I am never, in my life, eating edibles again.

What the fuck happened?

I read about CBD oil in Time Magazine and National Geographic, and it sounded awesome and perfect for me, a clean and sober woman of 11 years.

Helps with anxiety without getting you “high?” Where do I sign up?

I asked a friend who works in a pot dispensary to hook me up. She dropped off a little bag of goodies that included a CBD mouth spray, two CBD chewies, and two CBD capsules.

After my daughter had gone to sleep, I tried the mouth spray and the chewies. Nothing happened of any consequence. I didn’t feel high in the least.

The next morning, as I was getting my daughter ready for school, I looked at my calendar and realized what a ridiculously stressful and long day I had with important back-to-back  meetings. I immediately thought of the two CBD capsules I had sitting on my dresser and decided to take them then and there.

I have never regretted a decision as much as I do that one.

20 minutes later time suddenly slowed down, and I felt the room get fuzzy. Sounds elongated and vowels took forever. My voice, in my head, was incredibly far away. Holy shit. I was high as a fucking kite, and I didn’t want to be. I could not be. I was terrified.

What the fuck was I going to do? I had to get my daughter’s lunch packed up and drive her to a friend’s house before starting my gargantuan day.


I had to quit my day. There was no way I was going to be able to speak coherently at any of those meetings. I made the calls. I struggled to press my phone’s suddenly teeny tiny keypad. My fingers looked swollen and felt impaired.

Shaking and scared, I somehow managed to get my daughter in the car. Thank God I only had to drive her less than a mile and no freeways. I must have driven 10 miles an hour, the paranoia was so great. When we arrived at her friend’s house, I quickly rushed her up to the door and almost ran out when the father’s voice came out sounding like Darth Vader in slow-motion.

Somehow I made it home and rushed inside, pulled down all the curtains, and curled up in the fetal position on my bed. I alternated between dry heaving in the toilet and whimpering in my bed, sweating, for the next three hours, praying that God or whatever get me out of this, promising NEVER to do that again, and then playing with myself.


Vacillating in and out of consciousness, I would get these waves of intense sexual urges that were tied directly to the shame and horror of what I was experiencing. And I wanted Highland Park. I wanted him so badly. I wanted him to fuck the pain away. I wanted him to fuck me back into my body. I thought about texting him this. I did not. I endured. And I masturbated. And I endured. And I masturbated. I came at least three times, huge glorious orgasms that were beyond words. But then the horror would return. Terror as I saw my daughter’s face in my rearview mirror trying to drive to her friend’s house. I hated myself. Then I wanted to release all that hate. Out of my body.

I had tons of other realizations and knew I needed to write them down but every time I tried to lift my head or get up for a glass of water I would feel like I was going to throw up or pass out. I could only lay down. And pray the nightmare would end.

I finally reached out to Highland Park. I told him I had a free hour and was ready for him. I knew I was finally in a place where his warm body would start leading me back home. He couldn’t make it. But he had been thinking of me for the past hour on his own. He sent me a photo of him touching himself. Fuck me, this guy knows exactly how to turn me on.

He texted me:

Friday. Be in bed when I arrive. I won’t be late.

That sentence alone made me come for the fourth time.

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