“I’ve spilt more than you’ve smoked,” my brother-in-law, let’s call him Marty, bragged to my husband in the throes of his addiction. A measure to legalize recreational marijuana is heading toward the California ballot in November. Marty would have been thrilled — but then, he didn’t bother much with voting. My vote, too, would have been a no-brainer some years ago. Legalize it, tax it, make it safer, I would have said then, back when I felt more certain about everything, when I viewed addiction as a lack of self-discipline and personal weakness. I never dreamed it could take down an entire family.
My husband helped his older brother move frequently in the 1990s. He’d load up our family minivan with Marty’s stuff, always late at night, and transport him to a new place in East Hollywood or Echo Park. The neighborhoods grew sketchier, each apartment tinier than the last. Marty always asked him to smoke one with him for the road.
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