An Open Letter to My New Neighbors

Fellow Tenants:

I like it here. Despite the See You Next Tuesday I don’t even share walls or a hall with who told the police she smells weed coming from my apartment, I like it. (As an aside, I wish I knew what word she used. Was it “reefer?” Please baby Jesus let it have been that. I suspect it was plain old “marijuana,” but Chicagoans can nasal that word up good enough to make it fun too. This makes me think, though, of the time Old Best Friend kicked her feet up on her mother’s dining room table and declared, “There’s nothing wrong with blowing a little grass, Mom.” It was like The Universe whispered a dare into her mind to do it, and she rose like a maniacal champion to the challenge. So much of why I loved her.)

I like how this place feels, and I want to stay a while. My son can run here (we just left a second floor apartment where I not only had to ask/tell All Children Who Entered to be  Calm, Quiet Things, but in order for them to go outside to play, an adult had to be willing to stop what they were doing and go with them the whole time because distance and traffic demanded it). Imagine how much we both love the giant first-floor windows that let him play in the courtyard on his own or with friends while I watch from a couch or table.

Once I had most of my stuff here, I knocked on all of your doors—the ones across and above, whose entryways and stairs connect with/are mine too—so I could introduce myself and deliver the following awkward address:

Hi, I’m your new neighbor. I just moved in with my son. He’s four and energetic, so if we’re ever too noisy, please let me know. Also, if I park in the wrong spot, or if my boyfriend needs to move his car for you, please just knock and tell us. He sleeps over sometimes. Additionally, this is my medical cannabis card. Please please please tell me if the smoke is coming through a vent or in the hall so I can adjust something in my place to prevent that.

I only got to say it to one of you, a gentleman above me who mostly made no words and stared at me while I just kept talking. No one else answered.

Since then, I’ve been burning incense, lighting candles, white saging the shit out of my living room and kitchen (the two rooms with doors going to our shared halls) every time I smoke, and I even was using an eighth-grade-dryer-sheet blow tube to try to reduce the smell. (No joke. I tried to get friends to do it too. No bueno. No dice except for a few uncomfortable sessions in my bedroom.)

Although I still desire to be a Good Neighbor (and I really do—I have OVERWHELMING LOVE for other humans. It’s probably part of my mental illness—which is why I have the card that made the police not give a damn that someone/anyone/everyone smells weed coming from my apartment—to love like that. My instinct is to nestle into the soul of every person I meet, and I try to bring you all inside me. I totally want to be a nice person to live next door to.), I won’t be jumping through any more incense-hoops to spare your sensibilities or your noses.

Because cannabis is my medicine. One of them. And it’s as legal, less risky, and more effective for anxiety-ridden-addict-brained-artsy-creative-types like me who might accidentally or intentionally die from Other Things Doctors Give Out For Kickbacks. (It’s great, too, for cancer patients, chronic pain sufferers, and anyone who wants it, because New World Order, bitc— I mean, it’s real medicine. And it works. It has a long history of working, and our country’s nasty, racist laws have prevented our scientists from doing real research into modern benefits and methods of terpene extraction for way too long.) And after cartwheeling courtesy at you, it stung (despite the dark humor)  when I thought I was dying and called 911 and one of you took time out of your day to tell the police officer that you smelled weed.

So by all means, let me know if Boyfriend or I have parked in the wrong place. Please tell me when my kid and his friends are being too loud (they will be—I promise—because they’re an awesome troop of bandits with loud voices and big hearts. They have dance parties and play hide-and-seek. Sometimes I let them play my synthesizer.). But I’m not going broke on room spray or candles so I can take my medicine.

2 thoughts on “An Open Letter to My New Neighbors

  1. That poor girl is adding so much anxiety to her illness because of worrying about her neighbor so much.. just want to be left in peace to be able to smoke so she gets relief from her mental illness. I smoke to get relief from my anxiety and my bipolar. I would rather use natural things instead of the Pharmaceutical drugs my psychiatrist prescribes for me. My bipolar is extremely hard to handle and I will use any means possible to keep it under control. She goes around and explains it to people so they understand. Bless her heart for taking the time And how wonderful that she is so concerned for her neighbors that she doesn’t even know. And she could just smoke have her neighbors called the police and explain it to the police every time they come. Marijuana is a useful medication for a lot of things. As is CBD. CBD is taken from hemp, which looks like marijuana but has no THC which is the part of it would you get your stoned. She has every right to do something legal in the privacy of her own home. I think she’s an angel to worry about our neighbors but I think she should stop worrying g so much.

    1. Lisa, thank you so much for your kind words here. I had a setting wrong on here and couldn’t see any comments until now…nearly two years later.

      How are you holding up? These are tough times for everyone in 2020. I used CBD almost daily. My anxiety and panic attacks ebb and flow. Some times are worse than others. I hope you’re doing well out there. Thank you again for reading and for sharing back.

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