The High and the Mighty I seriously doubt there are any kids out there that when asked what they wanted to be when they grow up said, “I want to be a volunteer activist.” Although I had some good examples in my family, it wasn’t high on my list. I wanted to be a hero, a cowboy or a policeman, at least until I was old enough to appreciate what a tough job being a cop is, especially a good, disciplined one. Take for instance, the Federal Air Marshals I spoke to last October in Los Angeles. These guys call themselves FAMS and fly on our commercial passenger flights all over the world to protect us from possible future 911 events, and so far so good. FAMS are recruited from other law enforcement agencies such as the ATF, FBI, DEA and the military. They must be dead-on, expert marksmen with a handgun to make the cut. Every day, in every city in the US and abroad, these guys come to work with their bags packed knowing that they may have to take a life or lose theirs to save a plane full of passengers from becoming a captive weapon against the homeland. This is a tough, silent, anonymous, breed of law enforcement that train intensely, then sit stoically and focused so the rest of us can sleep safely while flying to visit mom and dad for the holidays. All of that training, however, could not have prepared these heroes for what they would encounter on that fated October morning on the far side of the Los Angeles airport. Little did they know that they would be held hostage by the Combined Federal Campaign (CFC), a rather obscure organization by and for Federal Employees that promotes philanthropy for various charities, such as Wounded Warriors, Pets for Vets and my own cause, the Multi-
disciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies (MAPS). Indeed, they were my captives that morning, and my “mission impossible” was to reeducate them about using Schedule 1 drugs for healing before asking them for their money. What’s so hard about that?
As usual, I arrived just in the nick of time to encounter my first victim, Jason, a Supervisory Federal Air Marshal at the Los Angeles Field Office. The snarling beast I anticipated was actually quite amiable, handsome, and impeccably dressed. With his standard issue ID badge hanging loosely around his neck, Jason ushered in a weary-eyed group of spokespeople up an elevator and down a long grey hallway lined with photos and plaques honoring the FAMS for their marksmanship and other feats of endurance. Eventually we were led into a large, fluorescent-lit room full of toned, able-bodied men, casually chatting and slurping up coffee. Half a dozen charities were being represented that morning. Instead of my usual rant about the virtues of Cannabis, I was there to speak on behalf of M.A.P.S. and their “infamously” successful MDMA trials for treating PTSD
around the world. For those of you who don’t know, MDMA is similar to but (if pure) vastly different than the outlawed street drug “ecstasy,” a Schedule 1 drug wrongfully condemned by policy makers and the DEA. Since FAMS are recruited from law enforcement, including the DEA, they know what MDMA is, or at least they think they know. I could have flipped over the proverbial apple cart with a clash of information and cultures, detailing that MDMA increases both serotonin, associated with happiness, and oxytocin, otherwise known as the “love hormone,” but I kept reminding myself that I was there to build bridges not walls. I didn’t know much about FAMS prior to that day. All I knew was that I would be addressing a room full of cops who might or might not appreciate this new information, and having been forcefully arrested out of my own home (naked no less) for two joints while on a powerful psychedelic at twenty years old, my own PTSD was lurking in the background. Already edgy, I really didn’t need that second cup of French roast that was now cursing through my veins. What I needed was a hit off of a joint, a nice Sativa hybrid to keep me calm and alert. So what was I doing there, am I masochistic with a death wish? No, not quite, but from a healing standpoint, if there’s no pain, there’s no gain. You know how it goes. Maybe what I really needed was to just “be here now” and appreciate how the tables have turned from my front row seat. Luckily, the event kicked off with one of the other charities, Pets for Vets. Their speaker brought a small, friendly, black and white pooch with floppy ears that warmed up these early
morning warriors with a wagging tail, a wet tongue, and a warm belly. The stage was now set for the headliner. Suddenly, it was my turn to speak the unspeakable. As I approached the podium, I boldly greeted the crowd with a loud “headsup!” and tossed a half dozen small blue rubber “stress” balls into the now smiling mob. Their quick reflexes were evident as barely a ball hit the ground. I calmly setup my cracked IPad and began to tell them about a young Iraqi war veteran named Tony Macie. Tony is a Sergeant in the U.S. Army who served a 15-month tour in Iraq in 2006 and 2007. Upon his return he was diagnosed with PTSD, and was heavily self-medicating. Deemed “treatment resistant” after trying different therapies to no avail, Tony got his lucky break when he qualified for an alternative treatment using MDMA in conjunction with psychotherapy. Such trials have been approved by federal authorities to determine whether MDMA could help patients with PTSD. Tony’s trials worked so well that he stopped taking all other medications and began to lead a life no longer affected by PTSD. Now Tony is healed and sharing his story at other CFC meetings around the nation. As I relayed Tony’s story, I scanned the crowd and noticed some eyes pop and jaws drop. I was greatly relieved when I reached the part of my speech that revealed that our trials are FDA approved, so there would be no need to put me on a watch list, I pleaded. There were a few chuckles which helped relax me and melt the tension in the room. But the humor was short lived, as the subject is a deadly serious one with 22 veterans a day committing suicide. This is no laughing matter.
And using psychedelics to treat them was a new twist that they weren’t expecting to hear so early in the day from this very guarded erudite activist from the Multi-Disciplinary Association of what? Psychedelic Studies! Yes, I said it out loud. Now there was blood in the water. Some of these cops have probably arrested dozens of folks like me for possession of psychedelics and now I’m telling this heavily indoctrinated room full of cops that this substance in actuality can heal and has little to no downside or risk when used appropriately. Then came the pitch: Please donate to M.A.P.S. so that we may continue these trials. The irony was not lost on me, and at that point all I wanted to do was cuddle up with that puppy. Fortunately I was armed with good, hard, relevant, peer-reviewed, scientific data confirming that in over 900 documented cases of the use of MDMA there has only been one drug related “serious adverse event” from which the patient fully recovered. I enunciated every word like it was my last hope of getting out of the room alive. But my urgency to retreat to my car and find my own personal happy place was trumped by the urgency of this cause. Currently $1.5 million is spent over a single veteran’s life to ineffectively treat PTSD. M.A.P.S. hopes to push MDMA into a prescription medicine by 2021 but sooner is so much better. With today’s death rate of 22 suicides a day on average, the number jumps to over 44,000 suicides—that’s 44,000 veterans who might be saved by a more effective and cheaper solution! I suppose a good activist can expect a few nasty glares if he or she is doing their job right. But what I wasn’t expecting was the enthusiastic applause my speech received. I was deeply
touched. Clearly either I had made an impression or there were already many believers in the audience. Either way, the morning left me with hope that I may live to see the end of America’s war on drugs. Hopefully none of these guys will ever endure PTSD, but in this world, what are the chances? And as for my PTSD, it was a good start, but I still need one of those puppies. by Loring B. Greene Loring.Greene@gmail.com 818-726-9378 To learn more and to find out how you can help stop this epidemic of veteran suicides, please watch our video at: http://youtu.be/ZAGFydO4Efg
M.A.P.S., C.F.C. #99252