How to Walk Boldly Out of Your Mental Prisons

I would sit here for hours at a time, staring at the skyline.

In the middle of a New York City winter, the wind from the East River ripping through my paper-thin “winter” coat.

No gloves, no hat, I couldn’t afford them. I couldn’t afford a warmer coat.

Truth is, I didn’t believe I was worthy of those warm things. If I did, I would have found the money.

But sitting out there freezing my ass off was better than the alternative.

I was released from federal prison and was now living in the Brooklyn halfway house.

We were issued passes to leave the halfway house for work, the DMV, the pharmacy, etc.

If I had a pass that meant I could stay out of the house until 10 at night, then I was going to stay out until the last possible minute. Even if it meant standing in the freezing cold.

Going back to the house meant relinquishing my freedom for the day. Standing in front of the white steel door, waiting to be buzzed back into the building, was the worst part of my day.

It meant being an inmate again.

Obviously, I was still an inmate when I was out of the house — but I didn’t feel like one.