A story by Matt Plummer from 2025
As I was being released from prison, there was a brief moment when I thought everything would change. I believed that stepping out of the gates would be the thing that finally set me free. I thought the fresh air, the sunlight, and the space to move outside the walls would fix everything inside me. I had spent years dreaming of this moment, imagining how life would be different when I wasn’t confined to a cell and I could live and breathe again. I told myself that if I could just get out, the voices that haunted me so relentlessly during my time in Close A-Pod day and night would fade away. That dream quickly shattered when I hit the parking lot.
As soon as my feet hit the pavement, the weight of the world came crashing down. The noise inside my head didn’t stop. The voices that had tormented me in the prison halls, mocking me, accusing me, and telling me I wasn’t worth anything, were still there louder than anything else. I had been so sure that once I left prison, everything would be fine, but nothing was fine. The world around me felt like a blur, like I was watching myself from outside my body. I thought maybe being free meant freedom from the chaos, but the truth was, the prison of my mind was worse than anything the walls of a cell could offer.
I stood there in that parking lot, paralyzed by the overwhelming flood of voices, the crushing realization that leaving prison didn’t mean leaving the torment behind. My body shook as I tried to take in the world around me. This reality was a slap in the face. It wasn’t just the drugs that had taken everything from me—it was the mental cage I couldn’t escape. It was the paranoia, the constant fear that everyone was against me and the world wasn’t a safe place. I broke down. Tears streamed down my face, not just from the pain of the moment, but from the sheer weight of the years that had crushed me. I spent years fighting the voices and hurting those I loved trying to outrun something that would never stop chasing me.
I couldn’t breathe. My chest tightened, and the thought of facing the world like this was unbearable. I left prison, but was still in chains—only these chains were invisible, gnawing at my mind, keeping me from finding peace. My heart felt like it was breaking under the weight of it all, and I wondered if I would ever be free.
The emotional toll of my past, the damage done by years of trauma and addiction, had wrecked more than just my own mental health. It cost me the relationships that once mattered most. The hardest loss, the one that haunted my quiet moments, was my relationship with my daughter.
For years, I pushed everyone away, including her. The drugs, the paranoia, the shame—everything that was happening inside me had created a wall so thick, so impenetrable, that I couldn’t see her anymore. I couldn't be the father she deserved. Every time I tried to reach out, I felt the distance grow, like she was slipping further away. I told myself she hated me and couldn’t possibly love someone as broken as I was. But more than anything, I felt guilt for my failings.
The realization of how much I had lost was the catalyst for my mental collapse that day I was released. I lost my sense of self along with all the years of my life spent in prison. The most painful loss was the time with my daughter that I could never get back. My heart ached at the thought that the person who meant the most to me had seen only my worst parts—the broken, paranoid man who couldn’t keep his life together.
Somehow, in the years that followed, I found the courage to reach out again and fight for that relationship and prove to my daughter I am more than my past. It wasn’t easy. I had to rebuild myself before I could build a bridge. For the first time in a long time I felt like there might be a chance on the outside that I could make things right.
Drugs, trauma, and isolation had cost so much of my time, love, and dignity. The slow, painful process of healing and working on myself in the IMHU gave me a glimmer of hope. I found solace in drawing, writing, and made consistent progress on myself in small increments. I started designing the monthly IMHU newsletter which provided an outlet for my creativity and growth. I began to understand that change was possible, even if it came in fragments.
Though the road ahead is still long, I learned something vital: healing isn’t a straight line. It’s messy and painful. It often feels like you’re taking two steps forward and one step back. Everyday I choose to fight. I get up and work through the pain, the voices, the guilt and I feel like I’m finally winning. I’m hoping I can build something beautiful out of the wreckage.
