Toke*Anhedonia

The teenage boy despised me.

     You could see it in his scowl every time he confronted an authority figure on the inpatient psych unit. He had scraggly blonde hair, glasses, and a perpetual sneer that exuded contempt for anyone who tried to help him.

     Antony was here because he had an unhealthy addiction to smoking pot. His father had practically disowned him, saying that Antony had thrown away his future for a few cannabis leaves. His grades had dropped, his school performance was lackluster, and (once a promising athlete) he had lost interest in sports.

     According to Antony, he didn’t have a problem. He maintained control over his recreational use of marijuana. He could stop at any time. Besides, his father was a f-ing hypocrite. He condemned marijuana to hell but used it himself. The only reason he disapproved of Antony smoking joints was because he was a kid and couldn’t handle drugs like an adult.

     So Antony got thrown into the psychiatric center. For what? Substance abuse? Oppositional defiant disorder? Depression masked by the mellow euphoria of smoldering THC? What would the doctor prescribe for him? Prozac? Mellaril to tame his raging pubescent hormones? Counseling sessions that would probably leave Antony with an even more intense suspicion of adults?

     I was the only aide on the adolescent unit that morning. There were three boys and one girl. The census was uncharacteristically low for spring break. I went from room to room, reminding the teenagers that breakfast was at eight, and if they chose to hibernate they wouldn’t get a meal until lunch. They scowled at me and pulled blankets over their heads, preferring to sleep until noon. I reminded them that part of gaining privileges on the unit involved cooperating with staff and participating in activities. This earned me a few derisive snorts. My last caveat: I knew the boys liked sports, so I told them that if they chose to sleep, we wouldn’t go to the gym later. They responded by cursing under their breath and stumbling into the bathrooms to take a quick shower.

     When they were ready, we had community meeting. This allowed them to voice pent-up grievances and discuss their progress in the psychiatric center. The conversation went like this:

Me: “How are you feeling today, Antony ?”

Antony : “Like shit.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t get any sleep. One of the kids was yelling in the Quiet Room all night. What a joke. It’s more like the Screaming Room.”

“What’s your number today?”

“Four.”

“Well, that’s one better than yesterday. Or are you just saying that to get discharged faster?”

     “Nah, I feel better, dude. Really really great. I think the evil cannabis has been cleansed from my system.”

     All this was generic psych center bantering. I decided to press the issue a bit further.

     “Your dad says he doesn’t want you back home unless you agree to stop smoking pot.”

     “Dude, I get the pot from his stash.”

     “We’re talking about you, not him.”

     “The pot isn’t taking over my life. I just use it to chill a little. Is that a crime?”

     “Yes, according to your probation officer.”

     “Screw him. You can’t tell me he never smoked weed.”

     “Antony, look at yourself. You do everything you can to defend your habit. That’s addictive behavior. If it’s so easy to quit, why don’t you?”

     “Because I like it. It serves a purpose. If I didn’t have pot to help me relax, I would probably strangle my dad.”

     “Then we need to work on your dad’s attitude as well.”

     He laughed. “You guys are so full of it. It’s always the kid’s fault. My dad could be beating me with a club, and the psychiatrist would say, ‘ Antony , what could you do to stop stressing out your dad’?”

     “Well, you could stop smoking pot. That drives him crazy, right?”

     “A few joints aren’t the problem.”

     “I disagree. Marijuana has screwed up your life. It’s the root of all your troubles. You defend a drug that takes away your motivation, makes you eat junk food all day, and precipitates arguments with your dad. Seems like a high price to pay.”

     He responded by yelling, “You don’t understand. Pot should be legal. It’s legalized by the government for some people. It doesn’t hurt me. My father hurts me. He’s the one that should go away.”

     “You’d choose pot over him?”

     “Hell, yes. And over jerks like you, too.”

     My session was a complete and resounding failure. But what did I expect? I wasn’t a board-certified counselor. I was a college student earning minimum wage while taking classes. I had no training in the psych field. I cared deeply about the patients, but could easily say or do something that traumatized them for life.

      We went to the cafeteria and the teens ate together while I remained on the periphery, an outsider. They whispered to each other and chortled when glancing in my direction. I decided to take them to the gym afterward. We all liked basketball, so we decided to play 2-on-2. I had been playing since second grade, so had a firm command of the fundamentals. I chose a goofy kid named Mike to be on my team. He was obviously uncomfortable holding the ball, passing it back to me like a live grenade every time it dropped into his hands.

     Antony was a surprisingly agile player. He drove to the basket well, had a nice pull-up jump shot, and could dribble with both hands. The games were intense and hard-fought. I guarded Antony , and he scored despite my smothering presence. I didn’t back down, playing tough defense and often blocking his shot. To my delight, he didn’t give up, but played harder than ever, gleaning joy from competition itself. He truly seemed to enjoy the sport and smiled when I patted his shoulder and told him he was the next Stephen Curry.

     After an hour of sweat and hyperventilation, we returned to the adolescent unit. I asked the teens to get ready for lunch, and they mumbled “okay”. As Antony drifted toward his room, I stopped him in the hall. I told him he was a talented player and he could be a starting point guard on his high school team if he practiced hard enough. I expressed admiration for his skills and was glad he had given me an offensive whipping on the court.

     He returned to his room without comment. Maybe my words seemed manipulative. It’s possible he had been screwed over by adults so many times he viewed me as a smooth deceiver. Behind my compliments lay some underlying moral or self-righteous sermon.

     At lunch, one of the teens was effusive. He boasted about his skills and how he had kicked me and Mike’s asses. Mike was too shy to argue. I simply ignored the braggart.

     Antony shocked me. He told the kid to shut up, that he was a ball-hog, and that I could shut him down with one arm tied behind my back. Antony politely asked me if I wanted dessert, then gave me his pumpkin pie. He didn’t bring up the subject of marijuana, but he was kind and treated me with respect.

     That day changed my perspective forever. Forget medications and counseling sessions. Being good at a sport was what made me an equal in Antony ’s eyes. He may keep smoking joints, but at least he was more receptive to my opinion. And who knows, if his dad took an interest in what he liked and spent quality time with him, maybe Antony would realize that drugs were not a substitute for human emotion, and a natural high was more satisfying and enduring than the artificial stimulation of pleasure centers in an undernourished brain.