When a drug counselor told Joe Lowry, an ex-felon released on parole, that she didn't believe he'd gotten much from his first 12 sessions of drug counseling, he agreed.

That's because he'd been a drug dealer, not a drug addict, says Lowery, an Over-the-Rhine resident whose struggle to remain clean on parole was chronicled in the Enquirer this week.

The lure of dealing drugs was the real addiction for Lowry and for many like him who are released from prison each year. Dealing drugs brings in relatively easy money, fast - a contrast to the lack of decent-paying, legitimate jobs for ex-cons.

But Lowry is reforming. He finished parole after a year and says he won't return to crime.

Still, the addiction goes on for many ex-inmates.

Unhappy returns

According to Ohio corrections statistics, 37 percent of ex-inmates return to state facilities within three years - either for violating parole or for committing new crimes.

If that holds true for the 25,842 people Ohio paroled last year, then taxpayers can expect to spend $577,544 per day just to house returned prisoners.It's cheaper to keep them out of prison. But resources devoted to doing that are shrinking.

Ohio's budget crisis has reduced the number of parole officers, making caseloads jump from 60 to 85 people per officer.

Parole officers "supervise" ex-inmates an average of 18 months. For some prisoners there also are halfway houses, substance abuse counseling and job and counseling referrals.

But many leave prison with only a few bucks and a ride to their old neighborhoods.

"Then they become our neighbors," says Andrea Dean, a spokeswoman for the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation and Correction.

Corrections officials testified during budget hearings Tuesday that the state is slashing what it gives counties to fund community efforts that help ex-inmates.

And community groups not supported by the state are struggling under the load.

Groups need support

One Cincinnati group, Society for the Advancement of Reforming Felons, is a shadow of itself.

The group, founded five years ago, has provided counseling, housing or job referrals to about 400 ex-inmates, founder Candace Tubbssays.

Yet the nonprofit recently lost most of the living spaces it had used to temporarily house ex-inmates because the group couldn't afford increased rents.

Also, the group's counseling sessions - which had swelled to 60 men just three weeks ago - have been temporarily displaced.

Tubbs is referring her clients to the old standbys - food banks and homeless shelters. But she wonders how long they'll last.

Where will they get the emotional and spiritual support they need to change their hearts?

Lowry is lucky; his longtime girlfriend stands by him. Most ex-cons have used up their family's and friend's trust.

"I tell them that you have to deal with the fact that your past is catching up with you," Tubbs says.

"Trust was given to you, and you abused it. You have this coming, but you don't have to take it all your life."

Many offenders think they've paid their debt to society. They can't understand why so few support their efforts to turn around.

They won't really turn around, Tubbs says, until they realize how their crimes hurt others.

"You know they've got it when they wake you up in the middle of the night, knocking on your door saying ... `I feel different. I don't want to do this no more. I'm tired.' And the tears flow."

E-mail damos@enquirer.com or phone 768-8395