True to my culture, I was alcohol soaked when I took my first meaningful puff of chronic. I was raised in the trailer parks of the deep and dirty south. East Texas is located in the Baptist Bible Belt where reefer is considered demonic yet every church goer can be seen sneaking in and out of liquor stores.

I was thirty four years old and was downing glasses of vodka each afternoon in the bars of Tyler, Longview, and Dallas, Texas. I could be described by one of Kid Rock's versus when he proudly proclaims,

"I can drink a fifth of Jim Beam and still stand still."

Any stoner will explain the first few times they smoked marijuana, they usually didn't experience an epiphany or anything enlightening that significantly changed their life. I smoked pot a few times as a cop and a few times during my second marriage.

Unlike the time I smoked it with my third and former wife, none of these instances produced the profound changes that would mold me forever. She lovingly introduced me to ganja as a way to curb my alcoholism and to heal the PTSD I struggled with daily. This is my story.

In the past, women fell in love with me because of the lavish and exciting lifestyle I provided them. Candi was the first wife who loved me for who I was and not for what I produced. She really cared for my wellbeing. For the record, I loved all of my wives dearly and still do. We just grew into different people and are no longer together.

Former wife Candi and I featured on the cover of Cannabis Culture Magazine

I was in the middle of my second divorce so I had moved in with my girlfriend, Candi. She later became my third wife and we stayed together for eleven years. I arrived at my tiny old wooden-frame home located deep in the woods of Pritchett, Texas. You and Google maps have unlikely heard of Pritchett, Texas. Only the 500 country folks who live there can find it.

“As the top narco cop in Texas, Barry Cooper arrested hundreds of people on drug charges. Then he puffed a joint and decided to devote his life to a new cause: making sure no one gets busted again. Former Texas narc turned marijuana messiah, Barry Cooper, teaches you how to never get busted.”-Maxim Magazine Dec 2009

I was dressed in my usual pompous attire; dress shoes, suit-slacks, an Oxford button-down shirt and a glass of vodka. Candi cheerfully greeted me in the driveway after I exited my black Suburban. She gave me the usual hugs and kisses then held out her hand and whispered,

“Try this baby, it will heal you.”

I had been confiding in her about my past life so I knew what she meant about "healing." I needed lots of it.

I wasn’t shocked when I peaked into her opened hand and noticed a neatly rolled joint. I knew Candi had been selling weed from time to time to feed her two kids and although it disturbed me, I never judged her for it.

When I saw the twisty, I knew I was going to hit it but the whole thing felt scandalous to me. In a flash, I recalled the hundreds of pot smokers I rigidly condemned during my eight-year tour in the Drug War.

These flashbacks included the anti-marijuana sermons I delivered as a Christian evangelist and Pastor of six years. I had so convincingly preached about the errs of marijuana it was common for teenagers and adults to throw baggies of the devil's lettuce at the altar as they repented for their sins.

The flashbacks continued replaying the hundreds of lectures the public schools spewed accusing marijuana of being the most dangerous plants known to man. Worst of all, I was reminded my mom’s appetite for marijuana which was the leading cause of my parent’s divorce.

As a very young child, I watched my mother being hurt over a bag of pot.

My beautiful mother

I detailed the traumatic episode of watching her suffer in, "My painful and secret motive for waging a personal war on marijuana users-Former Narc Turned Humanitarian - A Life Series by Barry Cooper."

I will never forget the incredible amount of guilt and dirtiness I felt while waiting to see what effect the inhaling of the psychedelic would have. The guilt was interrupted when the cannabis did what it's famous for... tickling a person's spirit and their giggle bones.

The THC and other cannabinoids caused a deep laughter I had never experienced. I belly-laughed so long that my stomach muscles collapsed. I'm positive I cracked a rib during the uncontrollable manic laughter. It may have only been a hairline fracture but my rib broke that day.

Cracking rib laughter

I also noticed that any attempt to drink more Vodka produced a horrid taste. I absolutely could not drink the remaining cocktail. Each time I tried, my throat closed in disgust causing me to spit the Vodka back into its chalice. Although I have had several heavy drinking relapses, I am convinced the cannabis railroaded me on a new track of non-alcoholism. Thousands of others describe the identical side effect of marijuana curbing their bad alcohol habits.

The laughter gradually shifted into bouts of crying and deep weeping. The plant was working on my conscience by softly lecturing me on what a Hitler I had been during the Drug War. As I wept on my knees, the dots began to connect in a magical and brilliant way. I was undergoing a conscience reformation and it was out of my control.

All of this internal dialogue of contradictory feelings was confusing because I had just experienced the best laugh of my life. That's the beautiful and soulful characteristic of Mary Jane. She has a way of teaching a person without condemning them. It's a beautiful way to give psychotherapy and she is a master of it.

Crying in torment for my crimes

Dr. Mary Jane reminded me that ninety-nine percent of the stoners I busted were cool and intelligent people. They were so easy to arrest, I often handed the cuffs to them so they could fetter themselves. Not once did a pothead take advantage of this respectful gesture.

As my conscience continued this internal dialogue, I was gently reminded of a powerful moment I experienced during a marijuana search warrant on a home in Odessa, Texas.

After throwing a percussion flash-grenade through the window of a middle-class dwelling, my task force crashed through the front door chanting their famous devil’s mantra,

“Police, search warrant. Get on the ground motherfuckers. If you move, we'll blow your fucking heads off."

Ouch.... that hurts to repeat. Forgive me for the terror I caused. I'm deeply sorry for the madness I perpetrated on non-violent citizens.

Soon, I came face to face with two small children, ages eight and twelve. The fear in their eyes was enormous and I haven’t seen a fear like it since... in a human or an animal. It reminded me of the look I must have had the day I left my body after seeing my mom hurt over a bag of ganja.

It seemed the siblings eyes hypnotized me for thirty minutes but I knew I had only glanced at them for milliseconds. My robotic police training snapped me out of my good conscience and prodded me to complete the mission; intentionally terrorizing the parents and preserving the evidence.

Mom and Dad were handcuffed and lying face down in the living room near the children. I announced their house was being raided because Dad sold a bag of marijuana to my informant. A quick sweep with my drug dog uncovered a stash of pot weighing approximately two ounces. The kids were hurried away to Child Protective Services and the parents were transported to jail.

Upon a detailed search of the home, I discovered strait “A” report cards, a balanced checkbook and all the signs of a good, middle-class family. These discoveries and the children's fear I just witnessed, shocked my conscience to its core. A thunderous voice inside my head kept shouting,

“Something is seriously wrong with this Barry! Society and your peers are calling you a hero for this shit. Fuck that!"

Now you understand why I referred to myself as “Hitler.” Although I didn’t murder humans like that piece of shit, I did terrorize families and split children from their parents. I locked them in cages that were far worse than any cages I used to house my drug dogs.

These humanitarian crimes justifiably classified me as a piece of shit. However, unlike Hitler, you will discover I eventually repented and totally reversed my consciousness. This transformation led to what one reporter later christened me as, "America’s Top Drug War Insurgent." This is a title I am humbled to be considered and speaks of the total flip I made.

I know now that scruple shifts are a commonly reported side effect of marijuana and my higher self was re-arranging my senses of right and wrong.

Like drinking vodka after smoking a joint, hurting others, illogic and being a bully have always left a bad taste in my mouth that I could never choke down.

As it should be, recalling these stories is bitter/sweet. The cannabis saved my soul yet recalling the cruelties still pains me. Don’t feel sorry for me. This is my process of evolving and I deserve and must endure the Karma my crimes have induced.

After the day Candi opened her hand, I smoked marijuana almost every day for five years. I still smoke the teacher plant a few times per week and always keep one growing nearby. I was slightly stoned as I was sharing my story with you.

Maxim Magazine photo of my secret outdoor grow

After smoking all these years, I overthink every move I make to ensure I'm not causing harm to others. I even avoid stepping on bugs and most plants when I can help it. These habits are not because I'm still trying to pay penance. I’m like this because that’s who I am now. I respect all life. I want to be good.

I'll forever credit marijuana for making me the humanitarian I am today.

Thanks for loving me. Thanks for sharing your stories in the comments. I read every one you write and I usually reply.

Upvote this so I can continue freeing marijuana prisoners and telling you more stories.

Peace, Love, NeverGetBusted and puff, puff pass.

NeverGetBusted

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