One evening in the suburbs, I found myself wide awake in bed, feeling shaky and nauseous. My head felt warm, but my skin was covered in goosebumps and a cold sweat, and I felt an overwhelming urge to be sick.
This was day three of my break from vaping marijuana. After 15 years of using cannabis intermittently, I hadn’t really quit before, although I do take breaks now and then. Typically, the first few days of quitting resemble the experience of giving up cigarettes or coffee: irritability, cravings, and a persistent headache. However, this time was different—the withdrawal was harsh. I wasn’t just missing out on THC; my body seemed confused without it. I found myself coughing into the sink, gasping for air until I gagged and drooled into the drain.
“It’s common for people to experience withdrawal symptoms like you’re describing when they stop using cannabis,” revealed Michael Ostacher, a psychiatry professor at Stanford University, during an interview. “This seems especially likely as cannabis potency increases.” I recalled that night when I dug through the trash, searching for the vape pen I had bought based solely on the recommendation of a budtender. I was taken aback to discover it had a staggering “95 percent THC.”
Drooling, gagging, and shaking—this wasn’t the relaxed image of a weed smoker I had admired when I started using marijuana regularly. It was just before Colorado legalized cannabis, and I was a college junior at a “hippie” school where smoking weed was already common. One of my favorite icebreaker questions was: Who would you invite for your dream blunt rotation? My list always included Seth Rogen, Rihanna, and Ilana Glazer—icons of my generation who somehow seemed to exemplify how heavy cannabis use could coincide with massive creative success. Their identities were intimately linked with marijuana; they were inspiring creatives not despite being stoners but seemingly because they embraced that persona.
My boomer parents had used weed as part of the counterculture. Generation X grew up during the D.A.R.E. era. For me, marijuana was simply about fitting in; it was never an act of defiance. We weren’t navigating Reagan’s America; we were in a world shaped by Lady Gaga, Wiz Khalifa, and even Barack Obama—who has openly admitted to having smoked weed in his youth. Compared to alcohol, or even cigarettes, weed felt a bit—well, responsible. The worst I could foresee was a case of the giggles, munchies, or drowsiness.
Now, as an adult, my Instagram feed is filled with #gardenmoms taking hits in their garages to cope with daily chores, influencers reviewing various high methods, and countless viral reels humorously pointing out how integral weed is to people’s mental health. My peers have moved on to developing cannabis cocktails, trendy pipes, and makeup containers that cleverly double as weed storage.
Marijuana even became a form of self-medication for me, with minimal oversight from healthcare professionals. After breaking my back while skiing at 20, I started smoking daily; it was preferable to painkillers that caused nightmares and irritability. While high, I could sleep through the night without interruption. Later, a therapist encouraged me to use cannabis instead of an SSRI antidepressant and suggested periodic breaks to evaluate my mental well-being.
For some time, this approach worked. Self-medication seemed to ease my anxiety, but every time I returned to smoking, my cravings intensified. Years later, those breaks revealed a harsher reality about cannabis dependency. I was now struggling to get off the bathroom floor, trembling and enduring a long, uncomfortable night of restless tossing, with a terrible headache waiting for me the next morning.
This perception that cannabis rarely leads to issues such as addiction or significant health effects persists publicly. Yet, a national survey from 2015 disclosed that nearly 31 percent of adults who had used cannabis within the past year exhibited signs of cannabis use disorder, characterized by a need for more THC to achieve the same effects and withdrawal symptoms like irritability and sleep problems when abstaining. According to psychiatrist Deepak Cyril D’Souza from Yale Medicine, there’s a “critical need” for developing effective therapies to help individuals quit. Consequences of cannabis use disorder can be severe: another study found that those receiving hospital care for this issue were nearly three times more likely to die within five years than the general populace, after adjusting for other health factors. Notably, this risk was highest for individuals aged 25 to 44. While the overall death risk is low, research into how cannabis might contribute to mortality—perhaps by worsening heart conditions—remains vital. It seems that when cannabis use goes awry, millennials may be disproportionately affected.
Andrew Meltzer, an emergency medicine professor at George Washington University, has observed the repercussions of cannabis misuse, including a severe condition called cannabinoid hyperemesis. CHS is characterized by repeated bouts of nausea and vomiting and appears to be increasing in frequency as a result of prolonged cannabis use. One particularly distressing symptom known as “scromiting”—screaming while vomiting—can be particularly severe.
Initially, even Meltzer’s colleagues were skeptical about scromiting, a condition he now hears multiple times a week in the ER. “At first, people thought they were faking or looking for drugs, but that’s not the case,” he clarifies. “They are genuinely suffering.” It seems that a combination of severe stomach discomfort and psychological distress causes this symptom, and doctors have found that anti-psychotic medications can alleviate some of the screaming. Very hot showers or baths can also help with nausea—though Meltzer has witnessed patients coming in with burns from excessive bathing. Ultimately, the only true solution is to stop using cannabis altogether.
I recounted the usage plan my therapist recommended—up to three hits from the vape pen each day—to Meltzer, expecting he might ease my concerns about developing a condition as severe as CHS. However, when I asked about my risk, he responded, “Oh, absolutely.” It’s the consistent usage that poses hazards. While scromiting is generally thought to be rare among cannabis users, data on the subject is still limited.
Reflecting on my therapist’s views on cannabis and considering the experiences of other patients, I suspect he might offer different advice today. At the end of last year, Ostacher and colleagues at the American Psychiatric Association released a statement opposing the view of cannabis as a treatment for psychiatric disorders. This was intended to clarify that there is insufficient evidence backing the notion that cannabis helps with anxiety or depression. In fact, the statement identifies a significant link between cannabis use and the onset or worsening of psychiatric disorders. They emphasize the need for additional research to grasp both the dangers and potential benefits of cannabis usage. While many assert claims regarding cannabis, Ostacher points out that the majority of such assertions stem from marketing. It is true that small doses can positively affect related subjects due to existing cannabinoid receptors in our brains responsible for mood, pain, and nausea. However, overstimulation can lead to oppositional reactions, such as irritability and nausea. Meltzer likens this reaction to developing an allergy, a subject he and his colleagues hope to expand upon in further studies.
The average THC content in cannabis has tripled in the last 25 years. “And that’s just the potency of the plants,” notes Ostacher. The concentrations in consumable and smokable products can reach new heights. With increased THC levels, the drug’s effects on the brain intensify, raising the risk of addiction.
Yet, according to Meltzer, “long-term exposure might be more culpable than the potency itself.” Weed is a drug, after all; side effects exist. “I’m not trying to incite panic or revive ‘reefer madness’; however, I can’t shake the feeling we are conducting a public health experiment—particularly on young people.”
For years, advocates rightly fought against fear-based tactics to keep marijuana illegal. Now, it’s often simpler and cheaper to access cannabis for pain or mental health treatments than it is to consult a doctor. Many view it as a cultural staple. However, perhaps we’ve swung too far toward accepting cannabis. My personal experiences and those I’ve gathered through this article don’t really align with the laid-back folklore surrounding weed that I grew up with. I can’t help but wonder how many others are silently dealing with chronic coughs, dependency, or obsessive thoughts about their next high.
Sometimes I think about who else might be struggling. I used to dream about who I’d share a blunt with, but now I find myself wishing I could have an open conversation with that same group about our dependencies. From the day I first tried an apple bong filled with my friend’s dad’s stash, I’ve harbored a love for marijuana, yet my reality has been far removed from the “I can quit whenever” mindset I once had.
It’s important to acknowledge that not everyone experiences problems from marijuana. Many of my college friends, who were lighter users, have quietly moved on after graduation and often find it hard to relate when I mention “addiction” or “withdrawal.” I can’t fault them for their disbelief. We were conditioned to believe that pot users were somehow immune to these challenges. Although still vocal about their pro-marijuana stance, my friends have distanced themselves from its use. Sometimes, they playfully label me as the last “cool one.” However, coolness feels far removed from my reality; I feel more trapped.
