Coming Home: Part 3 – The “Safe” Highs

There’s a certain kind of high that doesn’t come with the same red flags. It’s not heroin. It’s not meth. It’s not the stuff you see in after-school specials or addiction documentaries. It’s the “safe” highs—hallucinogens, weed, party drugs. The ones that feel spiritual, creative, even healing. The ones that let you believe you’re still in control.

That’s the lie I told myself for years.

High School: Where It All Began

It started in high school. We weren’t trying to destroy ourselves—we were just trying to feel something more. Something bigger. Ecstasy, 2C-B, molly, DXM… we called them “party drugs,” and they were as much a part of our weekends as music and friends.

We weren’t in alleyways or backseats—we were in warehouses, under strobe lights, dancing until our legs gave out.

Back then, raves were still underground. You’d get the location the day of, passed along through whispers or cryptic messages. We’d show up in neon and glitter, ready to lose ourselves in the music. Light shows, lasers, bass that shook your chest—it was magic. It felt like freedom.

The Festival Years

Every year, we made the pilgrimage to the Detroit Electronic Music Festival. It was more than an event—it was a lifestyle. The after-parties were legendary. Sometimes we wouldn’t sleep for days. We’d mix five different drugs in a single weekend, chasing a high that never lasted long enough. Then we’d crash—hard—and sleep for what felt like forever.

We thought we were just having fun. But that lifestyle didn’t stay in the warehouses. It followed us. And for too many of the people I knew, it followed them into early graves.

The Illusion of Control

I thought I was being smart. I stayed away from the “hard” stuff—no heroin, no crack, no meth. I told myself I wasn’t addicted.

But I was.

I was addicted to the feeling of being high. I didn’t care what form it came in. A tab, a capsule, a joint, a bottle of cough syrup—it didn’t matter. I just wanted to feel different. I wanted to feel better.

Eventually, the chaos of youth faded. The warehouse parties became memories. But I didn’t stop. I just shifted. Psychedelics and weed became my new normal. They felt safer. More acceptable. “Natural.” “Spiritual.” But I wasn’t using them to expand my mind. I was using them to avoid it.

The Gray Area

There’s a seductive narrative around these substances. Psychedelics are framed as tools for healing. Weed is seen as a harmless balm. And maybe they can be.

But for me, they became another mask. Another way to numb out instead of tuning in.

I wasn’t microdosing to grow—I was dosing to disappear. I wasn’t smoking to relax—I was smoking to forget. The rituals became routines. The routines became dependencies. Not in the traditional sense, maybe, but emotionally. Spiritually. I needed them to feel okay. I needed them to not feel at all.

A Slow Awakening

There wasn’t a single moment of clarity. No dramatic rock bottom. Just a slow, painful realization that I was stuck. That the substances I thought were helping me cope were actually keeping me from healing.

I started asking myself the hard questions:
What am I running from?
What am I afraid to feel?
What would it look like to face it all—sober?

Coming home meant learning to sit with the feelings I’d spent years avoiding. It meant embracing discomfort, grief, anxiety, and shame without reaching for a crutch. It meant finding new ways to feel alive, ways that didn’t require altering my state of mind.

The Real High

The “safe” highs were never really safe. They were just easier to justify. But they came with their own costs—emotional, spiritual, and sometimes physical.

This chapter of my life isn’t one I look back on with pride, but with compassion. Because I understand now that I wasn’t weak or broken. I was just trying to survive the only way I knew how.

Coming home is still a work in progress. But every day I choose presence over escape; I take another step toward the person I’m becoming.

And that, to me, is the real high worth chasing.

Until Next Time,

Stephanie Kay