'This month I felt fear': A recovering addict journals his 'rough transition' from jail

In May 2019, Jason Walmsley was released from Headingley Correctional Centre in Manitoba, after completing a nine-month sentence for crimes he committed to fuel his drug addiction.

Walmsley spent his days behind bars taking part in the Winding River Therapeutic Community, a long-term addictions recovery program offered inside Headingley.

Upon his release, he was sent to a residential treatment program in Winnipeg.

Walmsley has agreed to share his journey on the outside for the CBC in regular intervals.

Here now are his thoughts, halfway through the program.

This past month I felt excitement and hope, coupled with worrisome anticipation. But the emotional truth that no hardened criminal wants to admit to is fear.

This month I felt fear. An inescapable fear of the unknown. 

I have been released from prison many times before, but moving into a residential treatment centre from prison has been a rough transition for me.

Geographically speaking, there is much that worries me. Stabbings and drug use are more common here than sunsets and morning coffees.

I awake in the night to the sounds of distant screams and approaching sirens.

Every night, without fail, the lights of an ambulance or police vehicle flash through my window. It's a constant reminder that the dream of where I had hoped to be is nothing like the nightmare of where I actually am.

My days are spent learning the tools required to deal with my addiction, and preparing for what others refer to as the inevitable relapse. 

Sobriety is difficult, temperamental and often volatile.… Failure for me means death. I choose to recover.

I can handle the dark days and continuous sadness, program reiteration and a brother who cannot forgive me.

I can handle the detrimental feelings associated with shame and regret, as well as the intimate adversaries who cannot forgive and will never forget.

I can handle the constant heartache …

What I cannot handle are the nights — the quietness, the endless and sleepless nights …

When all a recovering addict has are the thoughts of "what could have been," instead of what our lives can still be. 

Before, I believed sobriety was sobriety, whether through hard work and commitment, or through mandated prison time. Sobriety was sobriety,  regardless of its origin. 

I could not have been more wrong. 

'I choose to recover'

Sobriety is difficult, temperamental and often volatile. 

Being in treatment is the conscious decision to change my harmful behaviours, to challenge the values that have influenced my destructive thinking.

It is gruelling and arduous, with little recognition when successful, and dreadful life-altering consequences when not.

Failure cannot be an acceptable option, because failure for me means death. 

I choose to recover. 

I will not give my addiction what it wants.

During my nine months spent in institutional and community-based treatment programs, there have been breakthroughs and setbacks, epiphanies and emotional shutdowns. Looking in the mirror and being honest with the person looking back.

Addiction treatment has taught me important lessons such as effective coping strategies, responsible living and skills for better relationships.

But it has also shown me — time and time again — that a relapse and prison homecoming is regrettably possible, because never seeing my 31st birthday is what my addiction wants.

Never seeing my nieces grow up is what my addiction wants. 

Never landing that dream job or owning my own home, never being trustworthy and dependable or a good and decent man … this is what my addiction wants to take from me.

Addiction's sadistic nature dictates the belief that continuing destructive behaviour will somehow create responsible future behaviour. We believe in this, because it allows us to continue in our addiction without conscientious or moral objections. It is for all intents and purposes a monster — an all-consuming, unrelenting monster.

I will not give my addiction what it wants.

I have found the strength to persevere, to admit my shortcomings and truthfully confess my fears. 

I now have hope for the future, because of the decision to stop holding myself in the darkness of my past. I have been given another chance, perhaps my last one.

What happens next is up to me. 

This column is part of  CBC's Opinion section. For more information about this section, please read this editor's blog and our FAQ.

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