This month I didn’t plan to write about prison.
I sat down at the laptop with the intention of writing something hopeful. Something tidy. Something like “look how far I’ve come.”

But life didn’t ask me.
Last night it chose for me.

The television was on. Just background noise while me and my wife sat on the sofa after dinner. Nothing important. Some drama I wasn’t even watching.

And then a sound.

A colour.
A single word from an actor.

And suddenly I wasn’t at home anymore.
I was back.

Brick. Bolt.
6pm light dying behind frosted glass.
The smell of bleach and old time sitting in the back of my throat.
The sound of a door that takes the day with it when it slams.

I wasn’t dreaming. I was wide awake.
But my body didn’t get the memo.
My hands remembered the pacing before my brain did.
My chest remembered the counting. One, two, three, four.
The way you measure time when time stops meaning anything.

2 and a half years out.
2 and a half years of jobs and bills and normal days and laughing at stupid things on TV.
And in one second it felt like yesterday.

I looked over at my wife and I could see it on my face. She sees me. Really sees me.
The panic I didn’t invite.
The man she loves disappearing behind my eyes while still sitting right next to her.

She reached for me.
And I couldn’t reach back.
Because a part of me was still inside.
Sitting on a bunk.
Trying to breathe through walls that don’t exist anymore.
Trying to convince my nervous system that the door wasn’t about to close.

And I hated it.
I hated that time doesn’t heal clean.
I hated that you can do all the work, all the talking, all the rebuilding,
and still get ambushed on an ordinary Tuesday night by a throwaway line on the telly.
I hated that freedom can still feel like a cell when your mind decides to lock the door from the inside.

For about ten minutes I was gone. Not physically. But gone.
And the worst part was watching her watch me go.
Because this isn’t just my story. It’s ours.
She lived the aftermath with me. The sleepless nights. The flat days. The learning how to be a person again.

But she didn’t let go.
She didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t ask a hundred questions.
She just sat with me in the dark.
Her hand in mine. Solid. Real. Here.
Until the room came back.
Until brick turned back to plaster.
Until 6pm turned back to evening.
Until my breathing remembered it belonged to me.

And I remembered too.
I’m not there anymore.
I’m here.
In our home.
2 and a half years out.
And still learning how to stay.

What I’ve learned this month

I used to think “recovery” meant the flashbacks would stop. That one day I’d wake up and the past would be filed away neatly, never to bother me again.

It doesn’t work like that.
Recovery, for me, has turned out to mean something different.
It means the flashbacks might still come. But I don’t stay there as long.
It means I have people who know how to sit with me until I come back.
It means I can name it now instead of pretending it didn’t happen.

If you’ve had a month like this — where the past ambushes you in the supermarket, or in the car, or on the sofa you’re not broken.
You’re not back at square one.
You’re not failing at “being better now.”

You’re just human. Carrying things that don’t disappear on a timeline.
Carrying a body that remembers what your head tried to forget.
3 things that helped me come back to the room
I’m not a therapist. I’m just a bloke who’s trying.
But these three things pulled me back last night, and they’ve helped before:

1. Name the year out loud.
“2 and a half years out.” Saying it grounds me. It’s a fact my brain can’t argue with. I am not there. The calendar proves it.

2. Touch something real.
My wife’s hand. The fabric of the sofa. A cold glass of water.
When your mind is back there, your body needs proof you’re here.

3. Let someone sit with you.
You don’t have to explain it in the moment. You don’t have to be eloquent.
Sometimes healing is just not being alone with it.

Closing

I wanted this month’s blog to be upbeat. I wanted to tell you about wins and progress and how good it feels to be free. And those things are true too. Most days are good days now. Most nights I sleep. Most mornings I wake up grateful.

But honesty matters more than branding.
And the truth is: freedom is not the absence of prison.
Freedom is learning how to live even when prison tries to visit you.

2 and a half years out.
Still learning.
Still here.
Still choosing to stay.

If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
Drop a comment. Tell me what helps you come back to the room.

We’re in this together.

Written by Darren Parker

Blogger @PoemStellium