“Safe consumption sites gave me a second chance at life. Their closure could be my death sentence”

I grew up in Scarborough in the ’70s, the eldest son of loving, hard-working parents. My father assembled vans at General Motors, and my mother was an administrator at a Canadian music label. Neither of them ever touched alcohol or drugs. My younger brother followed their path.

My troubles began in first grade. Two teachers—a man and a woman—sexually assaulted me at school. They chose me, a quiet and withdrawn child, knowing I would stay silent. For years, I carried my painful secret, never telling anyone what had happened. After the assault, nowhere felt safe. Danger lurked at school and at home, because I feared being punished if I spoke up. I thought, Who would believe a kid’s word against two adults? I kept my head down and never missed a day of class, but inside, I was crumbling.

At 16, I discovered new ways to numb the pain. My first experience with drugs and alcohol was at a house party. I drank a six-pack of beer and smoked some hash. While others fell asleep around me, I kept drinking and smoking until there was nothing left.

By the time I graduated high school and started working with my dad at General Motors, I was drinking daily. I promised myself to stay away from hard drugs, but six months later, I tried crack cocaine. After that first euphoric rush, I was hooked. The drug made me feel invincible. Within a month of using it regularly, though, I became anxious and paranoid, and I lost 30 pounds.

When I was 20, General Motors sent me to rehab at Toronto’s Bellwood residential treatment centre. I was embarrassed by my addiction and didn’t take the 90-day program seriously. As soon as I got out, I went back to using. Related: “It’s life or death”—Harm reduction workers on Doug Ford’s decision to close safe consumption sites

In 1999, I met a woman named Nikita at a bar in Scarborough, and we began a relationship. Nikita had grown up on Manitoulin Island and thought that moving to Sudbury would give us a fresh start, so off we went. Our daughter was born the following spring, followed by our son two years later. But even the joys of fatherhood couldn’t quiet my cravings. At the time, opioids had taken hold in Sudbury, and I got into trouble right away. I started using Dilaudid, a brand of hydromorphone—a drug three to five times stronger than OxyContin. Its grip over me was immediate and fierce. It transformed me into someone I barely recognized—angry and dangerous. Opioids bankrupted us and drove a wedge between me and Nikita. I rarely had work and was spending up to $700 a week on drugs. When our money ran out, I started robbing gas stations and small businesses.

The media nicknamed me “the Polite Bandit.” Before each robbery, I’d make friendly conversation with the cashiers. Then I’d apologize, pull out a gun and demand money. Though I never used my gun, my victims’ fear was very real. One teenage gas station attendant trembled as I told him to count to 60 before calling the police. He made it to 45.

In 2004, I was caught and sentenced to 27 months in prison, which I served at the Sudbury jail and Millhaven. I detoxed, kept my head down and stayed out of trouble. While I was inside, Nikita took the kids and left. But, in a way, the experience offered me a second chance. When I was released, in 2006, I moved to Peterborough, closer to where Nikita and the children were then living, and enrolled at Fleming College on a St. Leonard’s Society of Canada scholarship. In 2007, I graduated with a diploma in addiction counselling and found work supporting drug users at the Lindsay jail. By that time, Nikita was struggling with alcohol herself, so I took full custody of my children for the first time.

I was proud to be sober and an active father, but my love for my children quickly twisted into debilitating anxiety. I felt a desperate desire to be a perfect parent, to protect them from a life like mine. Eventually, the pressure broke me. One afternoon at the bus stop, as the children squabbled, something inside me unravelled. I gripped their small hands and steered us home. After settling the kids on the couch with cookies and juice boxes, I stumbled to the bathroom and collapsed into a nervous breakdown. Between counselling inmates, running a household and raising my children, I’d neglected to look after myself.

My father took the children in, eventually returning them to their mother, who had gotten her life back on track. Nikita stepped up and gave our kids the stability I couldn’t. After my breakdown, I once again surrendered to the familiar darkness of drugs. In 2010, I tried twice to end my life; I couldn’t bear being an addict again. But, both times, I survived—it seemed life wasn’t finished with me yet.

The next several years were a blur: I moved to Toronto and lived at Seaton House, a homeless shelter on George Street. I took methadone in place of opioids, but I still used crack and other drugs daily. Then, in 2017, I met a health care worker named Frank from the Works, Toronto’s first permanent supervised injection site, near Yonge-Dundas Square. Frank eventually offered me a job helping other drug users stay safe by talking with them, supervising them while they got high and reviving them if they overdosed. For almost seven years, I was happy to be part of an organization that understood struggle and redemption. I was still using drugs, but I found purpose in keeping others alive.

Then, in 2023, a series of tragedies struck in quick succession. In May, I was trying to help a bird back into its nest near the Works when a man walked by and offered to help. A minute later, he was stabbed over a minor drug debt. I ran to help him and held him as he died in my arms. By that point, I’d started injecting fentanyl, and around Christmas, I survived a near-fatal overdose of the drug at the Eaton Centre. Months later, three people jumped me at Sherbourne subway station. The attack left me with broken ribs, cut arteries and sliced kidneys, and I was rushed into emergency surgery.

It was all too much. I knew I would always be an addict, but I needed to find real help to stay alive. That’s when I found Moss Park Consumption and Treatment Centre, which is near my apartment. It felt homey right away, and it became my sanctuary. A nurse, Julie, followed up with my surgeon after the attack and treated my wounds. She tracked my other health problems, connected me with doctors and kept my vaccinations updated. The staff did more than just monitor my drug use: they ensured that I had secure housing, provided meals and gave me a chance to join group programs, like art workshops. They helped me rebuild my life, meet new friends and become a valued member of a community.

These days, I visit Moss Park every afternoon and evening. When I arrive, I’m met by staff who pat my back and ask how I’m feeling. I sit down at the large dining table, drink water and greet my friends. We often draw murals together to decorate the centre.

When it’s my turn in the consumption room, I sit at a spotless steel table and inject fentanyl with a clean needle provided by a watchful staff member, who sits casually on the floor. I have an unusually high tolerance for fentanyl, so I often help the centre test the safety of new street drugs when clinical testing is too slow.

I’ve lost hundreds of friends to toxic drugs, suicide and murder. But, pitching in at Moss Park, I’ve also saved lives. This month, I helped resuscitate a man named Tony whose heart had stopped from drug poisoning. I gave him three shots of naloxone in his leg while staff set up a defibrillator and put him on oxygen. We were able to bring him back to life. Last year, Moss Park staff saved more than 500 people like Tony.

In August, the Ford government announced that it was shutting down 10 of the province’s 23 safe consumption sites, including any site that sits within 200 metres of a school or child care centre. It’s also prohibiting all new sites and safe supply initiatives. Moss Park will be gone by the end of March. In preparation, I’ve been teaching people how to supervise, or “spot,” one another. Related: The Battle for Leslieville—Gentrification, opioids and murder in the city’s most divided neighbourhood

The government claims it wants to keep the public safe. But closing safe consumption sites is like signing death warrants for people who rely on them. The government has promised to open new addiction hubs in place of safe consumption sites, but those hubs will help only people who want and are able to get clean, not those of us who are in a more complex phase of our journeys. Street drugs today kill faster than ever before. We need spaces where people can use drugs under watchful eyes, where someone will catch them if they fall. Without these havens, people will die in alleys and doorways, alone and forgotten.

I know I’ll never stop using. I’m haunted by the things I’ve done, and drugs dull my memories; I feel like I need them to survive. I’d love to see my father, brother and children again, but I can’t face them. It’s been 10 years since I’ve seen my kids; I love them too much to burden them with my shame.

Moss Park offers me something like family. Here, I’m more than my addiction and my mistakes. This makeshift home protects me, values me and keeps me alive. Without it, I’d be another name on the growing list of those killed as the opioid crisis rages on.