HALFWAY HOUSES OFFER EXTRA HELP

It was nightfall on a Tuesday night roughly two years ago when I came to
the E.M. Jellinek Center, having just gotten out of Peninsula Hospital's
detoxification unit earlier that day.

My father drove me, because I'd driven my car without any thought of
maintenance and care. I had a couple of bags and no idea what to expect.
Jellinek was a halfway house, and I was soon to be its newest resident.
Over the warehouses and dilapidated buildings of North Central Street, the
lights of downtown Knoxville turned the sky a purplish orange. Only weeks
before, I'd cruised those same streets, maybe even right by Jellinek,
desperate to buy dope.

The E.M. Jellinek Center took me in. It's a place that saved my life, and
this week is my last there. I'm moving on, out on my own for the first time
since I got clean. It's a little intimidating, I'll admit -- but then
again, I'd be worried about myself if I didn't find it a bit frightening.

But as Frank and Johnny, the two guys who run the center, like to say --
it's time. I've learned everything Jellinek had to offer about staying
clean. Now, it's time to apply it to the world of reality.

The majority of 12-step recovery programs take no position, pro or con, on
halfway houses. They often work hand-in-hand with such residences, and the
guys at Jellinek are required to attend a certain number of 12-step
meetings each week.

But while recovery doesn't advocate a halfway house, I most certainly do. I
wouldn't be where I am today if it hadn't been for the E.M. Jellinek Center.

It taught me how to live like a human being again. In my addiction, I
quickly devolve to the point where I live like an animal -- going without a
shower, without washing clothes, without buying necessities like soap and
toilet paper. Not because I didn't want them -- but because spending money
on such things, and taking the time to go buy them and use them, all of
that took away from my drug use.

Getting high was the only thing that mattered. Food, family, friends, my
health, my job -- all of those things came in a distant second to the
obsession and compulsion to use dope. It wasn't a choice; it was my
reality. Such is the nature of the disease of addiction.

Jellinek taught me about responsibility again -- getting up at 6 a.m. each
morning, eating a decent breakfast, making my bed, doing my part around the
house to keep it clean and orderly. It taught me how necessary it is to
take a proactive role in my own recovery by requiring attendance at
counseling, group therapy and 12-step meetings.

And that's not even scratching the surface. More than anything, it became a
shelter from the storm my life had become. It was a refuge, an oasis, a
place to rest and rebuild my shattered spirit. And I took full advantage.

I've been blessed by friendships I developed at Jellinek that I'm convinced
will be lifelong -- guys like Chris and Thomas and Mike and Mark and Johnny
and Frank, who are all still in recovery and doing well. I've been given
fond memories, of talking late into the night about change and life and
recovery, of playing cards on the back patio during the summer, of
locker-room humor and good-natured insults. I've been rewarded with so many
lessons, the biggest being that freedom from active addiction isn't free --
it takes work, and you have to be willing.

In the two years I've been there, I've seen maybe a dozen, surely no more
than 20, guys leave Jellinek on good terms. I've seen probably 150 or more
come through the facility and not take it seriously. Sooner or later, those
guys get high again and are shown the door to make room for someone who
might want recovery a little more.

Even leaving on good terms doesn't mean we're "cured": Two guys I was close
to, James and Bubba, left Jellinek of their own accord, like I'm doing.
Today, both are serving lengthy sentences in prison, because when they got
out, they didn't keep doing what kept them clean at Jellinek.

Just for today, I plan on putting those lessons to use. I pray to hang on
to the willingness to stay clean that's gotten me this far, and that
everything I've learned over the past two years will serve me well out at
my new home in Alcoa. I pray for the guys still there, the ones that I know
and that I've been blessed to be able to help.

With that, I know that Jellinek will always be my home. And I know, as
Frank likes to say, that it's not good to say "goodbye." I prefer his
farewell -- "I'll see you soon."

Thank you, fellas. I hope I'm leaving it a little better than I found it.

Steve Wildsmith is a recovering addict and the Weekend editor for The Daily
Times.