By Chris Boardman

It’s difficult to imagine life without an addiction. That may sound dramatic to some, but for me, it’s reality. The normal reaction when I tell people is usually something like, “Oh, it’s just nicotine.” Sure. Except I started when I was four years old.

I’d be out feeding 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 pop bottles, five at a time, and walk three miles to the nearest store. That would earn me 50 cents. A can of snuff cost 42 cents, plus four cents tax. That left me four cents to save for the next can. I was budgeting for addiction before I could spell the word.

At age 12, I got my first job, that paid into Social Security — so I could eat, buy new pants for school, and keep a steady supply of tobacco. By fourth grade, I was a chain smoker. I quit smoking before sixth grade, but by then the damage was done. I had already been blacked out drunk that year. Through high school, it was just snuff — my constant companion, my mistress. My greatest claim to fame? Winning the lunchtime tobacco-spitting contest at my high school in 1985. Yes, we had those. Times were different.

Snuff became the 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 going overseas for 90 days, I took 90 cans. No exaggeration.

Even back then, deep down, I intuitively knew that nicotine had a hold on me I couldn’t break. But addiction has a way of keeping you blind — it never lets you see beyond yourself and your cravings.

From battlefield to bottles

After years of deployments, thousands of explosions, brushes with death and watching my own son suffer through the same wars that we fought together in, I became a drunk. What started as a glass of wine after dinner became a bottle. Then three. Alcohol became my refuge from pain — physical, emotional, spiritual. I was spiraling.

I tried everything to quit. And every time I failed, it only reinforced what I already believed: I was worthless. That belief dug its claws into me, and the depression deepened. I hated myself for not being able to just “stop.” It should be so easy… so why couldn’t I quit?

A glimmer of hope

I began researching everything I could — neuroscience, addiction, trauma. I stumbled across author Graham Hancock’s testimony about a psychedelic called Ayahuasca DMT. He used it once and never craved nicotine again. It caught my attention, but I dismissed it. I had no clue where to find something like that. I didn’t even know what a shaman was.

Then, in early 2014, during a severe back pain episode, I tried cannabis. Not only did it relieve my pain, but for the first time since 2002, I slept more than two hours. That night changed everything. And here’s the crazy part — I forgot to drink. I haven’t had a drink of alcohol since Jan. 1, 2014.

I didn’t like that cannabis was illegal at the time, so when Delta-9 THC became legal, I switched. But I knew my tendencies. Opioids were never an option for me — I don’t trust pharmaceutical companies. Their business is addiction.

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 real breakthrough

Three years ago, I crossed paths with an old friend who worked with SOC-F, a nonprofit helping special operations veterans. SOC-F works closely with another group called VETS: Veterans Exploring Treatment Solutions. Why are these organizations necessary when the VA exists? Because the VA system has its hands tied due to outdated laws. Sedation is cheaper than anything else. Pills are cheap. Surgery and real therapy cost money.
As a veteran, I could get any opioid I wanted. But that wasn’t living. That was dying slowly.

I was scared to death of psychedelics. I had never touched them in my life. But I did my homework. I talked to people who’d been through the therapy. The evidence was overwhelming, and every story pointed to one thing: healing. Not masking symptoms. Not numbing. Healing.
Thanks to donations and support through SOC-F and VETS, I found myself in Mexico — where psychedelic therapy is legal and conducted as a clinical medical procedure, not a party trick.

Working with Ambio Life Sciences and specifically a man named Trevor Millar, I began treatment. I didn’t take Ayahuasca. The therapy used Ibogaine and 5-MeO-DMT — sometimes I call “Tango with the Toad.” And somehow, this treatment broke the bad neurological patterns in my brain and rewired them into something healthy.

On May 30, 2023, I took my last dip of snuff.

I no longer crave nicotine. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I am finally, truly, free.

Life after addiction

For the first time in my life, I wake up excited for the day. I’ve never known life without some kind of coping mechanism — until now. What’s most beautiful is that I’m not doing this alone. I have a circle of friends who have walked this same path. We’ve seen our souls laid bare. And we’re still here. Together.

I now work with other veterans struggling with addiction and traumatic brain injury (TBI). I’ve lived it. I’ve been there. And now, I’m walking beside others as they take their first steps toward healing.

The journey isn’t over. It never will be. But for the first time in a long time, it’s not about surviving. It’s about living — and helping others do the same.

A call for change

I pray this treatment — this modality — becomes legal and available for all veterans suffering from PTSD, Operator Syndrome, TBI and addiction. Not just pills. Not just painkillers. Real healing.

We owe our warriors more than a bottle of pills and a waitlist.

Resources:
• SOC-F: Special Operations Care Fund
• VETS: Veterans Exploring Treatment Solutions
• Ambio Life Sciences
• https://www.resolvprovingground.org/
• The Mission Within
• Heroic Hearts Project

If you’re a veteran, or love one who’s suffering, know this: you’re not broken, and you’re not alone. Healing is possible. I’m living proof.

Chris Boardman lives in Salisbury.