DRUGGED DAZE IN THE DON

I've Become My Own Worst Nightmare, A Medpot Horror Story

NOW writer and med pot activist Matt Mernagh, who suffers from
fibromyalgia, scoliosis and arthritic pain, was arrested August 16
with 37 plants and charged with possession of marijuana, possession
for the purposes of trafficking and production of marijuana. The trial
date has not been set. The following is an account of his 13 days in
the Don Jail.

After years of reporting on drug war horror stories, I've finally
become one myself. Busted, evicted from my apartment and missing my
ferrets, I'm now an unwilling resident of the Don Jail. And the worst
part of all is that the government has taken away my medicine.

Instead of the pot that has kept excruciating pain and sadness at bay
for 10 years, I am met twice daily by a nurse and a guard who roll by
with a pharma cart to dole me out legal drugs. They watch closely to
make sure I pop their prescriptions - but they sure aren't available
when the side effects come.

And there are plenty. The heavy doses of opiates and antidepressants
wreck my appetite and thought processes - I'm too drugged even to
remember phone numbers - and throw my body out of whack. The surreal
setting of the Don is no place to enjoy a drug-induced freak-out.

Despite the fact that I'm a compassion club user with a doctor's note
detailing my condition, the herb alternative to stomach-turning,
mind-stunning opiates isn't legal for me. Or for 5,000 other med pot
patients roaming city - leaving them vulnerable to my fate, too. Only
2,000 people across the country have been able to score a Health
Canada exemption.

Friends and family observing me at near-daily court appearances
scarily watch me slowly descend into sickness. Will someone please
adjust my dosages? Officials push pills at me, but it's inmates who
are actually monitoring my health. Like Paul, a native peer counsellor
battling his own drinking demons, who listens to my mind-addled woes
and keeps reminding me, "You gotta keep eating, brother."

But while some fellow prisoners are critical to my survival, others
keep the fear quotient perpetually high. Going to and from bail court
for example, is an inherently dangerous exercise. At these moments,
inmates from different ranges mingle in tight confines, waiting to be
chain-ganged and loaded onto the van.

I'm strip-searched several times in this area, sometimes full routine.
"Shake your hair, lift your scrotum, turn and spread your cheeks,
squat and cough." Guards seem to amuse themselves with wisecracks
verging on harassment as they look at dicks and assholes. I'm very
skinny - and standing there naked, I hear one of them ask, "Have I
seen you working on Church and Wellesley?"

"No."

"Sure you're not a faggot?" he persists.

The strange thing I realize is that even the guards don't run this
place. It seems to run itself. During another body search, one of them
asks: "Did I see you on the CBC last night in their marijuana movie?"
referring to a documentary about the Prince of Pot.

"Yup, that's me!" I brighten. A second guard barks, "When are you
going to make it legal?" Hmm, I want to answer, maybe when I stop
getting busted.

I'm supposed to be dressed in respectable clothing for bail hearings,
but my friends can't get my duds together in time for my first hearing
and I end up pimp-rolling to my bail appearances, decked out in the
Don's orange jumpsuit, looking guilty or incredibly stylish, depending
on your taste.

Pot activist Dame Ophelia Bottom eyes me in court, throwing me that "I
want that jumpsuit" look. It opens from the tits to the crotch and is
a natural burlesque costume in its unique way. Inmates figure the Don
apparel would fetch 2 grand on eBay.

On the way back from court the next time round, I barely hold back
claustrophobia while sharing the tiny cubbyhole in the van with a
mentally ill crack addict. It would certainly be easy to lose your
sanity in this confined space. Despite the meds making me wobbly, I
force myself not to slide around; a little bump can be taken as a
serious slight.

Suddenly, the addict bashes his head against the vehicle's wall,
screaming, "I'm going to kill myself." His blood seeps onto my street
clothing. I'm dressed properly this time, in a $60 Ben Sherman
short-sleeved shirt and Gap pants.

I start to lose it and find myself cursing him to calmness. "Don't you
fucking bleed on me." He stops the headbanging and begins to sob. When
I'm unloaded, my bloodied clothes get stashed, never to be worn again.
My new hemp shoes are returned mouldy. I chuck those, too.

Later, I hear that the addict has made a makeshift noose by tearing a
strip off his own clothing. It happens again two days later, but this
time I catch sight of the happenings down the hall in the basement of
Old City Hall while I'm having my bail papers processed and he's
waiting for a mental health assessment hearing.

Guess no one told the man, or maybe they did, there's a scarcity of
services for the mentally ill in this city - which is why sometimes
all that's available is the "bug range" at the Don.

Another day, in the holding area crammed with others, a big, bearded
fellow with a brown envelope stuffed with old tax returns, coffee,
sugar and tea storms in and begins mocking the addict. "I'll introduce
you to a beautiful Lebanese blond when I get you released," he tells
him.

'No, I don't want blond!" the addict cries. The intensity sharpens
quickly. Not good, because there's an angel here. A Hells Angel. Am
I the only one who noticed there's a full patch here? With his arms
crossed, he begins: "Why are you asking so many fucking questions?"

"What's your problem?" Brown Enevelope demands. "You!" answers the
Angel. I move mouse-like to the corner. They're going to scrap.

Angels have breaking points, and his is approaching. Then,
miraculously, two range-mates of Brown Envelope enter our cell. They
embrace and go over old times before reverting to mocking the room.
But before any blows can be swung, someone asks the Angel if they can
see his tattoo. He slowly flashes the room his Iron Cross. Everyone
chills out.

The holding cell is also where I learned about jimmying National Post
boxes. "It's the only one you can do easily," says an expert. "I knock
off three or four a day. They got $40 to $100 in them usually." The
crack-addicted fellow was caught with the change scattered all over
the sidewalk.

Even in my sleeping quarters, I can't shake a sense of foreboding. I
share the space with two others and bed down on a hard rubber
wrestling mat bed I store under the bottom-most bunk. At 104 pounds,
I'm worried about being jumped at night, but thankfully my roomies
have found humour in my size and have a standing joke about my being
the troll under the bed. As long as they're howling, I figure I'm
safe.

After 12 nights I get bail, and my surety family put me up in their
front room. Technically, I guess, I meet the definition of a homeless
person. I've also graduated from a round of post-prison stress
counselling and am struggling to cope with symptoms of fear, anger and
- - oddly - shame.

Sometime next spring, I'll come up for trial on lesser marijuana
production charges arising from an April arrest in Niagara; my Toronto
court showdown is further into the future. We are turning the Niagara
trial into a constitutional challenge, arguing that Health Canada is
interfering between a patient and his doctor in demanding control over
marijuana prescriptions and supply. Shades of the Morgentaler case.

People ask, "What was it like living in the Don." And I answer, "You
know how Rocky 1 felt during the big fight? That's how it was for
me." Next round is the trials