About six months before I went home it occurred to me that I really was going home. I became very anxious. Everything started bothering me. Inmates were driving me nuts. I found new hatred for the guards. Standing in chow lines made my heart pound. And if I couldn't get on the phone when I wanted to, I about lost my mind. The funny thing was that I knew all of these attitudes were my problem. I knew nothing had changed with my surroundings; something must have changed in me. I knew I had short timer's disease.

I took some action. I prayed about it—going so far as to pray for the inmates and guards I was getting angry at. I talked about it in my recovery meetings and with fellow believers. These things helped but didn't seem to take it away. About five minutes after I woke up each day my brain would start with the anxiety and resentment.

It was so surprising to me to feel so stressed about going home. I felt more stressed about leaving than I did about coming to prison!

For a long time it had been easier for me to focus on daily prison life. I really didn't want to think about the family, women, and friends that I'd left behind. That was just too painful for me. To me, leaving prison was going to be the end of all my problems. I pictured a warm welcome from family, old friends, past girlfriends. I figured that someone would give me a job. In prison I did lots of working out so my physical health was good. Most importantly, in prison I'd prayed, read the Bible, and was involved in a 12 Step program. I really believed that going home would be like going to Disneyland. No more crazy inmates, guards, staff. No more "celly problems." No more waiting for money in the mail or commissary. I was going to actually be free! In my deepest heart, I believed that my transition would be filled with stress-free laughter and goodwill from the world. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Prayer definitely helped during this time. So did talking with fellow believers—people I could trust. They advised that I continue to pray, read the Bible, and find others to help, even if helping meant nothing more than a short, kind word or deed.

On the way home I got car sick. I hadn't been in a car for years and the motion made me ill. As soon as I arrived at my parents' house I was filled with a sense of guilt and shame. I didn't know exactly what to do next. All of the bright colors of everyday life in the real world sort of scared me. Right away I felt like I didn't fit.

Some good friends came by—friends who are sober and walking a spiritual path. I knew they'd understand just what I was going through. They didn't. How could they—they'd never been to prison for years like I just had. They were a bit confused as to why I seemed so uptight. I tried to explain but was not sure myself. I mean, "Wow, I'm actually home. So why do I feel so weird and afraid?"

I was honest with everyone. I told my friends and family that being home was like being in some alien landscape. That I didn't know what to do with my hands. After a few days I began to notice people sort of losing interest in the novelty of Dan being home. I wanted to call everyone and say, "Hey, don't lose interest. I'm home now and want to be part of life!" People just got on with their lives, and I felt alone and afraid. I literally didn't know what I should be doing every day.

I had a basic understanding that I needed to continue my sobriety through spiritual channels. To me that meant daily prayer, Bible reading, AA, and basic "golden rule" living. I did some of that, but to be honest I did a lot more worrying about what people thought about me and where I was going to find a job. My relationship with God quickly went on the back burner.

I kept saying to myself, "Look what you've done with your life! How will you ever repair it? How will you ever get a job? And what's up with my girl? She seems to be acting weird." It was like at every turn, I felt more and more out of place. Even those old friends seemed unsure about what to say to me. It felt like the world had a secret it wouldn't let me in on. I began to unravel. We all want to feel connected with God and people. There's nothing worse than feeling alone. After a few weeks home I felt more alone than when I was in prison. My friends in recovery were busy with family, work, and school. At church I felt little in common with these good people. I know the pastor says they don't judge, but who doesn't judge? Are there people who really don't judge? So down I went.

In hindsight I missed the turn when I began to care more about what people thought about me than what I was actually doing in my life. My focus became about what I thought others were thinking about me rather than just doing my very best to do the next right thing. My mind ran round and round, and I forgot the lessons that had been beaten into me by life, prison, and my search for God. I was back to relying on my own broken thinking.

After a serious relapse I knew I had to find a way to really stay on track. Lots of us have gotten on the path many times. The real deal is to stay on it when the going gets tough and uncertain. I moved into a halfway house. I began to see that my troubles are about me and not about how the world treated me. I saw that I need to put real effort into getting positive results if I wanted any. For most of my life I'd found ways of manipulating people to build the life that I wanted. I was always more interested in looking good than doing good. I saw that attitude had to stop.

What happened to Dan is a great example of the complicated challenges of reentry and how tough it can be for many of us to survive spiritually on the outside. It isn't just Dan's story; nearly all of us have a similar story dealing with our own case of "short-timer's disease," unrealistic expectations, a lack of careful planning and communication, the awkward experience of adapting to life on the outside, and the sobering realization that life is wonderful...but hard.