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Chained. That's how he feels. Chained in so many ways. There are places he wants to go, people he wants to meet, things he wants to experience in life..... the want is deep. Literally burning him inside. He wants so badly to explore..... but he can't. He's chained. Chained by restrictions which he had put upon himself. 
A prisoner, that's what he is, even though he is no longer contained behind high chain linked fences, sharp barbed wires and tall iron gates. Imprisoned by fear; living in anxiety of the unknown. 
Paranoia becomes his shadow. He is convinced that people out here are waiting to devour him, the same as they had in prison. Convinced that they see him as a piece of meat to feast on. Paranoia prevents him from exploring outside of his safely arranged routine and comfort zone. He is trapped. Trapped in a web of illusion where internal death is inevitable. 
Culture shock. The best description he felt facing life in prison. He was caught off guard, unprepared and lost. A small eighteen year old kid, thrown in a jungle of beasts. He was petrified. Predator and prey, aggressor or victim. That was the game they played. 
Violence loomed in every corner. Unimaginable violence that was beyond his expectation. He ran. He ran as fast and as far as he could.... but in that jungle, far is not far enough.
He did not feel safe. He feared for his life. He needed to find an escape and he needed to find it fast. 
He sought help at Protective Management; a place where those who failed to adjust to life in that jungle or those like him who had befriended paranoia were housed and protected. They took pity on him and took him in. 
That was his first taste of living in a box. 8 feet wide by 10 feet long. It wasn't much but at least he could breathe again. And in that box, he found a new best friend; solitude. 
Days and weeks flew by like fleeting clouds. Next to solitude, time became his close friend. Time would sit loyally beside him, keeping him company as they watched moments slowly passing by. He endured a type of isolation that never left him, even now, well past the thirty two years of his incarceration. 
He could have gone back into the jungle whenever he wanted. But he chose to stay in his box with his loyal friend, solitude. He was reluctant to face his fears. But for how long? How long can he hide away? He knew he would have to man up eventually. He knew he would have to face himself and his harsh reality. 
Duty. That's what it boiled down to. A sense of duty to claim his life back. He owed that much to himself. That duty became more important than the fear he was living in. 
Purpose. He had to find a purpose in life. He had to break the monotony. Spending 24 hours in the box daily was stagnating his spirit. The mirror lost all meaning to him. His bed became his coffin. Death was calling him by name. 
Even his own breath taunted him in his loneliness. He was hungry. Hungry for love, for friends and family. Most of all, he was hungry for identity. Hungry with a passion that consumed the minutes and days, months and years. He was desperate. 
Then out of the blue, someone very dear to him entered his cell, by way of a letter. In a gentle and loving move, she placed her finger beneath his chin and he lifted his eyes to meet hers. 
“Time to move on”, she said. "Time to live again."
He looked around his cell, his cocoon. Nothing was out of place. He shivered. Is it possible? Can he move on? Live again? He wasn't sure. He was afraid. His fear was like an overprotective mother restraining him from reaching out towards his potential.
The letter, it compelled him in ways that he never thought possible. It was healing and transforming. He couldn't believe that someone would reach down into his darkness and try to make an effort to liberate him. What was even more compelling was the fact that she seemed to understand his suffering. To this day he has no idea what drove her to reach out to him the way she did. But he truly thank God that she did. 
The day came where he was ready to man up and face his reality. He was scared. He was still suffering from anxiety. But he had found a purpose to live. He refuse to continue living in the box, even figuratively in his heart, mind or spirit. He was done with it. 
An eighteen year old kid went to prison and a fifty year old man walked out of there. He is still chained in so many ways. But he is slowly learning to break free from the shackles. It's a slow process that sometimes frustrates him to no end. As long as he keeps putting one foot in front of the other, as long as he continues to man up, he is confident he will be fine.