I get to smoke a lot of marijuana in my industry but if you know me, you know I know my limits and stay within them. I roll my small joints. Pass on my turn. Dabs are something I do only once in a while.

Still, I really do enjoy my edibles. I know they affect people differently than smoking so I try to do them accordingly. You know, at the beach or a Netflix night or, if they are a bit lighter, maybe at a social gathering. I’ve tried countless varieties of baked goods and other treats: pills, pixie sticks, candies. You name it, I’ve probably tried ingesting marijuana that way. I’m not a champ or anything, but I have a pretty great tolerance of edibles.

Or so I thought.

Last spring my boss gave me a jar of infused blueberry jam. About 125 ml, I’d say. Itty bitty. I brought it home, put it up in the cupboard out of reach of children, and promptly forgot about it until a recent night.

The kids were at their father’s. I had a relatively quiet day at home after a busy couple of weeks while fighting a cold. It was chilly and drizzling outside. I had been waking up around 5:00 am for a week with no solid reason and I wanted that to stop. I figured I would make myself a grilled peanut butter and infused jam sandwich as a bed time snack. Yummy! I’d get a good night’s sleep and feel great the next day, I expected, having done similar things a thousand times with no consequences that a cup of coffee couldn’t fix.

So I grilled my sandwich: lots of peanut butter, lots of jam. I could smell the infusion coming from the jar, but I’d seen a few people eat it pretty liberally and be functional. That was my mistake — thinking everyone’s tolerance was equal. Or that every batch is equal, for that matter.

I really do know better.

I sat down in front of my computer, just screwing around online while I ate my sandwich. Tasted really dank, but I got it down with a big glass of milk. Golden.

Then came the toe tingles. I always know edibles are kicking in because I start getting warm fuzzies from my arms and legs into the rest of my body. A great feeling, especially right before bed, but it had only been fifteen minutes. Normally it takes about an hour. Uh oh. But, no big deal, I didn’t have work until noon the next day and had no kids to contend with. I’d be good, right?

I decided to go to bed, put a movie on my iPad, and pass out.

Holy shit, the next hour was intense! I put on Young Frankenstein but I could only handle about five minutes because Gene Wilder’s face was too extreme in black and white. And I couldn’t stop telling him to say Frankenstein the traditional way. I shut down my iPad with gusto and threw it across the room — where it thankfully landed on a pile of costumes from my last photo shoot.

I felt ill: like having the spins when too drunk but it was psychedelic. I scrambled out of bed to put on my trusty unicorn onesie for comfort and security. I had the creepy crawlies. I won’t say I was afraid — I knew I was just too high — but if I didn’t have that awareness, I probably would have been terrified. I couldn’t close my eyes. I was officially experiencing greening out. It’s not fun, let me tell you.

Finally, I was able to get my eyes to stay closed, and like a fried sleeping beauty, I fell into a deep long sleep.

Worst part was I slept until 12:26 pm the next day. I know the exact time because my boss woke me up with a very disorientating phone call. I hadn’t set my alarm because I always wake up before I need to be up. That did not happen.

Coffee didn’t help. Food didn’t help. More sleep didn’t help.

I was having the worst hangover of my life, my boss was (rightfully) pissed, and I could barely get water into myself. So, I felt like death, I got in trouble at work, and generally just felt like an asshole. Great. So much for resting up.

Lessons learned: Watch the dose. Err on the side of caution. And if things still go wrong, set an alarm. But most importantly, know your limit, and try to stay within it.