When I'm High, I am not me

Preface

This poem was born from a war I fight that no one else sees.
It is about weed, yes.
But more than that, it's about the slow unraveling of life when an escape becomes routine, and routine becomes a prison.
It's about being surrounded by smoke. Not just in the air but in the mind, the mirror, and all the moments that matter.

This is me. Trying, failing, and trying again.
I choose to keep trying cause when there is peace and clarity I remember what it's like to be me.
I remember who I am when I'm free.
I miss that man.
So I wrote this to bring him back, and keep him around.

When I'm High, I am not me

When I'm high, I am not me.
I wear the weight of smoke like skin.
My body moves, but nothing's free.

I hear my friends light up again
Discord, glowing in the dark.
They're laughing. I'm pretending.
I'm there, but I'm not.

No one says the words,
But the silence carries pressure.
Not joining feels like judgement.
So I inhale the easy answer.
And I vanish.

When I'm high, I am not me.
I forget what joy looks like
without the blur.

I tell myself it's just to rest,
to take the edge off.
But the truth is—
I get high to run
from the man I'm afraid I'll never become.

Then come the hours I can't explain.
The aching teeth. The throbbing skull.
The to-do list bleeding into tomorrow.

Anna walking in,
her eyes bright, mine dulled.
I freeze—
full of shame and nothing done.

When I'm high, I am not me.
I speak slower. Move slower.
Dream less.
Snap more.
I say things I don't mean
to the ones who mean everything.

When I'm high, I am not me.
I become fog.
I become friction.
I become someone I wouldn't trust.
I become someone I can't respect.

And yet...
Sober me is still in here.
Tapping on the glass.
He remembers—

the mornings that shimmered,
the mind that sparked,
the spine that stood tall
without chemical crutches.

He remembers laughter
that didn't need smoke to lift.
He remembers the art, the run,
the damn joy of being awake and real.

I miss him.

When I'm high, I am not me.
But I have not given up
on the man beneath the fog.

I will fall again. I know that now.
But fall is not the end of climb.
It's the cost of reaching.

One day, I will stand in the light
with lungs that breathe only air,
a heart that holds no haze,
a mind that no longer flees,
a soul that does not shrink.

And I'll whisper to the smoke—
"You do not own me."
Not today. Not anymore.

I will look back at the haze,
at the days I dissolved into smoke,
and I will not flinch.

Because when I'm high, I am not me.
but I remember who I was,
and I am becoming who I'm meant to be.

And if I fall, I will rise.
I will try again.
Because the only thing I have to lose
are the chains I never needed.

And I will lose them.
Every last one.
And I will be free.

Reflections

Recovery isn't a ladder, but a spiral staircase without safety rails.
This poem is a reflection on the struggle of addiction, particularly to substances like weed. It captures the internal battle between the desire for escape and the longing for authenticity.
The imagery of smoke is meant to serve as a metaphor for the haze that can cloud one's identity and relationships. I meant to ultimately convey a message of hope and resilience, emphasizing the importance of self-awareness and the journey toward reclaiming my true self.

This poem isn't meant to be an ending, but a beginning and a vow.
I hope to read and reflect on this in the future if I find myself beginning to slip into the haze again.

— James