along the precipice of mainstream medicine, an illusory sense of freedom under the umbrella of Western Allopathy and the pharmaceutical mobsters. (They always follow the money and this is a multi-billion dollar industry).
Ninety-nine percent of Doc Deb’s patients are booking 30-minute appointments in order to get or renew a medical marijuana card. Doc Deb pockets her hundred bucks by stamping a document and ushering forth a few words about intuitive strain selection which is based on sense of smell. What Doc Deb calls:
“How it makes you feel.”
A card is then issued, good for one year at any legal medical marijuana co-op. These co-ops are really shopping mall meets Theme park, with every variety of edible cannabis imaginable, plus 5 dozen weed strains and combination, some with THC content above 30 percent. Think drug strength and with a growing new disorder now arising in over-indulgent young and new users called: marijuana psychosis. Strain names include: Blue Dream, where you pretend you’re an angel from above; Blackberry Kush, after smoking a shaman appears, leading you to the last bush of wild berries on earth. Then there is the experimental trial strain: Coma-Inducer- for those wanting to leave the world behind but keep the return ticket option open. Groundhog day on dope. Add to this myriad vapor pipes, seeds, plant grow kits and soon, no doubt, an onsite gardener available for hire. It truly was an amusement park ride at the Kind Peoples Collective I visited.
A burly security guard (bouncer), greets you kindly at the door. You get carded, then step through a metal detector, the coaster then slides downhill slightly towards a 20-something young lady who does finger-printing and voice analysis (okay, she really just checks to make sure you are in the System). Smiling she releases the ride-lever and ushers me to the line behind 6 other assorted clients. Officially ready to board Alice’s Collective Wonderland, I glanced up at the glass display case, contact high already beginning. I see a glazed-over look in all four of the reef-tenders. The sound of pigeon-cannabis, a new american dialect of part hippy-speak, part new age garble combined with technical aspects of weed that only a chemist would understand. All of this is spoken in a laid back state of indifference, a ginger smile that looks ready to laugh any second.
The cannabis collective clients come from all walks of life: the 85 year old lady dying from cancer-using the medicine to ease her existential fear and panic as death approaches. She has several strains to choose from. Then there is the construction worker that dropped a 2 by 10 on his big toe, who in a few minutes will forget which toes hurts or if he even has a toe; the 62 year old hippy with chronic inflammation-arthritis of everything; and the 23 year old young man, former valedictorian forced to to live at home after obtaining a Master’s degree yet unable to find a job. He’s using the oil (50% THC) to ‘handle’ living at home with his parents. Most come because they don’t buy into the pharmaceutical cartel promotional game, with 20 % off all store items if you get a flu shot BS. The roulette wheel of poisonous vaccines in disguise of disease-fighters and addictive drugs which cause, in many cases, side-effects far worse than what one originally took the medication for.
Some come to the Collective for more legitimate needs than others but Doc Deb stamps them all. It’s a racket no doubt but a mostly harmless one which does not include mass poisoning and societal mayhem.
My appointment with Doc Deb was for one hour, at $250.00. I brought a 5-page health history and a folder full of tests and information. A recent high-end lab test showed I still harbored two parasite species picked up in India 20-years earlier. (I have written about this in a previous blog a year ago).
Little did I know but Doc Deb was about to play stoned psychotherapist, holistic MD because it gets boring to stamp pot cards all day. My visit was her chance to stand on Mount Sinai. We all love to hear ourselves talk, especially from up high. And there’s nothing like a doctor who ‘knows’.
Reading through my health history, she suddenly stopped and blurted:
“I know how to cure Blasto! It’s no big deal.”” Her sermon continued: “You know what, I have to tell you,” she exhorted after reading further into my health history, “Blasto”, she leaned close, “does not cause this much damage.” She was referring to all of my symptoms. “And you don’t have Lyme. Labs aren’t wrong. Your real issue is a need to grow some cajones…” I tried to cut her off with some additional information and research which far exceeded hers. She would have none of it. She knew.
“You need more assertiveness and masculinity.” I listened to her verdict and scolding because I could do nothing else in my debilitated state- which further validated her diagnosis- at least in her eyes. Doc Deb had no idea nor true interest in the humbling I’d gone through in the previous 7 years. All her ‘knowing’ and intellectual rubbish was a replacement for heart qualities she lacked and her own unmet emotions.
I sat back, trusting that Doc Deb’s flower power hour would soon end. I didn’t buy her monologue. I was just waiting to get my card, alleviate the nausea and perhaps even get a prescription for a drug therapy (a huge concession that had disastrous results). I wasn’t angry that she believed my entire health situation was a result of hypnotic emotional psychosis and gestalt paralysis.
As I stood at the front desk waiting for the receptionist to laminate my new medicine card, I looked out the sliding glass entryway to see Doc Deb pacing nervously back and forth between cars. She’d take 3 steps, pivot then turn back the other way before taking 2 more steps. Then she stopped and feverishly began inhaling from a vapor pipe like a patient trying to come down from amphetamines.
I smiled, waved, and nodded her way a few minutes later when I walked outside to my car, just 30 feet away from where she stood. Doc Deb was toking and pacing still, she turned her back to me and walked a dozen steps and began to drag incessantly on her vapor device. I am guessing that was our follow up call.
I don’t make this stuff up.
The sampling of weed, chocolate, tinctures and oils I tried helped a little. The CBD for the inner shaking, the THC for the nausea but the CBD oil was $50.00 for a 4 day supply, way out of my price range. The THC varieties were so strong that the primary side effect: decreased lucidity of consciousness, far outweighed their anti-nausea benefits. I went back to the teas.
Well time to go now, the Inner Shaking Choir is being joined by Tommy Tinnitus & the Ear-ringers, with a special guest appearance by Upton Right Molar on the kettle drum (tooth heading for extraction).
Should be quite a show.