I'm Aaron and I'm an addict in recovery. In 1997 I got addicted to dope shortly after my Stepdad died of Serosis of the liver. Two months prior to his death he was tortured in our home for two hours before being kidnapped during a home invasion. Afterwards my brother who was one year older than me spent hours washing the blood off the walls. All I could do was hold my mother as we cried watching the bloodstains disappear off the walls, wondering if he was dead or alive. In shock and despair.
I had hated him my whole life. He was an alcoholic and a drug addict. He tormented us, turned my brother into a crack addict. I refused to be around it. He drank in front of us when the sun was up and during every minute while darkness filled the sky. He yelled at me. Only me. He shot guns in the house and detonated bombs in the backyard. He took revenge on others by burning down their homes. He even murdered his own best friend. He was a menace. He was my tormentor.
But on that day when he died, I felt sad—and confused. My sadness turned into anger, and my shock transformed into sorrow. I later realized that I was grieving for the loss of my childhood innocence—the very thing he had robbed from me at a much younger age. My sadness turned into anger. Into rage. Interlocking my complex PTSD even stronger.
It wasn’t long before I replaced the subtle light of my childhood with the chaotic, nihilistic darkness of a desperate crack addiction. At 16, I completely lost myself to a gang and street life. The trauma of losing my tormentor had blinded me to his ways. My grief directed my life as I became like him—empty and directionless, without any hope or love for anything—not even myself.
My father moved from Russia to Austin, Texas, when I was 19. I had a one way ticket on Delta Airlines shortly after. At that point, my character rehabilitation began. It was slow, but over time, I shed my old ways and became the person I am today. I traded in my crack addiction for more upscale drugs like cocaine and ecstasy. My lifestyle was different in many ways - for the better. I was happier. I was in a less violent area. Safe.
Still an addict.
I was extradited back to South Carolina after violating my probation. I had been in Austin less than a year. It took 14 months to get through the South Carolina courts while sitting in county jail before they let me go free. In that time, I learned what I wanted for myself, and what kind of person I wanted to be. I left all criminal behavior behind. With the exception of my addiction.
My Dad purchased another one way ticket on Delta Airlines. I stared out the window as the plane departed the airport in Columbia with relief. I haven’t looked back since.
I had struggled with addiction until I moved to Denton, Texas, to commit myself to my studies at UNT, and I thrived in academic life. For the next eight years, I stayed sober; eventually, I flourished in my career after graduation. In 2015, however, I relapsed after I walked away from my career for being unsatisfied with the business world. For the next four years, I struggled with my addiction until I was diagnosed with stage 3 testicular cancer. After finishing my last round of chemo treatments and returning home from the hospital two weeks later, I relapsed after my Oncologist found another lump. The thought of going through the nightmare of what I endured from spending almost 5 months in the hospital due to extreme allergic reactions to my chemo meds and constant complications, I broke to the trigger. Afterall, I wasn't given the tools to prepare myself for any triggers post chemo. Luckily the mass was purely benign. Though my addiction no longer wasn't.
Throughout chemo I would remind my Oncologist that I have Complex PTSD, BiPolar 2, ADD, and Panic Disorder and ask that she loop my husband in with communication. As a precaution since the outbreak was at its peak before the vaccine, he wasn't allowed in the hospital room with me, but we communicated by phone with updates.Looking back, I wish that my oncologist had sent a social worker into my hospital room to talk with me and take care of my mental state. Looking back, I wish that I had told her that I had substance use disorder. I wish I didn't fear being stigmatized. Maybe if I had told her, something could have been done to help stop my relapse after the chemotherapy. Perhaps if I did my cells could have grown back after chemo. And perhaps if I hadn't relapsed, my odds of developing another cancer would not have increased. I'm just fortunate that the blood clots never dislodged during a relapse.
One of my favorite things to do is to sit back and imagine a world where there exists a person who is the voice for the voiceless with mental illness who suffer with addiction who battle cancer. If that person exists, what would they look like? What schools would they have attended? What experiences would they have had to experience to qualify their compassion? Their empathy? Their wisdom? The ability to look in another addict’s eyes and know when to say the right thing. That one thing that will save their life. The life they so bravely fought to bring back to life while chemotherapy drugs coursed through their arteries. That person could be me.
The voice of hope.
Throughout my cancer treatment, my friends were a huge help. I have five friends that I could always count on: Josh, Vanessa, Jason, Elizabeth, and Shannon. They would check in on me often and listen as I worked through my feelings; they helped me to be positive and move forward. At the same time, they were dealing with problems of their own. Just two months ago, Jason called to tell me that Vanessa was gone. She had killed herself; she had left behind a three-year-old daughter. Up until her death, we would check in weekly, sometimes twice a week with encouragement. We were determined to help each other overcome depression and addiction. She had one weak moment and drank. And that night she made a decision she would have never done had she been sober.
After Vanessa died, I made a promise to her. “I’ll finish this for both of us,” I said. “And if I relapse even once, I promise I’ll go to treatment.”
I had an out-of-body experience as my car smashed head-on into a large oak tree, five weeks after Vanessa passed. Four days prior mania set in after fighting off intense urges to get high. I was tired. But I was proud. I made it through a manic episode without getting high on meth.
I was only two miles from my house off a Farm to Market Road when my eyes could no longer hold their gaze. I was awakened by the impact. I was the only one who wasn't shocked that I walked away without a scratch. It was though I visited with myself through my driver's side window while unconscious before impact. I understood immediately there was a message to take away from the accident. It wasn't until later that the meaning of the accident became clear: I wasn't meant to be injured. There was too much left for me to do, too many experiences left to have. The next day, the accident pulled me right back into my addiction when I relapsed. One week later, it dawned on me that the accident had been a wake-up call. Unless I got sober, my life would be over.
Two weeks later I checked myself into Serenity Light Recovery Treatment Center near Houston, Texas. While I was there, I had a profound experience. In every way. Not only do I feel strong and am ready for a life of sobriety, but I learned I have a gift for counseling. A true gift. Cancer brought me to this realization; it has given me the mental strength to come full circle in my recovery.
My experience as a cancer-survivor has given me many gifts: wisdom, compassion, empathy, and wisdom, just to name a few. Cancer has also brought me enlightenment and resilience. Addiction brought me strength and relatability. Treatment gave me hope.
I want to help others who are struggling with addiction. I want to provide them with the hope and support that they need to get better. And I believe that my experience can help me do that in a unique way.
So, after much thought and reflection, I've decided to return to school to get my degree in counseling. It's something I'm passionate about and I know I can make a difference in the lives of others. My father told me that if I stay sober and get a degree in counseling he will open a rehab on the ranch. I can become a coach. We can save people who have addiction and mental illness who have battled cancer.
