Introduction: A Quiet Descent
Like many middle-class London teens, I started smoking cannabis around age 15. It felt preferable to alcohol, which I found unpalatable, and weed offered a pleasant buzz that seemed safer because it was “natural” and easy to obtain. It was something I associated with parties, never with home or isolation. By the summer after my A-levels, I was smoking almost every day, and Oxford felt like a seamless continuation of that routine. I didn’t see a reason to stop, especially after I heard about Alex, a student a year above me who bragged about scoring cannabis. The drug, I realized, had become a social shortcut to making friends.
Seeking Belonging in a Drug-Heavy World
Alex and I quickly formed a relationship, and I found myself spending most of my time in the apartment he shared with another student. It wasn’t just cannabis anymore; I’d joined a druggy social circle and, to me, cannabis felt safer than the harder stuff I imagined others were using. Our evenings followed a familiar pattern: grubby flat, junk food, and a cloud of smoke while we watched films. In hindsight, the environment was seedy and suffocating, a space where people were often high and where I measured my own worth against peers who could party to excess. At the time, I felt cool and sophisticated, even superior to those who drank to the point of blackouts, but I had no idea what was in the weed I was consuming.
The Hidden Cost: Increasing Demands and a Slipping Grip
Term after term, I coasted on a manufactured high. After Christmas, academic expectations surged, and I had committed to too many extracurriculars, including a student play I couldn’t abandon. My relationship with Alex grew stifling, and we fought frequently. Yet I kept smoking, unaware that it could be slowly poisoning my brain. Soon, unsettling thoughts began to tilt into fear: thoughts of violence or harming someone, which escalated into panic attacks—sensation-heavy moments where the room seemed to tilt and my chest tightened. My palms grew sweaty, and I felt powerless to slow the spiraling thoughts.
When Reality Shattered: A Turning Point
One night, after another argument with Alex, I walked back from rehearsal and became convinced I had killed him. I texted him in a panic, but he was asleep and didn’t reply. I interpreted this as confirmation that he was dead. I became hysterical and, with no one else to turn to at 3 a.m., I dialed the Samaritans. A calm voice on the other end talked me down, saving me from a dangerous spiral. I chose to tell my college tutors that I was in crisis, though I couldn’t share the exact details for fear of repercussions. I returned home to recuperate and began the slow, painful recognition that cannabis could trigger severe mental health crises for me—even if it seemed harmless at the time.
Long-Term Aftermath and Reflections
Though I’ve rarely touched cannabis since, distressing intrusive thoughts still visit occasionally. There’s a darker postscript as well: a friend of Alex, someone who frequented those cannabis-heavy gatherings, went on to murder someone in a frenzied stabbing. During the trial, drugs were cited as a significant factor—he’d been a habitual cannabis user since his early teens and had developed schizophrenia. This is not an isolated tale; it underscores the potential risks for young people whose brains are still maturing.
Why Education and Awareness Matter
My story fuels a broader question: is cannabis harmless, or are we underestimating mental health risks? The experience taught me that even substances perceived as natural can have profound, destabilizing effects on the mind. It isn’t about demonizing cannabis but about recognizing that risk gradients exist—especially for young people whose brains are still developing. I now support campaigns that challenge overly optimistic narratives about cannabis and advocate for better education about its potential impact on mental health.
Takeaway: A Call for Informed Choices
If you’re a student or a parent, teacher, or clinician, the message remains clear: education and early intervention are essential. Understanding that cannabis can interact with mental health in unpredictable ways—triggering anxiety, panic, or more severe psychoses—can empower people to make safer choices and seek help sooner. My hope is that continued dialogue and informed policy reduce the harm that can follow from casual, social use in environments where access is easy and peer pressure runs high.
