Writers 
The rubber bands became my lifeline.
On that very first day after Miss Clara's session, I wore them like sacred armor, wrapped around both wrists, ready to strike at the first whisper of craving. And strike I did. Over and over again. By evening, my wrists were raw and angry, covered in red welts that throbbed with every heartbeat. The skin was so tender that even the brush of my sleeve sent sharp spikes of pain shooting up my arms.
But it was working.
I realized, with a jolt of something that felt like horror, just how often my brain drifted toward thoughts of heroin. It was constant. Relentless. Like a broken record playing the same desperate song on an endless loop. I would be eating breakfast, and suddenly my mind would conjure the image of a needle. I would be walking through the garden, and the smell of flowers would trigger a memory of that familiar, acrid smoke. I would be lying in bed, trying to sleep, and my entire body would ache with a need that felt impossible to ignore.
Snap.
The rubber band would bite into my wrist, and the pain would drag me back to reality, if only for a moment.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
Ten days passed. Ten days of constant vigilance, of fighting battles in my own head, of choosing over and over again to resist. And then something remarkable happened.
The thoughts began to quiet.
They didn't disappear completely I wasn't naive enough to believe they ever would but they came less frequently. Less urgently. The cravings that had once been deafening screams became whispers, and the whispers became echoes, and the echoes became something I could almost ignore.
The number of times I hit my wrist decreased. The welts began to fade. And for the first time in years, I looked at myself in the mirror and saw something other than shame.
I saw hope.
---
Andrew remained the same.
He was still withdrawn, still angry, still drowning in a sea of his own making. While I was slowly climbing toward the surface, he was sinking deeper, his eyes growing more hollow with each passing day. We shared a room, but we existed in different worlds. I was in a world of possibility; he was in a world of despair.
I tried to reach out to him. I really did. I would leave him a portion of my breakfast when he couldn't eat. I would hold the door for him during therapy sessions. I would nod at him across the dining hall, hoping for some sign of acknowledgment, some crack in the armor he had built around himself.
But he never gave me anything. Not a smile. Not a word of thanks. Not even a look of recognition.
And I couldn't save him. That was the hardest part to accept. I couldn't save him because he didn't want to be saved.
So I focused on myself. I focused on my own healing, my own growth, my own fragile hope.
---
The chapel session that changed everything happened on a Thursday afternoon.
The sun was streaming through the stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the wooden pews. The air smelled of incense and old hymnals, and the choir was singing a hymn that I had heard a thousand times but never really listened to.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.
I sat in the back row, my hands clasped tightly in my lap, my heart pounding in my chest. The preacher was a tall man with a booming voice and kind eyes, and he was speaking about freedom. About breaking chains. About the power of God to transform even the most broken lives.
"We need to talk to God," he said, his voice ringing through the chapel. "We need to tell Him about our struggles. He's the only one who can help us do it better. He's the only one who can quench that evil desire and make us desire Him alone. If there's anyone here who wants to give their life to Christ, the time is now. Come forward."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
I had traded my faith for a needle, my hope for a high, my future for a fleeting moment of numbness.
But now, sitting in that chapel, surrounded by people who understood my pain, I felt something stirring inside me. Something that had been dormant for far too long.
I stood up. My legs carried me forward before my brain could even process what I was doing. I walked down the aisle, past the other residents, past the choir, past everything that had held me back. And then I was kneeling at the altar, my forehead pressed against the cool wood, my tears soaking into the fabric of my sleeves.
"Lord," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Lord, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for everything. For the drugs. For the lies. For the person I've become. Please forgive me. Please help me. I can't do this on my own. I've tried, and I can't. I need You. I need You so much."
The preacher knelt beside me, his hand warm on my shoulder. "Repeat after me," he said gently, and he began to pray.
I said the words after him, each syllable heavy with meaning. I confessed my sins. I repented of my old life. I invited Christ into my heart. And when I opened my eyes, blinking through my tears, I felt different. Lighter. Like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
I am not the same person who walked into this chapel, I thought. I am new. I am changed. I am free.
When I got back to my room, I picked up a Bible for the first time in a long time.
It was a worn copy, its cover cracked and its pages yellowed with age. I had found it on the nightstand when I first arrived, but I had never opened it. I hadn't been ready. But now, with my heart still racing from the altar call, I felt ready. I felt hungry.
I opened it randomly, letting the pages fall where they may. And the first verse my eyes landed on was this:
1 Corinthians 6:12 — "All things are lawful unto me, but all things are not expedient: all things are lawful for me, but I will not be brought under the power of any."
I read it once. Twice. Three times.
And then I understood.
The drugs had power over me. That was the truth I had been running from for so long. I had convinced myself that I could control my use, that I could stop whenever I wanted, that I was different from the other addicts. But I wasn't different. I was just as enslaved as they were. The drugs had me in their grip, and no matter how hard I struggled, I couldn't break free on my own.
But Paul's words were clear: I will not be brought under the power of any.
I dropped to my knees right there on the cold floor, the Bible clutched against my chest. I didn't care if anyone saw me. I didn't care if I looked foolish. All I cared about was the desperate need rising inside me, the need to be free, truly free, from the chains that had bound me for so long.
"God," I prayed, my voice shaking. "Break the power of this addiction over my life. I don't want to be under its control anymore. I don't want to be a slave to drugs. I want to be free. I want to serve You and only You. Please, God. Please break the chains. I can't do it alone. I need You."
I stayed there for a long time, pouring out my heart, crying out to a God I had ignored . And when I finally stood up, my knees aching and my face streaked with tears, I felt something I hadn't felt in a very long time.
Peace.
I turned around, and that's when I saw Andrew.
He was sitting on his bed, staring at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. There was no mockery in his eyes, no judgment. Instead, there was something else,something that looked almost like longing.
"You really believe that stuff?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "You really think God can fix you?"
"I don't think He can fix me," I said. "I know He can. He already has. I just have to keep trusting Him."
Andrew shook his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "Must be nice," he said. "To have that kind of faith. To believe that someone out there actually cares."
"He does care, Andrew," I said, taking a step toward him. "He cares about you too. He cares about all of us."
Andrew looked away, his jaw tightening. "I don't need your pity," he said. "I don't need anyone's pity."
"I'm not pitying you," I said softly. "I'm just telling you the truth. There's a way out. There's always a way out. You just have to take it."
He didn't respond. He just lay back on his bed, turning his face to the wall, shutting me out the way he always did.
And I let him. Because I knew, better than anyone, that you can't force someone to accept help. They have to want it. They have to reach out for it themselves.
A few weeks later, I made a friend.
His name was Collins, and he was my age. He had been at Meqomem for about three months, and like me, he had found a new sense of purpose in his faith. We met during one of the group Bible studies, and something clicked between us immediately.
"I used to think God had abandoned me," Collins told me one afternoon. We were sitting in the garden, our Bibles open on our laps. "I thought I was too far gone. Too broken. Too messed up for Him to care about."
I nodded, understanding exactly what he meant. "Me too," I said. "I thought I had blown my last chance. That I had used up all my second chances. But I was wrong. He was there the whole time. I just wasn't looking for Him."
Collins smiled, and for a moment, I saw a glimpse of the boy he used to be,bright-eyed, hopeful, full of potential. "We're going to make it," he said. "Both of us. I can feel it."
And so, Collins and I began a routine.
Every evening, after dinner, we would meet in the common room and study the Bible together. We would read passages aloud, discuss what they meant, and share our own experiences. Sometimes we would laugh. Sometimes we would cry. But always, always, we would pray.
We discovered many verses that spoke directly to our struggles:
John 8:34 — "Whosoever committeth sin is the servant of sin."
1 Corinthians 10:13 — "There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it."
Galatians 5:1 — "Stand fast therefore in the liberty wherewith Christ hath made us free, and be not entangled again with the yoke of bondage."
2 Peter 2:19 — "For of whom a man is overcome, of the same is he brought in bondage."
We prayed with these scriptures, declaring them over our lives, claiming the freedom that Christ had already bought for us. And with each passing day, I felt the chains loosening. The cravings that had once been so overwhelming became manageable. The temptations that had once seemed impossible to resist became avoidable.
By the fifth month, avoiding temptation was almost easy.
When my mother came to visit, I was always excited.
I would watch from the window, my heart pounding, as she walked across the lawn. Her face would light up when she saw me, and that smile—that beautiful, hopeful smile—was the greatest gift I could ever receive.
"Simon!" she would cry, wrapping me in a hug so tight it stole my breath. "Look at you! You look so healthy! You look so happy!"
"I am happy, Mum," I would tell her. And for the first time in years, I truly meant it.
I told her everything. About the rubber bands. About the therapy sessions. About the cravings that had slowly faded. About Collins and our Bible studies. About the night at the altar when I had given my life back to Christ.
Mum listened with tears streaming down her face, her hands clasped together as if in constant prayer. "I'm so proud of you, Simon," she would say, her voice thick with emotion. "I never stopped praying for you. I never stopped believing that you would find your way back."
"I love you, Mum," I told her one evening, as we sat together watching the sunset. "I'm sorry for all the pain I caused you. But I'm going to make it right. I'm going to make you proud."
She squeezed my hand, her fingers warm and familiar. "You already have, Simon. You already have."
But Andrew was still drowning.
I tried, one last time, to reach out to him. I sat beside him on his bed, my Bible in my hands, my heart aching with compassion.
"Andrew," I said gently. "I know you're hurting. I know you think there's no way out. But there is. I found it. And you can too."
He scoffed, his eyes fixed on the wall. "You think it's that easy? Because nobody brings them to you again?"
I was confused. "What do you mean?"
He turned to look at me, and I was shocked by the despair in his eyes. "My uncle brings heroin every visit," he said, his voice hollow. "No matter how hard I try, once I see it, I fall again."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "But how does he get past the searching?" I asked. "The workers check everything that comes in. They've never found anything."
"I don't know, Simon," Andrew said, his voice trembling. "I don't know how he does it. But he does. Every single time. And I can't resist. I'm too weak. I'm too broken."
And then, right there, in front of me, Andrew reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag. Heroin. He had been hiding it all along. He lit it, and that familiar, acrid smell filled the room a smell that had once been my solace, my escape, my salvation.
He inhaled deeply, his eyes closing in a moment of pure, blissful relief. And then he opened them, and he looked at me, and there was something almost like a challenge in his gaze.
He offered me the pipe.
I felt my hand reaching out, trembling, desperate. The craving rose inside me like a tidal wave, drowning out every rational thought, every promise I had made to myself. My fingers brushed against the pipe, and for a moment, I was back in the darkness, back in the place where nothing mattered except the next hit.
Just one more, the voice whispered. Just one more. You can stop after that.
But then something happened.
I remembered what freedom felt like. I remembered the welts on my wrists. I remembered the night at the altar. I remembered my mother's smile. I remembered Collins and our Bible studies. I remembered the promise I had made to God:
Drugs will not have power over me anymore.
And in a split second, I made my choice.
I turned and ran.
I burst out of the room, my heart pounding, my lungs burning. I didn't stop until I reached the workers' office, and even then, I could barely speak.
"Andrew," I gasped. "Andrew has heroin. In our room. He's using it right now."
The workers sprang into action. They ran to the room, and I followed behind them, my legs shaking beneath me. They found Andrew sitting on his bed, his eyes glazed, the pipe still in his hand. They confiscated everything. They took him to an isolated room where he was to stay for a week, supposedly to detox and reflect on his choices.
But they didn't find everything.
They didn't know he had cocaine hidden in the lining of his pillow.
On the third day, the room was unusually quiet.
Andrew hadn't passed his dirty plates out through the slot. He hadn't responded to the workers when they called his name. Something was wrong. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach, a cold dread that made it hard to breathe.
The workers opened the door.
And there he was.
Andrew was lying on the floor, his body twisted at an unnatural angle. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. His lips were blue. And on the floor beside him was a small bag of white powder—cocaine. He had overdosed.
The news spread through the rehab like wildfire. I heard the whispers, the gasps, the prayers. I heard someone crying, someone screaming. And I stood there, frozen, unable to process what I was seeing.
Andrew is dead.
The words echoed in my mind, hollow and meaningless. Andrew, who had been my roommate for six months. Andrew, who had warned me about the darkness. Andrew, who had offered me the pipe that I had somehow found the strength to refuse.
Andrew is dead, and I am still alive.
His parents came the next day. I watched them from the window—a man and a woman, their faces gray with grief, their bodies hunched as if carrying an impossible weight. They took his body away in a black car, and I watched until the car disappeared from sight.
That night, I cried.
I cried for Andrew. I cried for his parents. I cried for the boy he had been before the drugs had stolen everything from him. I cried for the hope that had died with him. I cried until my eyes were swollen and my throat was raw, and even then, the tears kept coming.
It could have been me, I thought. It should have been me. I was just like him. I was just as broken, just as lost. If I hadn't said yes to God, if I hadn't found the strength to resist, I would be the one in that coffin.
But I was alive. I was here. And I had been given a second chance that Andrew never got.
I know I'm free now.
The cravings still come sometimes, whispers in the back of my mind. I know that temptations will continue to come, that I will have to fight this battle for the rest of my life. But the power has been broken. The chains are gone. I am no longer a slave to addiction.
Next week, my mother is coming to pick me up from Meqomem.
I look around this room—this room that has been my prison and my sanctuary, my hell and my heaven. I think of everything that happened here. The pain. The struggle. The hope. The redemption.
And I know, with every fiber of my being, that I have been restored.
Meqomem means restoration, Mrs. Jane had told me on that very first day. And she was right. I have been restored. Not just to health, not just to sobriety, but to life. To hope. To a future that I never thought I would have.
As I sit here, writing this story, I am reminded of how far I have come. The boy who walked through those iron gates six months ago is not the same boy who will walk out of them next week. That boy was broken, lost, drowning. But this boy—this boy is whole. This boy is found. This boy is free.
I don't know what the future holds. I don't know if I will stumble, if I will fall, if I will have to start all over again. But I do know that I will never stop fighting. I will never stop choosing. I will never stop believing that I am worthy of love, of healing, of a life that matters.
Because I am.
And so are you
THE END
