"Well, it feels like . . . I've stumbled into this amazing opportunity to work on myself. I think I better make sure I focus on that."

"That's good," she said. "I think that's an excellent idea."

Gradually, I fell back into a regular sleeping schedule. Each night, I fell asleep around ten. Then I would rise the next morning at five, take a quick shower, throw on a pair of jeans, and step quietly out the front doors. take a quick shower, throw on a pair of jeans, and step quietly out the front doors.

A seven-mile horse trail led off the property. I wasn't supposed to go on it, because it was off the grounds, but nonetheless, I did each day. The path wound itself through the mountains, and as I followed it, the nature around me filled me with a sense of freedom and wonder. It was just so incredibly quiet out there. There wasn't a single soul around to bother me. Back in L.A., I'd taken early-morning walks on the beach a few times, but there'd always been company: I'd usually see between fifteen and twenty folks, running over the same stretch of ground as I was. Here? My only company were deer and javelinas and jackrabbits. Just me and cold desert morning air.

And yet it was still surprisingly tough, some days. One morning in group therapy, I had been telling the other residents a little about my teenaged years, when it seemed like all I'd done was steal cars and get into fights-and, as usual, my att.i.tude was one of mild pride, at what a bada.s.s I'd been.

"I was probably a little out of control." I laughed. "I remember this one time, my buddy, he stole a vintage Schwinn from outside of my house. I caught up to him the next night at a party and confronted him, like, 'Hey, man, give my bike back!' but he wouldn't do it, so I called him out into the street."

The other residents smiled, and prepared for one of those "my life was so crazy way back when" stories that all AA meetings specialize in.

I was just about to indulge them, just about to conclude my story with and then I jumped on his back like a f.u.c.king monkey, and rode him into the ground. and then I jumped on his back like a f.u.c.king monkey, and rode him into the ground. BAM, BAM, just beat the living s.h.i.t out of him, there was blood flying everywhere . . . just beat the living s.h.i.t out of him, there was blood flying everywhere . . .

But instead, I just burst into tears.

I sobbed, right there in front of everyone, for a long minute.

"Whoa," I said finally, taking a huge, crazy breath. I was trembling. "Man. I'm sorry. Where the f.u.c.k did that come from?"

"It's okay, Jesse. Take a second to tune into what's going on inside you."

I took in another big inhalation. I was actually really spooked; I'd never just started crying for no reason before.

"I'm . . . I was just thinking about how many times I've used my fists to settle things in my life," I said. "I guess the truth is, I feel kind of b.u.mmed about it."

"Why do you think you were in so many fights?"

"Why do you think think?" I snapped. "I was a messed-up kid! That's the only thing I knew."

"All right, Jesse," said Ben, our lead therapist. "Take note of what you're feeling now. This is important."

"I'm f.u.c.king angry," I said. "All right? That's how I feel."

I stared at the faces around me in the circle. Quietly, they gazed back at me.

"You all want me to break down or something," I complained. "Well, I'm not doing it."

"No one wants you to do anything," Ben a.s.sured me. "We're here to listen. The important part is for you to . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember, concoct my own narrative, or whatever. Well, I got news for you. My narrative f.u.c.king sucks. sucks."

"Listen," he said. "We do a role-playing exercise here, where we have members of our group act out a pivotal scene from one person's life. I'm wondering if that might be helpful to you today, Jesse."

I stared at him balefully. That was about the last thing I wanted to do at this moment. All I wanted to do was run, get off the grounds, do anything but be here.

But you said you'd work as hard here as you did everywhere, a little voice inside my head reminded me. a little voice inside my head reminded me.

"Aw, f.u.c.k, I guess so," I grumbled.

"Great," Ben said. "So first of all, you have to pick out a memory. Something that stirs up emotions in you, makes you feel sad, or outraged, when you recall it . . ."

"No problem," I said flatly. "Got mine."

"Okay," Ben said. "Now, how many characters are there going to be?"

"Just me and my dad," I said.

"How old are you?"

"I'm seven. My dad is, I don't know, in his thirties."

"Who wants to play seven-year-old Jesse?" asked Ben. A balding guy named Phil raised his hand. "Great. And can I have a volunteer to play his father?"

Tim raised his hand.

"Okay, great. So set the scene for us, Jesse. What are we looking at?"

I grimaced. "You really want to do this?" I breathed in deep, then began to tell my story. "Fine. Me and my dad are tossing around the football. It's late at night, and we're in the yard behind my house."

Phil and Tim pantomimed pa.s.sing around a football.

"We throw it around for a while, then he tosses the ball over my head. It goes into this open field right next to our house. And I'm scared of the dark, so I don't want to go in there."

No way, Dad. I'm not going over there.

"And my dad, he says to me, you better get your a.s.s out there and get it. His face clenches up real bad. I can see the cords in his neck, and I get real scared. Then he starts to chase after me . . ."

The memory was coming back to me, even more vividly than when I had told Sandy. My voice had started to shake, but I continued.

"So I take off running into the darkness, my heart racing, scared out of my mind of the dark, afraid that my dad's going to beat the s.h.i.t out of me . . . I run, but there's a low fence, and I trip and land on my arm."

Tim and Phil enacted the scenario, and I watched them, remembering.

"My arm's broken for sure, but I still limp over and go find the football. I throw it back to my dad with the arm I didn't land on," I said. "Then I come back to the house, and I'm crying bad. But my dad just stands over me and laughs at me." football. I throw it back to my dad with the arm I didn't land on," I said. "Then I come back to the house, and I'm crying bad. But my dad just stands over me and laughs at me."

You dummy.

"How are you doing, Jesse?" Ben asked. "Is it okay to continue?"

I didn't say anything. I was lost in remembering.

I remember, it was a greenstick fracture, the kind that happens to kids' bones. I was so young they gave me only a local anesthetic . . . so they strapped me down to the table and gave me a racquetball to bite down on . . . they bent my hand all the way back, until it touched flesh. Then bam, bam, they set it . . . the pain was so intense, it squeezed tears out of my eyes. But I didn't cry. they set it . . . the pain was so intense, it squeezed tears out of my eyes. But I didn't cry.

"Jesse? Everything okay?"

I looked up at the group. "Yeah," I said. My eyes were wet. "Thanks. That was pretty intense. Man, to watch it . . ."

"Is there anything else you want to share?"

I thought for a second. "I was always scared of hospitals after that. I told everyone I hated them. But the truth is, I was totally frightened of being in them. They always reminded me of that night."

I laughed softly, relieved to speak the truth to a group of people. So many emotions were running over me, from grief to giddiness to this strange sense of solace. They merged and mixed, and somehow, they all felt like something I wanted to let in.

As the days wore on, things got better-a little easier. I kept going to my therapy sessions, and even tried some new ones just for the h.e.l.l of it. EMDR spooked me, but I did it. Equine therapy was a blast-those horses are wise, there's no way to hide from them. h.e.l.l, I even went to AA meetings, even though I had never been into them before. At the end of the day, I felt exhausted and wrung out. But my insides were becoming more s.p.a.cious. Instead of a bunch of rage and pushed-down feelings, it was like there was suddenly more room for things to circulate. rage and pushed-down feelings, it was like there was suddenly more room for things to circulate.

One day Fay, the older woman who'd greeted me on my first morning at Sierra Tucson, motioned for me to come over to her.

"Jesse," she whispered. "Let me talk to you for a second."

"What's up, Fay?" I asked, smiling. I liked nearly everybody at Sierra Tucson, but she was definitely one of my favorites, partly because I'd met her first, and partly because, looking at her, you could tell that she'd been a real crazy chick when she was younger. She kind of had that strut to her.

"Every morning I listen to Howard Stern on the way to work," she said softly, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening in on us. "They're talking about you, every single day!"

I grinned. "Hey, it's news, I guess. What all does Howard have to say?"

"Oh, they just say that you're in rehab, I guess for s.e.x addiction."

"Sounds like Howard," I said, laughing. For some reason, being safe inside these walls, the idea of my name being batted around on a national scale didn't bother me at all. It had a tinge of unreality to it even. "We'll set 'em straight when I get out, I guess."

"I'll keep you informed on all breaking news," Fay said, winking at me. "Hang in there, Jesse, I can tell you're doing real good."

Fay wasn't my only cheerleader. I guess the word had gotten out where I was: maybe those cops really had had sold their story, the f.u.c.kers. As a result, I started to get mail on an almost daily basis. Receiving letters from friends who pledged their support meant a lot to me, but it was the letters from the random chicks in jail that made me laugh the most. sold their story, the f.u.c.kers. As a result, I started to get mail on an almost daily basis. Receiving letters from friends who pledged their support meant a lot to me, but it was the letters from the random chicks in jail that made me laugh the most.

Hey there, soldier, what's good with you?

I know you don't know me but my name is Callie and as you can see I am in penitentiary right now . . . I am 31 years old and I have black hair, brown eyes, I am covered in tattoos. I have big t.i.tties. I am obsessed with choppers, especially yours. I have your name tattooed on my lips, and when I stroke it I am always stroking "Jesse James." As you can see, I got mad love and respect for you. Please respond. in tattoos. I have big t.i.tties. I am obsessed with choppers, especially yours. I have your name tattooed on my lips, and when I stroke it I am always stroking "Jesse James." As you can see, I got mad love and respect for you. Please respond.

I heard from Sandy, too. But it wasn't good news. She would be divorcing me. I was devastated, of course, especially since I felt that I was making so much progress. But in spite of it hurting, I stayed focused on getting better. I had to persevere and fix what was broken.

Somewhere around the midpoint of my time at Sierra Tucson, I a.s.sumed a kind of informal leadership role. It wasn't anything that I'd planned on doing, but as I grew more comfortable, I just naturally started to step up. Our general lodge meetings after dinner were often pretty chaotic and disorganized, so I decided to take control of them, reading the minutes, organizing the agenda, telling funny stories to get the ball rolling.

"Okay, you guys, I don't have the crazy drug stories that most of you do, but d.a.m.n, I want to tell you about something even worse: it's called working for Donald Trump . . ."

My whole life, I'd been a leader, from captaining football teams to running a business with more than a hundred employees. I just couldn't not not step up and take charge. step up and take charge.

It was great, too. People really appreciated my go-to att.i.tude, and the more I saw I could help people out a little bit by cheering them up, the more I wanted wanted to do that. There were people there who were so wadded up, it looked like they hadn't smiled in about five years. My heart went out to them. I considered it a personal challenge and responsibility to get them out of their sh.e.l.l a little bit. to do that. There were people there who were so wadded up, it looked like they hadn't smiled in about five years. My heart went out to them. I considered it a personal challenge and responsibility to get them out of their sh.e.l.l a little bit.

"Hey, how's it going?" That was all it took, sometimes. "Hey, can I give you a hug?" There was one woman there who'd seen all her kids die in a car accident. She'd done every kind of self-medicating known to man, and she just looked crushed, wrinkled. The day I got her to grin, to finally engage in a real conversation with me, that felt as good to me as winning a race. Better. The day I got her to grin, to finally engage in a real conversation with me, that felt as good to me as winning a race. Better.

I was figuring out that I had the power to help help people. Not just to hire them, or sell bikes to them, but to really be part of their healing. And on the other side of that coin, I was seeing that I needed people, too. It might sound kind of contrived or whatever, but for the first time in my life, I was beginning to see that, sometimes, I needed to people. Not just to hire them, or sell bikes to them, but to really be part of their healing. And on the other side of that coin, I was seeing that I needed people, too. It might sound kind of contrived or whatever, but for the first time in my life, I was beginning to see that, sometimes, I needed to ask ask for what I wanted. for what I wanted.

"With Sandy, or Janine, or Karla," I told Dr. Thomas, "I'd want to be touched, or taken care of sometimes, but I'd never say it out loud."

"And? What would happen?"

"I'd get all p.i.s.sed," I said. "I'd resent them for not being able to read my mind, and that'd lead me to go off and do whatever."

Finally, I was starting to get it: f.u.c.k, if you want affection, you gotta tell tell her. I vowed that the next time I had a relationship, I'd do better at asking for what I needed. her. I vowed that the next time I had a relationship, I'd do better at asking for what I needed.

I didn't feel fixed. I don't think letting go of your past can really happen in a month. I'd gained valuable insight, that was for sure. But none of it was going to alter the fact that I had run my life like an abused kid for so long. My entire adult life, my att.i.tude had been, hey, if you've wronged me, then I'm gonna break your jaw. You can sue me, but you're going to do it with a broken jaw . . .

Everything was going to have to change when I got out. I knew that. And the fact was, I was going to have to deal with the paparazzi circus all over again. On my morning walks, I gradually began to see more and more cars parked on the road outside the gates. They had found me, and they would be waiting for me when I got out.

And as my release date loomed closer and closer, I started to get a little frightened of the future.

"I feel safe safe here," I said. "I like everyone. They like me. I feel valued." here," I said. "I like everyone. They like me. I feel valued."

"Well, your real challenge, Jesse," Dr. Thomas said, "is to take that feeling out into the world. You're going to have to keep in mind just why the people here seem to like you so much."

"I'm . . . scared to do that," I admitted. "I've always kind of pushed everyone away from me. Letting them in seems like the hardest thing in the world."

She smiled at me. "You've done so well. I have faith in you."

Right toward the end of the month, I had a dual celebration: my forty-first birthday and my ten years of sobriety. The residents got together and threw a big party for me, with cake and coffee and everything.

"We're going to miss you, Jesse!"

"Don't go!" Phil laughed. "Stay here, man!"

"I would, if I could," I said, grinning. "This place is the most fun I've had since juvie. But I gotta see my kids, man. I'm starting to miss them pretty bad."

It was true. Celebrating my birthday without my family around me felt lonely. I wanted to be with Chandler and Jesse and Sunny again. They gave my life purpose and joy. They made it make sense.

The following morning, I rose early to take my last walk on the horse trail. As I strode along through the cold desert morning, I scrolled through all the emotions that had been heaping down on me ever since I'd come here: guilt and shame for ending my marriage. Anger and sadness, courtesy of my rough childhood. Guarded optimism, for the hope of a new beginning.

I was scared to leave, for sure. But I'd gained so much understanding here. I felt like I had the tools I needed to get through the rest of my life-or at the very least, the next couple of months, which were gonna be trying.

I hadn't always been the best guy, or the best husband. That much was obvious. But now that I knew more about what made me happy, that meant I knew more about how to make others happy, too.

I walked faster, my feet pounding the hardpack, my hands stuffed into the pockets of my jeans.

When I make a gas tank out of aluminum, when I weld, I thought, I thought, I make sure my hands are spotless. I make sure the table's clean. I scrub all my tools, make sure the metal is immaculate, so no grease or moisture sucks into my weld and leaves a blemish. It takes a lot of work, a half day's worth of work, just to prepare. I make sure my hands are spotless. I make sure the table's clean. I scrub all my tools, make sure the metal is immaculate, so no grease or moisture sucks into my weld and leaves a blemish. It takes a lot of work, a half day's worth of work, just to prepare.

In the end, my goal is to make a tank that doesn't leak. I've gotten really good at it over the years. I've had bikes that have rolled end over end, smashed the tank up like a wad of foil. Not a drop leaks.

I gazed up at the mountains above me. A red sun was starting to rise on the far horizon. Day was coming in.

I'm going to figure out a way, I thought, I thought, to put that kind of dedication and detail into building a life. to put that kind of dedication and detail into building a life.

If I do that, I don't think it'll ever leak.