As I was riding home from the medical cannabis dispensary on the Route 30 Green, I peered into my grocery bag to make sure I had put my tiny dispensary bag in there, too. Because otherwise, where had my cannabis bag gone? I couldn’t find it.
And it wasn’t in the grocery bag either.
Initiating PTSD meltdown in three, two…
“Hey Dave! I can call over to the Route 70 Purple and see if you left it on that bus,” the truly compassionate bus driver announced.
He must have seen the smoke begin to roll out of my ears as I began to mumble, “Cannabis gone! Cannabis gone!” It may also have been a clue that I was on my hands and knees peering under the bus seats as it was barreling down 24th Street.
I counted to three, realized the cannabis was gone and that it was simply beyond my control, and got off the bus.
The driver, always friendly and courteous and just plain nice, suggested I call Centre Station. If I left it on Route 70 Purple, it would be returned to Centre Station by the driver if he finds it at the end of his route, the driver of the 30 explained.
Severely downtrodden and deflated, I walked home and nearly cried when I walked in the door. The truth is, I could have made it through the day without cannabis. But not now!
I called Centre Station and the switchboard operator transferred me to lost and found. I got voice mail, but halfway through leaving a message said, “Oh, forget it, you’ll never find it anyway.” I could not remember my telephone number (which I just changed) so I just got flustered and hung up.
Can you believe they took my number off the caller ID and called back? Indeed, my cannabis was in the lost and found at Centre Station!
I KNOW! It’s like a National Enquirer headline: “Cannabis found on mass transit returned to rightful owner.”
Or The Onion. Ha!
So, I offered an outpouring of gratitude to this QC Metro worker, and explained that I have PTSD because I just don’t like people very much. That I’ve had some terrible things happen to me. And that getting this cannabis back today wasn’t even so much about having my medicine back (but don’t kid yourself! Thank God I have it!) as it is a hopeful statement about decent, honest people in this community I have grown to so profoundly distrust.
“You will just need to show your medical cannabis card to a sheriff’s deputy at the station,” the lady on the telephone said at the end of our conversation.
What happened next? I borrowed $2 from a neighbor to ride down to Centre Station and, by God, I’ve got my medical cannabis back.
The truth is, I have my medical cannabis back because several QC Metro employees hustled and made it happen for me.
I appreciate it. It’s no secret that the bus is my social life. Hey, it’s a start. I’ve met some of the kindest people ever riding the bus, riders and drivers both.
Today has been tough. Cold, gloomy. I’m struggling. I need more work. Desperately.
But, I have my gram of Gobbstopper (yes, with the extra ‘b’ in ‘Gobbstopper’) cannabis, a heavy indica, testing at about 24 percent. And I found out that people can be nice today.
People were nice to me.
Thank you for helping me by donating a small amount toward what I do.
I truly believe those drivers know damned well I need my cannabis. Don’t forget – these drivers have been my friends a long time. They saw me leave Amber Ridge Memory Care in tears so many times I could not even speak. And they would drive me home like that. For more than two years.
There were many times while my dad was dying in those hellhole facilities that I thought I might die before him.
I have known those drivers so long that they even can remember drunk Dave.
I always say I don’t have any friends. But I do have friends.
The people who used to be my friends are not anymore. Yes, sometimes people stay married for 35 years, too. And often it doesn’t end well.
No, the people I have ghosted from my life are gone forever. Most of my family, too. And what they did to me really stings bad, and I may not ever forgive any of them for it.
But I have to stop equating that with my current life, or new relationships never will form. I have to quit thinking about it all the time. Because my logical brain will say, “People are not good. Your own family and closest friends burned you so bad you could have died. Stay away from people.”
But you know what? People obliterated all the time on drugs and alcohol make poor choices. Is it any wonder I surrounded myself with the people I surrounded myself with, and that they hurt me the first chance they got?
No, there isn’t. But my mind isn’t as dark as theirs.
The darkness of everything related to what I have been through is incomprehensible to me, especially inasmuch as it was so highly organized by evil, sick people who knew me very, very well, and therefore knew exactly how to execute their plan.
It’s so chilling. But I’m not afraid anymore. Everyone knows the truth, regardless of whether justice ever is served.
I mean, really. That I even trust anybody at all is serious progress. Riding the bus again is huge, huge progress. Maybe you have to be really close to the story to understand that.
So, before I get into negative thinking about why I live a life in isolation, and always on high alert, let me say this and then I’ll shut up for an hour:
Thank you #QCMetro pals, FRIENDS, for getting my cannabis returned to me. You’re all pretty darned swell.
You can find me on Twitter @DavidHeitz