Writers 
We drove through the iron gates of Meqomem Rehabilitation Center, the tires crunching against the gravel driveway. The compound was unexpectedly serene—well-manicured lawns stretched out before us, and a large white building with a cross atop its spire stood at the center. It looked more like a retreat than a prison, but to me, it was both.
A staff member in a crisp blue uniform directed us to the office of the owner. My mother walked beside me, her hand gripping my arm a little too tightly, as if she feared I might bolt at any moment. In truth, I had nowhere to run. The cravings had already made a prisoner of me long before we arrived at these gates.
The office door was ajar, and through the opening, I could see a tall woman arranging files on her desk. She rose as we entered, and I was struck by her presence. She was statuesque, with kind eyes that seemed to see straight through my carefully constructed walls. Her name was Mrs. Jane, and when she smiled, it reached her eyes in a way that made me feel, for the first time in months, like a human being rather than a problem to be solved.
"Please, have a seat," she said, her voice steady as still water. "Both of you."
Mum settled into the chair across from the desk, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. I remained standing, my legs too restless to stay still. The withdrawal symptoms were already beginning to whisper their familiar lies in the back of my mind—just one more hit, just one more, you can stop after that.
"Mrs. Jane," Mum began, her voice trembling slightly, "my son Simon... he needs help. He's only thirteen, and I don't know what to do.
Mrs. Jane raised a gentle hand, silencing her. "I understand. But I would like to speak with Simon alone first, if that's all right."
Mum hesitated, glancing at me with those worried eyes that had become so familiar over the past year. The eyes that had watched me deteriorate. The eyes that still, somehow, held hope.
"Of course," Mum said softly, rising. She squeezed my shoulder as she passed, and I felt the weight of her love and her fear in that single touch. "I'll be right outside, Simon."
The door clicked shut behind her, and suddenly it was just me and Mrs. Jane in the quiet office. The clock on the wall ticked steadily, each second feeling like an eternity.
"Simon, how are you?" she asked, her voice calm and unhurried. She leaned forward slightly, giving me her full attention.
The question hung in the air between us. How was I? How could I possibly explain the war raging inside me—the constant battle between the part of me that wanted to live and the part of me that had already given up?
"I'm not fine," I heard myself say, the words tumbling out like water breaching a dam. "I feel like I'm drowning. I hate that I am an addict. I hate that I can't bring myself to stop. I hate that it is destroying me. I hate that it has taken my salvation from me."
My voice cracked on the last word. Salvation. Such a big word for someone my age. But I had felt it once—that sense of being whole, of having a future, of being worthy of love. The drugs had stolen it all, piece by piece, hit by hit, until I was nothing but a hollow shell chasing a feeling I could never quite catch.
Mrs. Jane listened without interruption, her expression betraying nothing but compassion. When I finished, she nodded slowly.
"I'm glad you know it's destroying you," she said. "That awareness is the first step toward healing. This is a Christian rehab centre, and do you know what the meaning of Meqomem is?"
I shook my head.
"It means restoration," she said, and the word seemed to fill the room with possibility. "And do you know who can restore you? It's God. Not the drugs, not the doctors, not even yourself. God alone has the power to make you whole again. But you have to work with us so we can help you."
"I'm ready, ma," I said, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice. "I'm ready to do whatever it takes to be free."
She smiled then, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. "That's good, Simon. That's very good."
---
When Mum was called back in, her face was pale with worry. She sat down, reaching for my hand across the desk. Her fingers were cold.
"We'll have Simon here for six months," Mrs. Jane explained, her voice businesslike but kind. "He will have individual therapy sessions, group counseling, church activities, and prayer sessions. There will be visits twice every month where parents can come see their children. We've found that family involvement is crucial to recovery."
Mum nodded, her eyes glistening. "Six months," she repeated, as if testing the weight of the words.
"Is that... is that enough time?" she asked hesitantly.
"Recovery is not a destination, it's a journey," Mrs. Jane replied. "But six months here will give Simon a solid foundation. The rest will be up to him."
After the explanation, Mum was given a slip detailing everything she would have to pay for. I watched her read it, watched the slight tightening around her eyes as she took in the numbers,she could actually afford to pay .
One of the workers escorted us out of the office. Mum turned to me in the hallway, her face etched with exhaustion and love.
"Simon, please help us," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please let this work."
I couldn't speak. The lump in my throat was too large. I just nodded, watching as she walked away to make the payments. Her shoulders were hunched, her steps heavy, and I knew I had done that to her.
The worker, a burly man named Mr. Thompson, led me to the intake room where my things were thoroughly checked. They confiscated my phone, my wallet, even the worn photo of Mum and me from when I was eight—it was deemed a potential trigger. Everything that connected me to my old life was taken away.
"Standard procedure," Mr. Thompson said, not unkindly. "You'll get them back when you've earned the trust."
The last thing they took was my jacket. I had hidden a small bag of heroin in the lining, a desperate backup plan in case I couldn't handle the withdrawal. I watched as Mr. Thompson's fingers found it, watched his expression shift from professional detachment to something harder.
"Simon," he said, holding up the bag, "this is your first test. You could have kept this secret. You could have tried to use it tonight. But you didn't fight me when I found it. That's something."
I didn't tell him that I had almost stopped him. I didn't tell him about the voice in my head screaming grab it, run, hide it somewhere else. I just nodded and let him drop it into the evidence bag.
---
My room was small but clean, with two narrow beds and a window that looked out onto the garden. Andrew was already there when I arrived, sitting on his bed with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up to his chest.
"Simon, this is your roommate Andrew," Mr. Thompson said. "Andrew, this is Simon. He's new. Be nice."
Andrew didn't look at me. He stared at the wall opposite him with an intensity that made me uncomfortable. His eyes were hollow, ringed with dark circles, and his hands trembled slightly where they rested on his knees.
After Mr. Thompson left, I stood awkwardly by my bed, unsure of what to say. Andrew spoke first, his voice flat and bitter.
"Another one. How long do you think you'll last? A week? A month? They all think they're special when they come in. They all think they're going to be the one who makes it."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I said nothing.
"Two years," Andrew continued, finally turning to look at me. His eyes were red-rimmed, angry. "I've been here two years. Still using. Still wanting to use. Still dreaming about it every night. You think you're going to do better than me? You're just a kid. You don't know what's coming for you."
I wanted to argue, to tell him that I was different, that I was determined, that I would succeed where he had failed. But something in his eyes made me hold my tongue. There was a warning there, a sadness that ran so deep it had turned to poison.
Andrew is not alive at the moment, I thought. Not really. His body was in that room, but the person he had been was long gone.
---
The first week was brutal.
The withdrawal hit me like a freight train on the second night. I lay in my bed, shivering despite the warmth of the room, my skin crawling with phantom sensations. Every nerve in my body screamed for relief. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, could barely breathe without feeling like I was suffocating.
At night, I would hear Andrew's ragged breathing from the other bed. Sometimes he would wake up gasping, drenched in sweat. We never spoke of it. We were two soldiers in the same war, fighting our private battles in the dark.
The cravings came in waves. I would be fine,almost normal and then suddenly, without warning, I would feel it: a physical ache in my bones, a desperate need that eclipsed everything else. I would have sold my soul for just one more hit, and the shame of that realization was almost worse than the withdrawal itself.
But I forced myself to eat. I forced myself to attend the therapy sessions. I forced myself to participate in the prayer groups even when the words felt hollow on my tongue. One day at a time, one hour at a time, one minute at a time. That was the only way to survive.
---
My first therapy session with Miss Clara opened my eyes in ways I hadn't expected.
She was a small woman with gentle hands and a voice that could soothe the most anxious soul. Her office was filled with plants and soft lighting, and a large anatomical chart of the human brain hung on the wall behind her desk.
"Simon," she said, gesturing for me to sit, "I want to show you something."
She pulled out a chart and placed it on the table between us. On it were detailed diagrams of the brain, each section color-coded and labeled. She pointed to a part near the center.
"This is the reward system," she explained. "It's responsible for feelings of pleasure and motivation. When you take drugs, they flood this area with dopamine—way more than natural experiences like eating or spending time with loved ones. Your brain starts to think that drugs are the most important thing in the world because they produce such an intense response."
She pulled out another chart, this one showing two brains side by side. One was vibrant and full, with distinct regions clearly defined. The other was shriveled, with dark patches and areas that seemed to have collapsed in on themselves.
"This is a healthy brain," she said, pointing to the first image. "And this," she said, pointing to the second, "is what your brain looks like right now."
I stared at the image of the damaged brain, trying to reconcile it with the head on my shoulders. That couldn't be me. That couldn't be what I had done to myself. I was only thirteen. I was still young. But the evidence was right there in front of me, undeniable.
"I took heroin, not meth," I said weakly. "That's for the hardcore addicts. That's for the people on the street."
Miss Clara shook her head gently. "Simon, all drugs have consequences. Heroin changes the brain's chemistry. It slows down your thinking, messes with your emotional regulation, and over time, it literally damages the cells in your brain. If you continue using, by the time you're eighteen, you could have serious cognitive impairment. Memory loss. Inability to concentrate. Permanent damage to your decision-making abilities."
She pointed to the damaged brain again. "This is what happens when a teenager uses hard drugs. Your brain is still developing. It's like a building under construction, and every time you use, you're knocking down the walls that haven't even been built yet."
I felt sick. I had known the drugs were bad,I wasn't stupid but I had never really understood the mechanics of it. I had thought addiction was a moral failing, a weakness of character. I had hated myself for being weak, for not being able to just stop.
But now I saw that it was more than that. It was biology. It was chemistry. It was a battle being fought not just in my heart, but in my very cells.
"Hard drugs can have serious effects on the human brain," Miss Clara continued, her voice patient and educational, "especially when they are used repeatedly or in large amounts. They can interfere with the brain's reward system, causing intense cravings and eventually leading to dependence and addiction. Drug use can also affect memory, concentration, judgment, decision-making, and emotional control. A person may experience mood changes such as anxiety, irritability, depression, confusion, or unusual behavior. Some drugs can cause hallucinations, paranoia, seizures, stroke, or other serious problems affecting the brain and nervous system."
She paused, letting the information sink in. "For teenagers, drug use can be particularly harmful because the brain is still developing, and repeated drug use may interfere with areas responsible for learning, self-control, and decision-making."
I thought of all the times I lied to my mother, pushed away my friends. I thought of the way I had felt when I was high—like nothing mattered, like I was floating above all my problems. I had thought I was escaping, but I was just destroying myself piece by piece.
"However," Miss Clara said, and her voice brightened, "with appropriate support and treatment, the brain can recover to some extent after drug use stops. It's not easy. It takes time and effort. But it is possible."
"How do I make it stop?" I asked, my voice desperate. "The craving. How do I make it go away?"
"You have to retrain your brain, Simon," she said. "The cravings will come. They always do. But you have to learn to ride them out, to let them wash over you without acting on them. It's like learning to surf at first, the waves will knock you down. But eventually, you'll learn to stay afloat."
She pulled out a small notebook and wrote something down. "I have a simple test for you," she said. "Every time you feel a craving,she said taking two rubber bands from her desk and handing them to me"pull these rubber bands as far back as you can and release them to hit your wrist,each time you feel a craving.
I nodded, taking the rubber bands with trembling hands.
"Good," she said. "You'll do this and tell me how much you've improved in our next session."
