This isn’t your typical wellness glow-up. It’s a double take on CBD—from both sides of the bottle. For one of us, it muted the chaos just enough to feel human again. For the other, it dulled nerve pain until the quiet started to feel a little too convenient. What started as a solution quickly blurred into ritual, avoidance, even disconnection. 

In this dual narrative, we unpack the messy middle of overstimulation, undiagnosed anxiety, intimacy-induced panic, and the razor-thin line between healing and hiding. Sometimes CBD helps. Sometimes it just makes the spiral softer. Either way, it was never just about the oil:

How A Tiny Pill Hit The Mute Button 

Ever since I can remember, my brain has operated at factory-overdrive settings. It's like being stuck in an electronics store where every TV is tuned to a different channel, all at maximum volume. The wiring looks like it was installed by someone who gave up halfway through, and the whole system seems to run on nervous energy. Picture Tom Cruise at the beginning of Minority Report, but with more anxiety and significantly less running. His interface seems orderly by comparison, at least it had a purpose. Mine just has me lying awake at 3 AM wondering why we say, "tuna fish" but not "beef mammal." 

This mental chaos makes me great at bar quizzes, nerdy small talk, and work. The problem? I can't turn it off. Starting my brain is like firing up all engines at once. Stopping it? That's like running around a control room, slamming switches while alarms blare. The result: muscles permanently wound tight, and sleep that's always just out of reach. My body constantly feels like it's bracing for impact, a perpetual state of fight or flight, without an actual threat in sight. The mental exhaustion is profound, but it's dwarfed by the physical toll of constant tension. Even after a long day, my mind would continue its relentless processing, dissecting conversations, replaying scenarios, and inventing new worries. The sheer volume of internal chatter was overwhelming, making true relaxation an alien concept. 

Then came a Hinge date that didn't work out romantically, but did introduce me to CBD (Cannabidiol) pills. At first, I had questions: Is this legal? (Yes). Affordable? (Yes). Will I go to jail? (No). The concept of a plant-derived supplement that could calm my frenetic mind felt almost too good to be true, shrouded in layers of misconception and hearsay. I'd heard whispers about it, mostly from Western friends, but always dismissed it as something inaccessible or illicit in India.  

Here's the deal with CBD in India: The NDPS Act (Narcotic Drugs and Psychotropic Substances Act, 1985) bans the fun parts of cannabis, the flower buds with THC (Tetrahydrocannabinol) that get you high. But leaves and seeds? Those get a pass. That's the loophole that makes some CBD products legal. You can't just buy them at a pharmacy, though. I needed a doctor's prescription after explaining my insomnia and overactive mind. The consultation itself was surprisingly straightforward.  

Don't expect party pills. For the first few days, I felt nothing. Then, gradually, my head got lighter, shoulders relaxed, and muscle tension eased. It's not a THC high, no euphoria or weird thoughts, just a profound calmness, like someone finally turned down the volume in my brain. The sensation is subtle yet unmistakable, a gentle unwinding rather than an abrupt shutdown. It's as if a constant low-level hum of anxiety has been muted, allowing for a clearer, more peaceful internal landscape. The world didn't suddenly become rainbows and unicorns, but the sharp edges of my internal monologue were blunted, making space for actual quiet. This wasn't about escaping reality, but about experiencing it with a newfound sense of ease. 

It's been transformative. In engineering school, I maxed out at four hours of sleep, not from studying, but because my brain treated nighttime as prime overthinking hours. Now, even with a job that keeps me more connected to the world than ever, I average seven hours.  

Yes, there are trade-offs: They can become a habit (not addiction, but you'll miss them). Mix with alcohol at your own peril, it's an unpleasant ride. Some mornings come with grogginess that steals your energy. These are minor caveats when weighed against the benefit of a mind that can finally rest. The key, I've learned, is mindful usage and respecting my body's signals. It's a tool, not a magic bullet, and like any tool, it requires understanding and responsible application. 

CBD isn't magic, but it's the closest thing I've found an off switch for my racing thoughts. In a world that never stops demanding attention, that's priceless.  

How I Got Hooked on Feeling Better 

Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional. Murakami wrote that about running, but I felt it most during a very different kind of endurance event: trying to treat undiagnosed anxiety and chronic nerve pain. I thought I was managing it, but avoiding pain, I’ve learned, is just another way it shows up. That quiet, gnawing unease? That’s still pain. It builds in the background, until one day you realise the thing meant to heal you has only been helping you hide. 

My relationship with CBD began with a body that felt like it had started glitching. A sudden nerve spasm during an intimate moment with an ex made me panic. It wasn’t just embarrassing—it was unsettling. The pain was real, but so was the deeper unease I couldn’t name yet. And like any self-respecting, half-mentally-checked-out millennial, I reached for the wellness industry’s favourite Band-Aid: cannabidiol. Non-psychoactive, Instagram-approved, and apparently all-natural. Seemed like a no-brainer. 

To be fair, it worked at first. Gym soreness dulled. My upper back stopped screaming quite as often. But I wasn’t just chasing relief—I was chasing disconnection. And CBD let me float. It was quieter than weed, less messy, and easier to live with. But float long enough, and you forget what it feels like to stand. 

The first cracks showed up at night. While my body would feel loose, pliable—almost too relaxed—my mind would churn like it had a playlist of unfinished thoughts and nowhere else to be. I wasn’t resting. I was spiralling in a padded cell made of hemp. It’s strange, how something that claims to soothe can actually make you more aware of the things you were trying to escape. And somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking of it as medicine. It became ritual. A little self-care cosplay. I’d take my oils, light a candle, put on an album (or pull a late-nighter) and tell myself I was healing. In truth, I was stuck. Sleep-deprived. Anxious. Using CBD not as a tool, but as an excuse to not do the harder work. 

Quitting wasn’t a dramatic, cinematic moment. No empty vials in the sink or teary confessions. Just a slow, uneasy realisation that I wasn’t okay, and that the thing I thought was helping might be quietly hurting me and my relationships. I stopped cold turkey, relapsed a couple of times, and leaned on a friend who delighted in checking in unannounced every few days. (Tip: Everyone needs one of those.) 

What replaced it wasn’t glamorous. No mushroom-foraged supertonics or breathwork retreats. Just swimming. And physiotherapy. The kind that forces you to work on forgotten muscles—tiny, stubborn bits of you that gave up when you did. I began healing, not with miracle tinctures, but with movement. With friendship. With showing up to the pool when I didn’t feel like it, and remembering that I used to love this. That once, long ago, I competed in it. 

My routine now is mundane in the best way. On bad pain days, I try to be around people. Not to talk about the pain necessarily—but to not be alone with it. Sometimes I stretch, sometimes I whine. Often, I just get in the water and float—but now with intent. If you asked me what I learned, I’d say this: CBD might not be addictive in the textbook sense, but it can still wrap its arms around you like a too-warm blanket you forget to take off. And that comfort, that numbness, can be just as dangerous. 

So if you’re in that blurry in-between space—managing pain, navigating your own nervous system, unsure of what’s working—ask for help. Share your mess. Exercise if you can. And for the love of god, get some sleep.