Great Profiles

A dull, dark green tattoo etched between the knuckles of Jonathan Saltz’s thumb reads H.C.F. 4. It stands for hope, courage, faith. The number 4 is his lucky number. The self-inflicted permanent mark is a constant reminder of just how far he has come and how far he will go.

A rugged pink scar cuts up from the corner of his mouth to the middle of his right cheek; a mass of thick brown hair tossed in a chaotic fashion shows the untamed spirit of a young man. School is the only real thing that keeps him focused. Being a good student. It is the constant urge to succeed that drives him. He is unwilling to fail, reluctant to hit rock bottom again.

On a gray and gloomy winter afternoon, Jonathan mutters to himself as he works on a physics problem. It is a problem that he had gotten wrong, but diligent as ever, he strives hard to rethink the equations. His brown eyes switch back and forth from his notes, to old tests, to the blank piece of paper. He then stops. He sits back into his chair, “I wonder if it is right though,” he asks himself aloud. Finger to his lips as his chin rests in his palm, “it looks right,” he says and flips the page.

His adolescence was a blur of defiant impulses and raging rebellion.

His destructive pattern dipped into drugs, drinking and stealing. The act now, think later whims were leading him down a disastrous path.

Jonathan remembers when his parents woke him up in the middle of the night. They told him he was being sent somewhere to get help in Utah. Thinking it was a dream, he shut his eyes and tried going back to sleep.

Holding on to his belt loops, two strange men led him out the front door. His parents stood in the doorway and held each other as the car drove away.

At Island Recreational Treatment Center, he remembers getting strip-searched and thrown in a shower. Soon after, Jonathan met his therapist, Chuck Bruter. The 6-foot-5, 325-pound man who smoked Marlboro Reds would be his confidant for the next 27 months of his life.

“ I wouldn’t have become who I am today if it weren’t for him. He helped me with my social skills and wouldn’t take any of my bullshit. He was able to see into me. He knew I was a good kid and wanted to get that out of me.”

At first, his emotions ran wild. Anger raged through him. Hatred from his parents for sending him away to a place that he “ didn’t feel like I belonged to” coursed through his mind. He felt scared, confused and alone. The life that he had always known was stripped from him two weeks before his 16th birthday.

Each day in treatment there was always a massive amount of therapy. A constant reflection time, to figure out what his problems were.

“Drugs, suicide, abandonment- everyone had their issues to deal with. You had to work on your own issues. No one wants to deal with that stuff.”

After nearly eight months and close to completion of the program, Jonathan messed up. He argued and yelled at his parents during one of their visits. Counselors at the treatment center knew he was not ready to be released into the real world. He was stripped of all his privileges and knocked back to the beginning level, “ months of therapy wasted.” In addition, he was “sentenced” to 37 days of solitary confinement, at a desk with nothing but his thoughts.

“It was always one step forward, three steps back.”

Jonathan remembers sitting at the desk, not being allowed to talk from 6:30 a.m. to 9 p.m. every day. He was only given a small piece of paper and a pen to write down bathroom request. He was supposed to just sit there and reflect on what he had done, all the mistakes he had made in the past. After sitting at the desk for nearly two weeks he remembers thinking, “I am never going to get off this chair.” He had lost hope and faith in everything and just wanted to give up. He had hit rock bottom.

“You don’t know how bad it really gets until you hit rock bottom,” he says. “Because you get the feeling that you know you can’t get any lower. You know it’s your lowest point in life. You can only go up from there right?”

In his Narcotics Anonymous meetings, the saying was always “hope, courage and faith to get sober.” He thought, “Where can I put this reminder to say one day I will get through this? One day I will be out of this treatment center.” He decided that he would tattoo the saying on his thumb.

He found a small staple lying on the floor next to his desk and took some of the ink out of his pen. He poked his skin hard until he felt the metal pierce his flesh. Then with the black ink he smothered the pricked holes and let his skin soak up the ink.

The best day of his life came when his name was called. His proudest moment was when he walked across stage, his diploma held tightly in his hand. He was now a free kid.
“I felt like I was back in society. I couldn’t wait. I felt that I had missed out on so much and I was ready to take on the world.”

On a Saturday afternoon, while most of the UM student population is still probably under the covers, Jonathan is at the library. He is studying vigorously for his net test scouring over his notes and taking practice quizzes.

After sitting there for hours, he pushes himself away from the papers that are scattered across the desk and breathes in a big sigh. His mind feels exhausted and needs to take a break. To calm his nerves, he reaches in his backpack and pulls out a Rubik’s cube. His tongue flicks side to side against his lips as he twists and turns the puzzle. It only takes a couple of minutes for him to solve it. When he is finished, he throws it down on the table with a dignified smile and a nod of satisfaction.

Working hard and staying focused are a constant battle for Jonathan. He has come along way since treatment. He is close to finishing up at the University of Montana. Soon he will get his bachelor’s degree in geology, his calling.

He has a passion for the study of rocks, how the earth is formed and how it is constantly changing. One day he wants to travel the world. He says, “the best geologists are the ones that see the most rocks.”

A few days before the snow had fallen against the ground, Jonathan hiked up to the cliffs on the M hill in Missoula. As he stood on top of the cliffs, he looked down towards the swift current of the Clark Fork River that lay below him. On the surface of the stone he noticed petrified ripple marks.

“You see here,” as he pointed a finger at the rock, “this rock used to lie at the bed of the Clark Fork River. Through time it uplifted and shifted the mass to become the cliffs on the side of the mountain.” Only a person who loves rocks would observe them in such a way to tell a story of how they were formed.

His goals and aspirations are simple. To keep having HFC- hope, faith and courage- in his daily life. It was those words that gave him a purpose. They are symbols of how hard he was worked to be as successful as he is today.

“I always wanted to be something. I didn’t want to throw away my dream of being something to be proud of,” he says. “I now have a better understanding of how people work, because I was forced to sit down and break it all apart. I have goals now. Goals in which I will conqueror and succeed.”

His soft brown eyes reflect wisdom beyond his years. The scar on his face, faded underneath the scruff is a remembrance of a past life. A life that was full of chaos and rebellion.

He is different now, gentle and kind, a young man of maturity. He has come a long way since the days of treatment, as he reflects back to the hard times. He smiles to himself as he closes his textbooks, knowing all too well just how much further he will go.