The pedestal that supports my anxiety is a beautifully carved marble pillar of fear; more specifically, a fear of failure. That sort of fear that makes your palms sweat and your face tingle. While this fear developed initially as an aversion to failing publicly, which taught me to only attempt that which I knew I would succeed, it quickly developed into something different and overwhelming. When I left home it turned into a very real awareness that as an adult failure, for me, meant moving back to Illinois and living on my parents couch and working at CVS selling tweezers and cheap Sauvignon Blanc. There’s a lot scarier things in this world, but with a worldview of a 19 year old with an unattached prefrontal cortex, that was terrifying. Whatever I did I had to be able to take care of myself and not fuck that up.

As I began gardening I didn’t understand real failure, real risk, or real responsibility. While I couldn’t survive without a good challenge I kept myself in my comfort zone (while some might say my comfort zone is wider than most). I took risks, but those short-term, adrenaline educing ones: skydiving, cliff jumping, traveling alone. I avoided most of the long-term, put yourself out there and see what happens to your life sort of risks.

I was good at school, so I went to University and was good at it. I changed schools four times to four very different colleges, before I graduated, but retrospectively, that was probably just a way to make it more challenging. I served tables and bartended. I worked 2-3 jobs, doubles, late nights. I could have survived on one job but the exhaustion, the feeling that I had to grind as hard as I could was my challenge. While I was self-righteous and satisfied with my ability to support myself I could feel the gravity of meaninglessness pulling on each day. Eventually, I had to find something more.

I applied to graduate school in a field that I had not studied previously but interested me. I spent months preparing, reading, and teaching myself anything and everything I could about the scientific field of linguistics. I wrote essays about what I ‘knew’ and applied to three schools and one accepted me, provisionally. I would have to move away within two months and begin taking basic linguistic courses to satisfy their pre-requisites before being fully admitted.

During this time, I decided to unplug and spend a couple weeks with my cousin in the country. He was growing weed in his basement.

His home would hum with the vibration of the fans. Ducting, black and white plastic, chords dangling everywhere. It was foreign and intriguing. In retrospect, it was a disaster, but I didn’t know that at the time. The little green plants sprouting from the black dirt, reaching towards the orange lights. He talked like he had it made, it was easy. He could pay for grad school, the ladies thought he was cool, and he had his own house, his own property. I had no idea what the equipment was or what it costs. I had no idea about gardening, but like every urban ex-pat I dreamt about having a farm, as if all the food would grow magically from the ground if I willed it. I had no idea about mites, slugs, moles, fungus, rain, drought, deficiencies, necrosis, death. Most importantly, I had no idea how to grow weed.

During those two weeks, I watched him simply water his plants in the morning and then head to class and out all night with friends or on overnight dates. I stayed at his home, checked on the plants, which looked fine to me, but what did I know?

I trimmed in the evenings. The feeling of having a pile of weed in my lap, more than I’ve ever seen in one place, cutting the leaves away exposing the little nuggets resembling what I used to pick up in little ziploc bags at the carwash on Archer Ave. blew my mind. There is no other way to put it. I wasn’t the exceptional stoner I had been in high school but I still had a healthy respect for weed and I had never seen anything like this before. My cousin sold me on the freedom of his lifestyle. He seemingly had everything and how could I resist wanting everything, too?

When I returned home, I graciously declined my admittance into the graduate program and boldly took to craigslist to start looking for a house with a basement or a garage. I’d like to say that this was wildly out of character for me, but then again, it was just another challenge. I just wasn’t prepared for the type of challenge, the way my life would change, some for the better and some worse. I didn’t think I could fail, and I was terribly mistaken.