The obsession isn't as strong, there was a time I thought it would never go away. That it would always be there, holding on to me tight, never letting go, grabbing me at every turn, haunting my every dream. But the harder I work the less of a hold it has over me. They say it works if you work it, so I'm gonna work it cause so far it seems to be working and I am more than worth it!
I’ve Been Meaning to Tell You…
I’ve been meaning to say that I see you.
And I’ve been meaning to tell you that there is so much in my eyes when I see you.
I see struggle.
I see pain.
I see grief.
I see desperation.
And I also see Fire. Fight.
Imagination that never gives up.
I feel the energy of the fight you keep fighting, that I can’t fight for you.
But I can tell you that I see you doing it.
You're upright. Moving forward, even if it’s forward after many steps back.
You keep going, you keep stepping, and I wonder what you’re moving toward.
I wonder, because I know it’s something.
It’s important.
It’s meaningful and it’s life and it’s your life and
I’ve been meaning to tell you that you’re brave, and
Magically you, like no one else is-
Whether painting a mural to honor your dead friend who is invisible to everyone else, but now
never invisible again…
Or writing song lyrics that move me to shivering chills.
Or telling me a story in the way you do that makes me laugh and cry at exactly the same time,
all at once, like no one else can.
I’ve been meaning to remind you that your place in this world is like the top of the mountains
that you love so much, stretching toward the clouds.
Mysterious. Beautiful. Full of magic.
I wonder what’s up there?
I may never know, but I know it’s something and that’s all I need to know.
How It Shaped Me….
I don’t understand so many things…
Like how I used to love most all of every day
and how I thought the world was safe and kind
and how I believed in good things- like friends and magic and dreams and adventures.
And doing the right thing just because it’s the right thing,
And believing that that alone would make things okay.
And then addiction happened. Chaos. Destruction. Lies. Pain, and nothing that makes sense.
And then I got squeezed into a different shape and instead of feeling like a cloud spreading out
in the sky and softly filling up the day with the shapes of hope and life,
I shrunk.
I became hard and tight. Scar tissue.
I think in trying to protect myself, I clenched down inside myself and decreased my surface area
to allow as little exposure as possible.
I could not tolerate the touch of addiction, and its pain and hurt and fear.
But I don’t breathe well in that shape.
I want to expand back out into the softness of the clouds I see on many days up in the sky,
looking so peaceful and dreamlike.
I want to feel more like slow wind- coolish or just a little warm but always soft and gentle,
like the comfort I used to feel when my grandmother filled up the cookie jar and told me another
irreverent story and we could just laugh.
I still have that acorn cookie jar, and I can still smell the brown sugar smell now, 50 years later.
I want to return to the shape of easy laughter and deep breaths that contain the smell of love.
I Want To Forget It….
My brain. It won’t stop. It’s like tennis gone wrong and the balls are bouncing off walls that aren’t
even there. Thoughts, memories, shame- everything that’s gone wrong and it’s all my fault,
probably, and nothing good because you can’t remember the good when your amygdala is so
full of everything you want to forget. There is no room for the good when my brain is torturing
itself by assigning monumental importance to “the thing” I’ve done that I can’t even identify. It’s
almost arrogant, as if anything I’ve done should even have that much salience or take up that
much room in the universe.
And now it’s happening again- I can’t forget how selfish I am to want to forget…how dare I think
about letting go of the filler that would allow room for some peace if it were forgotten. Because
then I wouldn’t be doing penance any longer, and I can’t let that happen, I don’t deserve for that
to happen. So I’ll never let you forget.
But how about this…I’ll build a new room, make a new space to plant something different and
fresh- nothing fancy- even an old wicker basket on the back of a broken down bicycle will do- I’ll
just fill the basket with cool loamy soil and plant it full of wildflowers. Lean it against the shed out
in the garden. See what grows. Paint it turquoise blue, maybe. Look how beautiful that piece of
junk is now…and for a moment I forgot what was wrong not so long ago.
Magic comes from finding myself clean again a long time. After all my psycho-therapy, and cleaning out of my psycho-attic; after all that time and psycho deductibles, and sneezing in the afternoon psycho dust, and when it all clears and my relationship is still failing, I run into my Uncle Rick at the Price Chopper when he is buying kitty litter, and he tells me that he found the coolest place to work on himself and his Recovery.
“You still not drinking, hunh?”
“Yeah, Gregory. But even more exciting is the Recovery Center. There’s a bunch of meetings, and great people there, and it feels like they need some more energy. I heard one lady in the front room say the computers are down again. Well, I know computers. So I worked one afternoon on the two old desktops, and they were so thankful. The lady said ‘You worked magic. Thank you.’ But it wasn’t magic at all, Gregory. It was just me looking on a good place to work on being sober and then I gave what I could.”
“Sounds like Magic to me, man.”
My uncle smiles and nods.
At the Granite-Cutter’s Union Hall In Barre, on a summer’s evening we gathered for an end of the year celebration of Writer’s For Recovery program. For a year folks in recovery from Alcohol and Drug Addiction gather weekly with a facilitator to write creatively and support each other’s writing. The Writers for Recovery program is cleansing and healing, simple and profoundly liberating; a brilliant creation of Northeast Kingdom artists Gary and Bess.
I found, more invented a parking space beside a row of small SUV’s, compact cars, a saggy truck with a black bag of fragrant garbage and a gray Volvo station wagon. Leaving my windows open to vent my own blossoming ambiance of apple cores and yesterday’s milk container, I looked at the clock on my flip-phone and shook my head. Late, just like my dad. I had promised myself when I was a kid…Never mind. Go in, Greg.
I was expecting them to be started already, expecting them to be seated in rows with a speaker at the front, expecting them to turn around and look at me, expecting that I would mouth I’m sorry and that the silence would make me feel guilty. Instead the grand hall was flung with odd and regular couples standing, a man in glasses, a table with a sign-in sheet beside stack of books.
I opened a cover and looked down the Table of Contents and found my name, Gregory Wells, page 46. I looked up to see a woman smiling at me, and I know that I found the right place.
“I almost doubled the size of this garden, Anne. Gonna grow a double row for the food shelf! I used to struggle so hard in the spring to turn over the ground with a pitch fork, pull weeds with roots and soil clumps, and then my back was hurt for a day. After, I had to go through with a rake, and only then I would have a garden to plant seeds. Mound up rows for potato chunks, and make the rows fine enough to pant brown seeds, and hope and wait for rain. Then notice a line of tiny green. Look at it now, Annie. Look at how much tilled soil there is! I can grow a row of food for them because Trump is cutting funding.
Later, when we are having tea in the shadow and the bugs are just coming out, Anne says “I was thinking about how you are now two years after your divorce, how your ex-wife never wanted you to have a tractor because, well, for whatever reason. And now look at that, twice the garden for you, and you can grow potatoes for the food shelf. You are doing well, Greg. It is like a fresh start.” She swatted a bug on her neck.
If you don’t believe me, I understand. Sometimes I don’t believe me, and I’m living this life. The sober life.
This week marks two significant milestones. July 16 is six months weed free. July 17 is twenty-four years free from alcohol.
How has my life changed? Significantly.
I’m not suffering from erratic mood swings.
I’m not paranoid.
I don’t stink.
I don’t end up in the back of cop cars.
I don’t fall down drunk.
I don’t spend the night in jail.
I don’t bring strange men home.
I don’t have valuable items go missing from my home.
I don’t black out.
I don’t try to put the pieces of the night together by asking strange questions of the friends I was with who didn’t black out.
I don’t lose random pieces of clothing.
I don’t wake up hungover.
I do remember conversations.
I do respect myself.
I do take care of myself - physically, emotionally and spiritually.
I do read a lot more, and I remember what I read.
I do have a healthy sense of self-esteem.
I do love myself.
I do love you.
I do love my friends and my family.
I still count days. Do you?
This spring, I had the distinct pleasure of leading a five-week Writers for Recovery workshop with men incarcerated at the Northwest Correctional Facility in St. Albans VT. The participants in the group showed up, did the hard work of excavating deep emotions and difficult stories, writing down and sharing them, and supporting each other through the process. I wish we could have filmed and shared the whole workshop, as it would give many people about who is in prison and what they can offer the world. Thanks for reading, and don’t hesitate to share or comment!
Why I’m Not Good Enough
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
Why I’m not good enough
probably why I was given up
so as a boy I look to the sky with wonder
counting rain drop hearing the thunder
got a little bit older and started to dig
a ditch big enough a ditch so big
that when I put down my shovel and realized
a hole so I large I was buried alive
so I studied others and what I wanted
the girls the drugs all these things
then I started to hide behind a mask
my life started passing by so fast
not knowing where I was headed now
though circling and bending down
I got ready for whatever was to come
whether it be death or sale I still had it
better than some
wishes I saw long ago that a family I had
If I had just saw back than I
wouldn’t be looking back
What Really Matters
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
What really matters....? This is a question I believe at some point everyone on this planet will eventually ask themselves. Although, I would imagine the answer isn't on a Q& A platform, rather one of a personal nature.. So I guess the question is; what really matters to me..? Again, although the question truly is relative in nature correct? Although; straight forward the answers are going to change; so if you are asking me now in my current endeavors I would answer or might answer getting out, loving my son, being present in said son’s life. not using or staying sober.. Although if you'd have asked me this question back in October of 2023 my answer might have been finding my fix, arranging how and what I’d do to find my next one or who and when I'd have to see or hurt or with whom I might have to compromise with to get said fix. Again if you'd have asked me in June of 2008 my retort would have been finding my best friend’s body and getting answers about whether or not he’d survived our drowning and how I was about to proceed with the rest of my life; so what really matters? Well it depends on where one’s at in life and whether or not they're living their BEST LIFE....!!
Why I’m Not Giving Up
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
Sad to say there’s no such
thing as luck,
why I’m not giving up.
I’m saved,
set free from sin,
that’s almost enough.
Why I’m not giving up
I have a savior,
His Name Is Jesus
I’m Living in His Love.
Why I’m not giving up
this isn’t my first life
this time I’m doing it right
so I can humbly come out on top.
Why I’m not giving up
I have before,
look where it got me,
A jail sentence,
A kick in the butt.
Why I’m not giving up
my past has strengthened me
I have new opportunities
I have a half full cup.
Why I’m not giving up
I have what’s best
Better than all the rest
My Heavenly Father from above.
Why I’m not giving up
If You Would Only Listen
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
If you would only listen—
you might hear a heartbeat.
Maybe yours, mine, the world’s
isn’t that neat?
I you would only listen-
you could hear their cry
“Who’s” you ask
Not yours at least
but if it was—would that be fine
If you would only listen—
I know you could learn.
Wisdom, understanding,
compassion, empathic concern.
If you would only listen—
You could hear God speak
Know Your Purpose
that you’re not worthless
and that He wants to give you peace.
When I Was a Kid
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
When I was a kid
I was innocent
I didn’t know right from wrong
Like Adam and Eve
Before sin was born
Making people sing sad songs
When I was a kid
I was hurt every way possible
Don’t be sad, It made me strong
To carry a Love to all
Showing them they can grow
that nothing is impossible
If You Would Only Listen
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
If you would only listen you might
hear a voice in the deep
If you would only listen you might hear
me searching for my keep
If you would only listen you might
find me crying alone
If you would only listen you’d fall in
line, one of their drones
If you would only listen you might
understand my heart
If you would only listen you’ll find
the moment at which this did start
If you would only listen you might find
me in my mask
If you would only listen I might stop
looking into the past
If you would only listen you will
understand my quick descent
If you would only listen you might
be able to prevent
If you would only listen I might not
have become myself
If you would only listen you’ll see
me in my hell
When I Get Tired..!
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
When I get tired I wonder will I stop
When I get tired it’s when I pop
When I get tired I make bad choices
When I get tired is when I hear all the voices
When I get tired I might bend a knee
When I get tired I no longer am me
When I get tired I lose all control
When I get tired I think of what’s above and below
When I get tired will I stop and listen
When I get tired is when the snake does his hissing
When I get tired you might not like who you see
When I get tired I don’t even recognize me
When I get tired is when I let the evil flow
When I get tired I lose all control
When I get tired of this life will it end
When I get tired will I put down this pen
When I get tired I’m no longer this innocent child
When I get tired I finally rest after all these miles
When I get tired they will lower me into the icy cold ground
When I get tired I no longer be lost but finally found
When I get tired buried below all the sod
When I get tired I’ll finally be before my God
What Really Matters
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
To come to America and start a new life with a different view and try to rebuilt your future
What really matters is to get married and find out the person was not the one who you are thinking to building a life with!
What really matters is to try to be a better person if the society treats you different and always makes things hard!
What really matter is now I don’t just feel love for people but for myself.
What really matter is if I die and don’t find peace and love inside me.
When I Was a Kid
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
When I was kid always thinking that this
is just something easy when I was kid I
jump to place to place and smile to see what brings so much good to myself and
when I was a kid I never thought that I could grow up and try to be a man and
when I was a kid I smelled flowers in my morning
and brought happiness to other people and
when I was a kid, I never had to change my mind because I was perfect and feeling strong.
When I was a kid judgement was not this
I was always considering only forgiveness, was what I always said
Listen
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
Listen about what I have to say and listen to my voice and if you listen you can feel my pain and if you listen you can see things hurt my future. If you listen you can touch my heart and help me to understand. And if you listen you can know where I am come from. And if you listen you will maybe stop trying to change me and try to move with me and find a way to bring me to the light.
I Am From
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
I am from Brooklyn where you
have to make a name for yourself in order
to be seen.
I am from a small hood made
up from only four blocks.
I am from where they rap about
the shit that really goes on in the streets.
I am from where you gotta make
it happen on your own, to get what
you want. I am from where
people die before they even become
an adult. I am from where the
police are here to fuck with
you rather than protect you.
Poetic Blue
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
Poetic Blue inside her fine lines
Lie the quality of a strong mind
Poetic Blue, Defines a Queen, with goddess-like signs,
An hour glass figure that’s sweeter than a blueberry vine.
Poetic Blue, Within lies a justice, and divine equity.
Built for the future scales.
Poetic Blue. Wisdom becomes hers through
Faith in what she cannot see.
Poetic Blue Justice is Blue and Dripping Hatred So poetically.
Poetic find me sad, fined me happy, find me flowing,
Like a river
Splashing and crushing, twisting and turning toward
The End without Warning
But loved for Creating themes of
Love, Truth, Lips that puff and Hands that Mold. A heart
To a heart, a soul with a Soul.
Poetic old poetic mold. Poetic Wood
Poetic told poetic eyes, Poetic Times
Last Kiss of poetic Words, forever, and
Ever Missed, Poetic Yours
Some Advice From Someone Who Knows
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
You never know how things can get
until you end up somewhere you never
expected to be, but always hoped to
reach, and that’s when you receive some
advice from someone who knows.
Things can get real bad if you
don’t take some advice from someone
who knows.
Yet you never know until you’re the
one that’s giving advice
as the person who knows.
Why I’m Not Giving Up
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
I have lots of people that look up
to me that’s why I’m not giving up
My sibling and my loved
ones would be crushed by the thought
of me giving up.
I won’t give up
because I know what it’s like
when you achieve what you want when
you push through it
I been through so much just to
get here so why would I give
up.
I always been the strongest
that’s why I’m not giving up.
If You Would Only Listen
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
If you would only listen you
would get what I feel inside
If you would only listen you’d
know that you’re the one in which
I confide
If you would only listen you could
tell I truly want you to be mine
If you would only listen without
you I’m running blind
If you would only listen ask me
questions give your opinions just take
the time
If you would only listen the
truth is you’re coming home then
I’d be fine.
When I Was a Kid
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
When I was a kid everything was great, mom always had piles of good yummy food on my plate. Visiting grandparents, playing sports, not a care in the world except to throw a ball with my dad in our yard or learn to wrench on my bike with Dad’s tools and show the other neighborhood kids. I was great at fishing and swimming, traveling was fun. Now I’m old and in trouble not so much fun. I wish I could go back to sleepovers and board games and Christmas with my sister, mom and Dad, sliding in the snow. Where my life will end up no one will know.
Penny candy and spending time with my family.
I Am From
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
I am from Congo Demoncraticque and
I am from two different families who bring
me to this world with no Love and cry fierce
I am from this big place call Kinshasa where
every people have a right to get to live and find a
way to a better life. No matter what is so difficult,
they try every way they can to reach their
dream. But they always have in mind
that one day the future is going to be offered to them.
I am from this beautiful woman who fought
to get her free life. That was difficult
because she had to decide to live for her
kids and go to prepare a life for them.
So I am from strong people and love.
I WASN'T SURE..?
by Anonymous (Northwest Correctional, Swanton, VT)
I wasn't sure how to be a man
I wasn't sure the tracks in the sand
I wasn't sure if you were real
I wasn't sure if you would listen
I wasn’t sure of the reflecting glisten
I wasn't sure if I was up or down
I wasn't sure if I were the king or the clown
I wasn’t sure why inside felt like an endless pit
I wasn't sure if I truly fit
I wasn’t sure in the beginning
I wasn't sure if I had finished sinning
Wasn’t sure if I should fall
I wasn’t sure if anyone heard my call
I wasn’t sure when my feelings shifted like tectonic plates
I wasn’t sure what it meant these metaphorical internal earthquake
I wasn’t sure how to be okay
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to wake each and every day
I wasn’t sure if you were me or I was you
I wasn’t sure if eternity was true
I wasn’t sure how to push reset
I wasn’t sure if we’d even ever met
I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to do this
I wasn’t sure although I really do wish
I wasn’t sure WHY I WAS
I wasn’t sure SO JUST BECAUSE
“Heavy is the Head That Wears the Crown” copyright Sedricka Morris
I'm the one who took a stand & said no!
The one who changed the narrative & let the past go.
Seeing through blurry lies within the veil.
The truth is hard to accept, but the truth I shall tell.
I'm the one who left & broke away.
The one who saw the generation curse & didn't let it stay
Eager to improve & be a better me.
So when it's my turn I'll raise a healthy family.
I'm the one, not the two or the three, to do what
My ancestors need & want for me.
I took a look at myself. My mother had embarrassingly shouted “I am so proud of you, have a great day at school, Nellie.” As if it weren’t enough for a grown woman to have to get dropped off?
Sidling up behind me was my former boss, the one from the place I had just left. The one with all the complicated feelings attached.
“Nel?”
How awkward every moment is when you are not introspective. Hornets to hornet.
“Oh, I heard that in HR that you were…”
“You heard how I talked you up, I hope?”
Or sometimes you are introspective, or at least trying. And the efforting becomes a yoga breathing exercise where you are not sure if you can breathe…I had a director whom I hated in college with her decaf-half-calf-nutmeg-sprinkled soy lattes and back massages; I know now that she’s who I talk like now, and that I would have be delighted to know her now if she were part of my current sangha. She would make us do some hippy-dippy breath work, and I would excuse myself to go out for a smoke.
I just got a message that in this interim job, I have a pay cut, and I got a message that a dress I like is on sale for less than 4 dollars. I have been buying so many clothes trying to reconstruct my life, that I cannot even get a sense of what I am doing.
I want to work where I am needed. I need to be values-based, fall in love with my experience, every move needs to be one from a deeper, higher part of me. I have always been the eager puppy on staff.
I did not realize how much money I made last year.
I spent it all on worry. I spent it on economic insecurity.
I took a look at myself when my friend fell on the step, so many people rushed to help her. Grabbed her book, wallet, eyeglass case… handed them to me. When a young man asked if he could help her, she turned to him fully, and said, ‘yes’. She’s the kind of woman who in asking for help, knows how to pull up her pants— proverbially, and literally.
"It's how we deal with aging," she quipped.
Over the ensuing coffee, she helped me with these conversation threads and sewed them together in a beautiful recovery sweater,
whom to trust: (me)
how not to spend money,
how to find self-worth,
(punctuating some of the stories with a well tied knot of, "that's ridiculous!" "You were doing the best you could." "No one could have done what you were asked to do in the circumstances you were doing that." "That reminds me of..." "and I think about that person, trying to hang on, and it kept me doing service for that meeting maybe a little longer than I should." "There's no way we will ever get a topic about 'gut transplants & fecal matter' ever again... we had something special, and now, it's just another meeting.")
how to get out without escaping.
Even when there's this new look at myself, I may still keep looking.
I took a look at myself.
I didn’t like what I saw.
Once again, my inner critic crucified me.
You’re too fat.
You’re too old.
You’re ugly.
This floored me.
I’m none of those things.
My inner critic held firm.
'Fuck you’, I screamed.
You’ve been harassing me for 56 years.
At 62, I deserve to accept my body, my wrinkles, myself.
I’ve never done this.
Has any woman ever done this?
Accept themselves?
We’ve been advertised to ad nauseam.
Eat this. Don’t eat that.
Drink this. Don’t drink that.
Exercise, exercise, exercise.
Wear this. Don’t wear that.
There was a time when I curled up in front of the boob tube watching ‘What Not to Wear.’
For years, I took advice from a man and a woman who tore through people’s closets tossing their clothes out and dressing them anew.
I bought into it.
The clothes were not even my style.
I’ve bought into everyone’s ideas about what is right.
What is attractive.
No more.
I took a look at myself again.
Crows feet and all.
Silver hair.
I looked myself in the eye in the mirror.
I said to myself, ‘I love you Jackie…
I love you just the way you are.’
Click Image to Watch Video
‘Reclaiming Our Stories” was a live Zoom featuring written work from inmates at Marble Valley Regional Correctional Facility read by three professional actors and other invited guests. If you missed the original performance, you can watch it by clicking the image above. “Reclaiming Our Stories” was led by WFR Workshop leader Carol Adinolfi, and was a collaboration among Writers for Recovery, Threshold Collaborative, and the Vermont Department of Corrections. We want to thank Carol for her the inspiration and for shepherding the process, the writers for generously sharing their wonderful work, the readers for treating this work with the respect it deserves, and the DOC for giving us permission to bring this project to the public. Special thanks goes to John Lugar, who donated time to edit the video and make it look fantastic, despite some Zoom glitches that you may notice, but that he was in no way responsible for. Please enjoy this amazing work, and share it if you can. The voices of the men of Marble Valley are voices that need to be heard.
I am from being their pride; to being their disgrace
I am from a small family made large
I am from intellect and hard work
I am from a class of over 100 to less than 20 alive
I am from a place you'll miss if you blink
I am from my FATHER not in BLOOD although in LOVE
I am from a place I slowly forget
I am from a voice I no longer remember a face I no longer recognize
I am from my Family Clan and I proudly HOLD
I am from being found to being lost
Before me lay a map though a key washed away
Through armor built thicker each and every day
I am from a burning desire and unquenchable FIRE
Flames that RISE flames which DEVOUR
I am ME; I am no longer FREE I am locked tightly behind Rose of concrete
Athough NONE the less I am FREE
Done means finished, over, basta, no way
to do it right, no way to do it wrong
it’s done whether a lose or won:
jobs slashed by the billionaire class
Relief ripped from the needy, home and abroad
social security on the block
the Art of the Deal and its malevolent cock,
grinningly Replaced freedoms with repressions
buried Rosevelt at last
his policies crammed into the rubbish
traded for cash in the banks of the wealthy
what a bitch to reconcile
Recovery may be long and hard
Project 2025 come fully alive
Can we Reform the powers in their demonic towers?
Push ‘em back, give ‘em the sack?
What I got done.that day was, in retrospect, surprising to me, impressed me. A day of "exposure therapy," she called it. Walking into the church of my childhood and responding fully to the parishioners who were fans of my younger self. Bringing my body to the lake and subjecting my feet to its wrath. Approaching the house, seeing my old friend's car in the driveway, and unwaveringly facing her in the garage. Entering my old place of employment for the first time since leaving it. All made possible by asking for the right thoughts and actions, it seems.
Empathy has morphed
into a dirty word, these days
considered too woke
by the new techno Right
vilified by the president’s henchman
empathy is now eschewed
as weak and feminine
incompatible with strong and virile
incompatible with rich and ruthless
empathy might rob their cupboards
of hoarded wealth, they fear
oh dear, have I offended
by my critique? quick,
into the closet of my thoughts
before they root me out
and stuff me away as gay
or any other pretext
to vex and protest
responsible action
I warmed the milk but to what temperature I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have a thermometer. The recipe called for it to be 110 but my finger wouldn’t read anything. So I went on with my recipe as if all was as it should be, leaning on my knowledge of cooking to carry me through to the successful final rise of my loaf of bread. I recently ran across a quirky saying-Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit, Wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad. I wasn’t sure. When we signed the papers for our house over to the young family of Bakers (no pun intended-that’s really their name) I wasn’t sure how I would feel when we handed them the keys. The thermometer read -6 degrees, my finger read SOUTH. Then, I was sure.
I got the message loud and clear.
Go to rehab or you’re fired.
That was twenty four years ago.
March 2001.
I stayed sober for exactly one month.
Kicking and screaming, I dove back down the rabbit hole.
Just a little weed.
Just a little alcohol.
Off to the races of 24/7 inebriation.
Until I got it.
I have alcoholism.
Bodily and mentally different.
Can’t metabolize it.
A mind consumed with controlling it.
A body allergic to it.
The second recovery began 7/17/2001 and lasted for well over a decade.
Then my drug of choice became pills.
Pills for pain.
Pills for anxiety.
Pills for depression.
Pills to sleep.
Then I started stealing my husband’s opioids.
Soon I was nodding off at my desk.
Nodding off in my living room.
Then the magic elixir.
Weed to to titrate off the pills.
Weed mixed with nicotine worked.
Until it didn’t.
Don’t let anyone tell you weed isn’t addictive.
I’m on my second, or is it my third weed recovery.
The night sweats.
The nightmares.
The erratic emotions.
The rage.
Today is 90 days.
Again.
Feels good to be free.
To be honest.
To really embrace being me.
Surefooted walking over rocks along lake champlain, my lithe tall body, with my legs in a french cut bathing suit, I am from here, I don’t know how old I am
I have memories of these places, of inside of trailers at a sleepover, of Haley’s comet, and Hale Bop,
Smokefilled living rooms watching Night of the Living Dead as first graders where there is Sammy Hagar Van Halen and a place in the basement to rollerskate to Madonna
I know the woods, and I walk the new trails
I have followed a dog to see the crocus and the larch,
and the plastic among the mulch
I had a dead battery, a wrong map, no x marks the spot, and I was terribly afraid to find my way back to the shores, so I have made every excuse, but not for my behavior.
This is where I was hurt.
I have no friends from high school. Heck, the only real friends I have are recovery buddies; they are the only ones who know how to be sneaky and to call me, so I can drop the mask with them. We have the same one that we picked up as some party favor, and so we can hand it over when the next one exits the rooms.
The relived violence, mostly to myself again. Missing the mark, getting here and trying to escape rather than leaning in to the experience. Ingrate brat.
And so all the murder I did in my head on so many, not following the routes, have come to this terminus.
I lacked curiosity: no investigations or explorations, just contempt prior to investigation:
old tapes and all loops– I have to take a step back to see.
Still, logic slams down feelings like a wet dough I have to punch at for a while.
I know that I have to assemble all of the little parts of me to have enough. It’s gonna take some substance to get a job, or wake with the alarms, got to put my big girl pants on, gotta move away again, turn the key, get the engine sparked to restart my life.
But as I go pensively, I rediscover this broken shell of myself along the water, or this little splintered rock that I would have crushed into make up pretending to be a native woman splashing in the waters, making mud pies, I do not know how old I am.
I am attracted to the shiny. I panned for gold at a tourist spot in California so I thought all gold was the shiny bits in even Lake Champlain. The parts that are me are so fragmented; yet they are glitter. I am assembling them fleck by fleck sifted through my fingers into a goldfish gladlock from a prize booth at the Franklin County fair circa 1992. I will be squishy for a while, as a bobble, and glurp to interviews, and I will scintillate.
When they announced it in the staff newsletter that I had resigned, when really, my job wasn’t renewed, people congratulated me for making the decision to get out. Did I see how sick this was making me? No fault of their own, but my mad head of lead could not think of a kind and gracious response.
Do you know where you are going?
I know it is not here anymore.
But I wasn’t sure.
Click Image Above to Hear the Writers for Recovery/Vermont Public Podcast Featuring Mark LeGrand
It is with great sadness that Bess and I learned of the passing of incredible human, stalwart recovery advocate, and Vermont music legend Mark LeGrand.
Mark’s impact on country music in Vermont was unparalleled. From his teen years onward, he played and sang in numerous bands and produced critically-lauded albums of his own work. He learned his craft from listening to his musical heroes, from Willie and Waylon to Billy Joe Shaver, Rodney Crowell, Townes VanZandt and others who set the highest of bars for songcraft. Mark’s own songs told stories of struggle, of love, of hope. They lived up to the standards of Mark’s idols, and he delivered them with total humility, which was one of his trademarks.
In recent years, Mark, his wife Sarah Munro, and some of the best players in Central Vermont had been a regular fixture in the little club at the corner of Montpelier’s Elm and Langdon Streets. The name of the place changed, but Mark was always there, with a cool-as-ever cowboy lid and a voice that filled the room with warmth and emotion. I was lucky enough to be there for many of those nights, and I count them as some of the most enjoyable times I have ever spent. Mark sang ‘em all, often in gorgeous duets with Sarah, from his original tunes like Don’t Trouble Trouble and Shipwrecked Love, to rock-solid covers, of which “Rainy Night in Georgia” was my personal favorite.
Less generally known but perhaps even more impactful was Mark’s work in the recovery community. Mark deeply understood addiction and recovery from personal experience, and he generously gave to uncountable people in need of support. He was always there, with an open ear. He never judged, and when he spoke to you with that unshakeable faith and deep, resonant baritone, you knew that someone real was on your side. At this very moment, there are thousands of people in Vermont whose lives are better for Mark’s work and his impact on themselves, their friends, and their families. I am one of those impacted. When I reached out to Mark years ago, I was beaten down and desperate, and without his love and wisdom, I don’t know where I would be today.
Mark never stopped giving to recovery. When Bess and I asked him to perform at our Writers for Recovery book publishing events, he jumped on board, and brought the real life of addiction onto the stage through his songs. And he was featured in the Writers for Recovery/VPR podcast My Heart Still Beats, where he generously shared his story with people across Vermont and around the world.
Several days before he died, Mark posted a Facebook message:
“Love each other, tell each other you love them often and harbor no resentments. Forgive everyone and everything. Live each day and never give in to fear. I love each and every one of you. Peace on earth will come someday.”
Mark was generous to the end, and he will be missed. All of us at WFR send our condolences to Sarah, and to the rest of Mark’s family and friends.
i came here to feel safe -
to write -
to feel alive –
to laugh – to smile –
and to cry if need be
i came here for me -
to fill my cup
to pour into other cups
to be a link in the chain
a connection between dots
i came here
because i’m supposed to -
because this is where life
has led me to be
i came here
because the world
is frosty – cold - and unforgiving
so i came here
for a cup of hot coffee
to feel warmth - to feel energized – to feel alive –
and to be –
where i belong
Click image to read article in Seven Days
Vermont’s coolest weekly paper did a feature story on our Writers for Flood Recovery workshops! You can read all about it here or by clicking the image above. Thanks to Suzanne Podhaizer and everyone at Seven Days for sharing our work!
I had more than one option. I could hide in my addiction or I could get help. Asking for help never came easy for me. But I leaned into recovery and slowly discovered that surrendering to not knowing how to live without drugs and alcohol was the easier softer way. Asking others how they did it gave me strength. It was the path of least resistance. It allowed me to embrace my humanity. It allowed me to drop the facade of perfectionism.
It’s still hard for me to ask for help sometimes, but when I’m able to reflect on my early days in recovery, I’m reminded that asking for help gave me my life back. Sometimes, like tonight, I ask my partner to help talk me off the ledge. We talk, and I feel peace. When I stuff the feelings, I feel rage.
The easier softer way is still asking for help. It no longer feels scary. It helps me when I help others. It must help others when I let them help me too.