A jail cell in 1987, out of ideas and facing a parole violation with two more felonies on the horizon. Harold L. didn't arrive at the rooms seeking a spiritual life; he arrived because he had burned his world to the ground.
He describes a childhood of "hand-me-down everything"—from clothes to a drum set with a trash can for a cymbal—and a soul that felt like a wild horse, afraid and reacting to every saddle. For Harold, the "magic juice" was a way to numb a life of abuse and the grit of the streets. He speaks of a "soul sickness" of the mind, will, and emotions, admitting he didn't want a Higher Power to correct his plans, only to co-sign them.
He views his recovery not as a theological debate, but as a practice of humility. He warns that while some are born 50 yards ahead in the race, he started with a backpack of bricks, eventually learning to borrow faith from the room until he found his own.
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