Life Aftere: A Veteran’s Journey from Addiction to Healing
by Chris B.
It’sdifficult to imagine life without an addiction. That may sound dramatic tosome, but for me, it’s reality. The normal reaction when I tell people isusually something like, “Oh, it’s just nicotine.” Sure. Except I started when Iwas four years old.
I’d be outfeeding calves with my grandfather, and that’s when it started—two dips a day,every day. By third grade, I was buying it on my own. I’d collect soda popbottles, five at a time, and walk three miles to the nearest store. That wouldearn me fifty cents. A can of snuff cost forty-two cents, plus four cents tax.That left me four cents to save for the next can. I was budgeting for addictionbefore I could spell the word.
At age 12, Igot my first job, that paid into Social Security—so I could eat, buy new pantsfor school, and keep a steady supply of tobacco. By fourth grade, I was a chainsmoker. I quit smoking before sixth grade, but by then the damage was done. Ihad already been blacked out drunk that year. Through high school, it was justsnuff—my constant companion, my mistress. My greatest claim to fame? Winningthe lunchtime tobacco-spitting contest at my high school in 1985. Yes, we hadthose. Times were different.
Snuff becamethe thing I could always count on. I always knew exactly how much I had left,when I’d run out, and how much money I needed to buy more. If I was goingoverseas for 90 days, I took 90 cans. No exaggeration.
Even backthen, deep down, I intuitively knew that nicotine had a hold on me I couldn'tbreak. But addiction has a way of keeping you blind—it never lets you seebeyond yourself and your cravings.
FromBattlefield to Bottles
After yearsof deployments, thousands of explosions, brushes with death, and watching myown son suffer through the same wars that we fought together in—I became adrunk. What started as a glass of wine after dinner became a bottle. Thenthree. Alcohol became my refuge from pain—physical, emotional, spiritual. I wasspiraling.
I triedeverything to quit. And every time I failed, it only reinforced what I alreadybelieved: I was worthless. That belief dug its claws into me, and thedepression deepened. I hated myself for not being able to just “stop.” Itshould be so easy... so why couldn’t I quit?
A Glimmer ofHope
I beganresearching everything I could—neuroscience, addiction, trauma. I stumbledacross author Graham Hancock’s testimony about a psychedelic called Ayahuasca DMT. He used it once and never craved nicotineagain. It caught my attention, but I dismissed it. I had no clue where to findsomething like that. I didn’t even know what a shaman was.
Then, inearly 2014, during a severe back pain episode, I tried cannabis. Not only didit relieve my pain, but for the first time since 2002, I slept more than twohours. That night changed everything. And here’s the crazy part—I forgot to drink. I haven’t had a drink of alcohol sinceJanuary 1, 2014.
I didn’tlike that cannabis was illegal at the time, so when Delta-9 THC became legal, I switched. But I knew my tendencies. Opioids were never anoption for me—I don’t trust pharmaceutical companies. Their business isaddiction.
Eventually,I stopped using THC as well. Contrary to belief, THC isn’t addictive. For me,it was a tool—a step. And I moved on.
The RealBreakthrough
Three yearsago, I crossed paths with an old friend who worked with SOC-F, a nonprofit helping special operationsveterans. SOC-F works closely with another group called VETS:Veterans Exploring Treatment Solutions. Why are these organizations necessary when the VA exists? Because the VAsystem has its hands tied due to outdated laws. Sedation is cheaper than anything else. Pills are cheap. Surgery and real therapy cost money.
As aveteran, I could get any opioid I wanted. But that wasn’t living. That wasdying slowly.
