By OG Strain

There’s something I don’t talk about much on Strain’s Strain Reviews (Talk Cannabis).

I’ve shared parts of it on my other platform, but not often in the cannabis space — and maybe it’s time.

Twenty-six years ago, at 22 years old, I survived a house fire in a four-family apartment building. It happened early in the morning while the adults were still asleep. My son and stepson were toddlers at the time and inside the home.

I got them out safely.

I was the only one injured.

By the time I made it out, over 30% of my body had been burned. The skin on my back and shoulders was destroyed. I was rushed to Albany Medical Center and then airlifted to the burn unit at Upstate University Hospital.

I was placed on full life support. A tracheostomy tube was inserted so I could breathe. I remained in a coma for nine weeks.

Skin was grafted from my thighs to rebuild my back and shoulders. A rotating medical bed designed to prevent infection caused severe nerve damage in my hands. My left hand became permanently disabled — what doctors call a “claw.” Today, it has very limited function.

I survived. That alone is a miracle.

But surviving the fire was only the beginning.

⸻

From Patient to Dependent

After years of surgeries and physical therapy, I was left permanently disabled — and permanently in pain.

Doctors prescribed powerful opioid medications. OxyContin. Oxycodone. Hydrocodone. For years, I was legally prescribed large amounts because my injuries were obvious and severe.

Then the opioid epidemic changed everything.

Prescriptions were cut back across the board. It didn’t matter who had legitimate pain and who didn’t — the system tightened overnight. My body, however, was already dependent.

To avoid withdrawal and manage pain, I turned to the street.

As prescription pills became harder to find, my addiction escalated to heroin and eventually fentanyl. I never injected drugs, but I developed a serious fentanyl habit — approximately half a gram a day, sometimes more.

It took me to very dark places.

Places where I began to understand how someone could lose hope completely.

Half of my graduating class from Scotia-Glenville High School Class of 1996 is gone — fentanyl, overdoses, COVID, cancer. The opioid crisis didn’t just make headlines. It erased people I grew up with.

By the grace of God, I am still here.

And three things helped save my life.

⸻

What Actually Saved Me

First: My Lord Jesus Christ.
Through every phase — the fire, the coma, the addiction, the recovery — I believe He never left my side.

Second: Treatment.
Rehab programs. Medication-assisted treatment. I tried both Suboxone and methadone. Methadone was what finally stabilized me and kept me off fentanyl for good. It has been years since I’ve touched that poison.

Third: Cannabis.

Yes — cannabis.

And I don’t say that lightly.

⸻

The Plant That Helped Me Reclaim My Life

Cannabis helped manage my chronic pain. It helped regulate my mood. It helped reduce depression. It helped me function day-to-day without returning to substances that nearly killed me.

I truly believe it is a gift from God.

Every time I use cannabis, I say grace — the same way I do before eating. I thank God for providing something that eases my pain and improves my quality of life.

And here’s something important:

Cannabis did not replace my faith.
It did not replace treatment.
It supported both.

⸻

To Those Who Judge

There are people who don’t use cannabis — and that’s perfectly fine. No one has to.

But some choose to judge without knowing the story behind the use.

They see cannabis and assume weakness, irresponsibility, or moral failure.

They don’t see the scars.
They don’t see the nerve damage.
They don’t see the addiction survived.
They don’t see the lives helped.

I have personally spoken to people who were trapped in fentanyl addiction and encouraged them toward safer alternatives and treatment. Some of them are alive today because they stepped away from deadly opioids.

So before labeling someone because they use cannabis, consider asking why.

Not everyone who uses cannabis is intoxicated. Many use it medicinally and function normally. Some of us have built careers, families, and platforms while managing real pain.

Cannabis users are not a stereotype.

We are veterans.
We are parents.
We are business owners.
We are survivors.

And yes — we are made in God’s image too.

⸻

Less Judgment. More Understanding.

This article isn’t about convincing everyone to use cannabis.

It’s about asking for understanding.

It’s about recognizing that people have stories you may never see at first glance.

It’s about remembering that compassion should come before criticism.

If someone chooses not to use cannabis, that’s their right. But dismissing or condemning someone who uses it for legitimate pain relief says more about the judge than the person being judged.

My journey took me through fire, disability, addiction, and recovery.

Cannabis is part of how I stayed alive.

That’s not rebellion.
That’s survival.

And if sharing my story helps even one person choose treatment over fentanyl — or choose compassion over judgment — then telling it is worth it.

Stay lifted. Stay loving.

• OG Strain

By OG Strain
The Plug’s Pages Magazine

I’ve lived on both sides of the fence.

I’ve been the bar guy.
And now I’m firmly, proudly, unapologetically the cannabis guy.

And after years of hanging with both crowds, I can say this with my full chest:
who you choose to get intoxicated with will tell you everything about the kind of people you’re surrounding yourself with—and, honestly, the kind of person you are.

Let’s start with the bar scene.

Life in the Bar: Loud, Sloppy, and One Bad Song Away from Violence

Bars are loud.
Not fun-loud.
Annoying-loud.

Drunk people don’t talk to you—they talk at you. And half the time, they don’t even finish a sentence before starting another one that somehow makes even less sense than the first.

And let’s talk about how drunk people “show love.”

They touch you.
A lot.

Hands on shoulders.
Hands on arms.
Faces way too close to your face.

Personal space? Never heard of her.

And the wild part? That “love” can flip into anger or violence faster than a light switch. I’ve watched best friends—people who claim they’d die for each other—end the night in full-on fistfights over something neither of them can remember by morning.

That’s not bonding.
That’s Russian roulette with emotions.

And if someone gets sick in a bar? Forget compassion. I’ve seen people puking while everyone else points, laughs, says “eww,” and runs the opposite direction like empathy is contagious.

Real classy.

Enter Cannabis Culture: Same High, Completely Different Vibe

Now let’s talk about cannabis users.

First thing you’ll notice?
Nobody’s yelling.

People are relaxed. Conversations actually make sense. And instead of invading your personal space, most stoners respect it like it’s sacred ground.

When cannabis users show love, it looks different.

They offer you a hit.
They share what they have.
They check in on you.

I saw this firsthand at a Cannabis Cup.

There was a girl who clearly had too much—maybe an edible contest, maybe just underestimated the dose. Instead of laughing at her or abandoning her, a group of people gently walked her over to a couch, sat her down, and made sure she was okay.

Let me say that again:
Strangers stopped what they were doing to take care of someone they didn’t even know.

That would never happen in a bar.

And here’s another moment that stuck with me: I met a woman at the Cup for the first time ever, and she noticed I had ketchup on my chin. Now, as someone who records content and is often on camera, that matters. Instead of laughing quietly like a drunk would, she helped me fix it.

That’s cannabis culture.

“But Stoners Get Moody Sometimes…”

Sure—we do.

But here’s the difference: when cannabis people argue, it’s usually because they’re passionate. About the plant. About their work. About their craft.

Not because they’re blackout drunk and woke up with a bruised eye wondering, “Who did I fight last night?”

Alcohol leaves you sick, dehydrated, anxious, and sometimes still drunk the next morning. And some people’s solution to that?

“Just keep drinking.”

That’s not a lifestyle.
That’s a warning label.

Cannabis, on the other hand, has historically been the substance of hippies, creatives, healers, and peace-loving people. It mellows you out. It opens conversations. It makes people kinder—not meaner.

The Company You Choose Is the Life You Choose

Now let me be clear: I’m not saying every cannabis user is perfect. Every industry has ego, greed, and a few straight-up villains.

But if I’m being honest?
Ninety percent of the people I’ve met through cannabis feel like family.
The kind of people I’d trust.
The kind I’d give the shirt off my back for.

I’m also not attacking casual drinkers. Have a beer. Have a glass of wine. Get drunk once in a while if that’s your thing.

But the hardcore bar crowd?
The every-night drinkers?
The people whose personalities dissolve the moment alcohol hits?

Those are the ones I’m warning you about.

You can drink, or you can smoke—but the crowd you attract will follow that choice. And that reflection? It’s real.

Me?
I’ll choose cannabis.
I’ll choose peace.
I’ll choose people who look out for each other.

Every time.

I’ve got over a decade of experience growing cannabis — indoor, outdoor, trial-and-error, learn-it-the-hard-way experience. I’ve used the expensive stuff. The fancy bottles. The “trust us, bro” nutrients with names like Tiger Bloom and Big This and Mega That. Back in the day, Fox Farm was king, and I ran their whole lineup like a proud little scientist.

But here’s the truth nobody in a hydro shop ever told me:

The best fertilizer I ever used in my entire life didn’t come in a bottle.

It came in a bucket.

And it smelled like regret.

This story goes all the way back to the 1990s — high school me, no grow books, no YouTube, no forums, no idea what I was doing. Just curiosity, time, and questionable decision-making.

One afternoon I was fishing the pond behind my house and caught about half a bucket of sunfish. I planned to bring them home and fillet them… until I realized that was a lot of work for not a lot of meat. Motivation gone.

On the walk back, I remembered a fenced-in, overgrown wooded area where I had already been thinking about growing my first weed plant. So I did what any teenage genius would do: I went home, grabbed a shovel, and headed back with the bucket of fish.

I picked a spot.
I dug a hole.
And I dumped roughly 30 whole sunfish — not gutted, not cleaned, not even apologized to — straight into the ground.

Then I buried them.

That was it.

No potting soil.
No amendments.
No nutrients.
No plan.

This was late October, maybe even November. I didn’t touch that spot again all winter.

Fast forward to spring.

I go back out to plant seeds and immediately realize I don’t even need to remember where I buried the fish — because the spot was glowing like radioactive turf. The grass there was aggressively green. Healthier. Taller. Brighter than everything around it.

Nature left me a Post-it note.

I planted seeds right on top of that spot and didn’t do a damn thing else the entire season. No feeding schedule. No pH testing. No “week three veg boost.” Nothing.

That plant grew over eight feet tall.

Now, I’ll be honest — one of them turned out to be male, so yeah, everything got fertilized and seeded up like crazy. I wouldn’t call it a championship-winning grow.

But for the first cannabis plant I ever grew in my life, with zero knowledge?

That was a success.

A messy, smelly, fish-powered success.

The wild part is, someone told me about this method beforehand. I don’t remember his name, but he was a Mexican dude from Stillwater I worked with back then. He grew outdoors near the Schuylerville battlefield. One day he looks at me and says, “You put sunfish in the ground.” Then he raised his hand way over his head and said, “Plants grow like this.”

He wasn’t lying.

Now, do I still use this method today? No.
Would I recommend burying 30 whole fish in your backyard if you live in a subdivision? Also no — unless you hate your neighbors.

But if you’ve got land, a pond or lake nearby, and patience? This method works. And the best part?

It’s basically free.

Compared to the price of fertilizers these days — which I’m sure cost about the same as groceries, rent, and your sanity — this costs nothing. Especially if you already fish. You could even eat the fillets and bury the scraps.

My advice if anyone ever tries this: do it in the fall. Bury the fish where you plan to grow and let winter do the work. Give the soil six months to break everything down and turn it into rich, living dirt before you plant anything.

No bottle ever impressed me the way that fish-fed soil did.

Sometimes the best grow advice doesn’t come from a label or a feed chart — it comes from a dude at work, a shovel, and a bucket of sunfish.

And if you know, you know.