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‘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.

What more do you want, Nellie. Today you heard yourself say,

“The world seems to need me now more than a single individual.”

Why are you so shy about the details of your childhood?

Do you remember Karen Carpenter’s epitaph, “Well at least I think you still can’t be too rich”

Have you eaten today?

Are the good old songs new now?

Where did I put my keys?

What am I going to do about the comedy invitation with earth people?

Is this a good idea?

If you have a perception of a person that is different than the one in front of you, why do you go to the memory, or the tape good or bad?

How much sleep have you had?

Will I make it to the bathroom or get sick in the classroom?

Does that person want me to text?

What’s the lesson in it?

Will that student think I am weird for writing a thank you note?

Isn’t it true that there is so much freedom in not having to take a drink?

Should I ask if Jackie’s going to the retreat that is happening on my former street?

What was the last name of my roommate Rachel?

Why do shih tzu paws smell like corn chips?

What are you going to do when you have every opportunity?

Do you think you can live long enough to repay the kindness that has been shown to you?

My aunt Lil kept on living 20 years beyond her terminal diagnosis with that one.

WFR Workshop leader Carol Adinolfi has put together an amazing collaboration among inmates at Vermont’s Marble Valley Regional Correctional Facility, Writers for Recovery, and Threshold Collaborative. The result is Reclaiming Our Stories, an incredible Zoom reading of works from Marble Valley inmates read by three professional actors and other invited guests. And you can watch it all on Zoom! It’s funded in part by Vemont Humanities and Vermont Department of Corrections.

Here are the details. Please register and join us on Zoom!

RECLAIMING OUR STORIES:

An Online Reading of Writings from the Marble Valley Regional Correctional Facility

MONDAY, MARCH 31st - 7 PM ET

We hope you will join us for this unique presentation of writings by members of a Writers for Recovery Workshop at the Marble Valley Regional Correctional Facility.

Their work will be read by three wonderful professional actors and other invited guests.

A COLLABORATION OF WRITERS FOR RECOVERY & THRESHOLD COLLABORATIVE

Funded in part by Vermont Humanities and Vermont Department of Corrections

Johny and Ben are ready to help! Stop by and say hi!!

If you’re looking for harm reduction services and support including syringe access, sharps disposal, Narcan, safer use supplies, drug testing, Xylazine wound care, and HIV+ case management, look no further than Vermont Cares. I stopped by their office in Barre on Wednesday to hang with Ben and Johny and learn more about their supportive, confidential services. When you need help, they’re ready — with a smile and without judgement.

The Barre office is located upstairs above the People’s Health and Wellness Clinic, 51 Church St. in Barre, VT. That’s right behind the big statue of the kneeling guy, so it’s easy to find! The office is open Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Call for hours: 802-528-1135. They also offer a free app, which you can download by scanning a QR code here..

VT Cares also offers services through a mobile unit, and at offices in Burlington, Rutland, and St. Johnsbury. For more info, visit the Vermont Cares website at VTcares.org.

I had to ask,

just like nuclei,

quarks, or things on the infinitesimally small plain of existence,

A question unobserved is both real and here, and not real and gone.

I feel that I may be cursed to live as Nimrod,

to speak, only to be understood by the one and only one who also speaks with identical observer affect,

my harp shaped bow pulls and strains until my arrow is leased upon my game,

strings and sinew push and pull in through atomic dark matter

the empty space inside all things to keep a cosmic balance,

the strong nuclear force, forced apart and separated

atoms pushing against each other, separated by electrons,

through photons we can see the wood for the trees,

watching it followed now by blood through the breeze.

dark matter fills all voids, the question of this dark matter kills all light,

I blink in and out of existence,

my malformed electra complex evolved through enmeshment to a bizarre reverse solipsism.

when your eyes close I disappear,

when I asked I knew it was a road best left untraveled,

but like a downward escalator it's hard to step off

once you've committed yourself to stepping your measured hundredweight and penny pounds

now on the d'escalator, deflated, I tend escalate and inflate to fight shadows, shoes and demons of the past

some questions are sometimes best left unanswered,

but there is a different kind of one at play here.

one that when uncovered will destroy all,

yet, it is this answer that must be spoken, for the destruction is nothing compared to armageddon,

we cannot exist in schrodinger's nothingness

pretending the vial won't break doesn't solve the radioactive pit and pendulum problem

mood managers can only hold back the levy as long as the levy doesn't have the weight of my world in it,

I bare a wildfire that will freeze the blood of all of those in its wake as i stray further from the one i always wanted to be,

the boy who picked up snails to put them safely on some leaves, late to school for befriending some swans.

the more pounds of flesh I lost the more the undeveloped inner childs rotting corpse is exposed, hanging from my gut like evisceration

the secrets held from transform me,

I,

no longer man but beast, lashing out at itself,

biting and scratching gnawing on his own limbs a rabid creature pulling at its own fur,

i had the worst life said my ex, it is the badge of shame and honor i wear pinned through my chest,

CPTSD plays pictures in mind, cycles the lies and memories around my brain

until I am only the result of trespass and trespassees,

safer for those who love him to do so from afar,

A left and lost boy

I don’t know quite how to explain it, but what got me started writing again was these Zoom groups, Writers for Recovery. I hadn’t been able to write for years, because I was so worried that my bipolar hypergraphia might rear its ugly head if I gave in and indulged myself with writing, the symptom where I can’t stop writing uncontrollably, even while driving in a car with my hardcover journal splayed open across the steering wheel, with me taking notes hurriedly as if my life most certainly depended on it, 25 miles to Lansing, 55 mph, Steer St, Clinton Street, Hunt’s Automotive 954-399-2424, man with red bowler hat holding a puppy, maybe a Cairn terrier, and on and on. I was afraid the writing would once again take me over, with me left subsumed under the ocean wash of frenetic activity gone mad. And I was afraid with my PTSD, what might happen -- with so many laid up traumas stashed underneath piles and piles of worn-out outgrown selves and personas, buried underground underneath where no one can see, not even me. But the writing is the mystery elixir which lures them back out, all those long ago stories and feelings wrapped around stories. Writers for Recovery gave me a way to tell my life in only 7 minutes, 7 minutes at a time -- just a hot air helium gasp escape, just letting out a tiny burble that expands into a mini-story, too hot to touch fresh out of the toaster but slowly cooling down as we listen to each other’s stories. Just enough to let some of the hot air steam escape but not long enough to bring on the annoying PTSD flashbacks I’d managed long ago to bury deep within myself. Writers for Recovery gave me a new outway to share the hurt of the past while becoming sane again.

Angala Devoid has been a long-time participant in WFR. I love her work and its powerful honesty. She recently sent me a big batch of work, which I’ll share across a few posts. Here is the first. Enjoy!

We Began Again

I was your dream come true but you became my after thought 
You fit in my life it felt so good at the time
Shifted through old memories that keep that closet door wide open
When I saw you in the grocery store I pretended I was blind 
You left me in the dark that was flipping rude
I used to dream we would get back together 
How could I let you do that to me?
I am not sorry for the way I let you talk to me boy am I grateful I accepted I deserve 
So much better
Eventually I grew to love me more than I loved you
It’s kind of the opposite don’t you think? The paintings in my life are so much different know from my past drawings 
I think about these things sometimes before I turn out the lights and finally begin my journey into a good nights sleep.

How Is It I Remembered this Road?

Everyone makes mistakes I thought I acted like a supergirl 
My heartbreak was one thing but my ego I wouldn’t let go 
Whatever devil was inside me I tried like hell not to let it take me over
I left quite an impression in an upside down mirror 
I swore to god I would always lie to be accepted 
I got my tarot cards read with a fake smile what are the odds this was never my time zone?
Why are you still looking at me?
Am I your inspiration?
It’s something I always fell for you always came off very well spoken
You put me in a meditation I tried not to fall for 
Just last week I didn’t have any doubts, I thought I would end this life alone 
What a surprise just to keep me bitching 
Jealous ?
What was I supposed to do? I ended up crying cause it was over
When a cardinal flies by I always find the questions I always wondered about
You guilt tripped me into looking up to you but little did you know I found god in a filled up room.


It Had Been Years Since I Had Seen the Photo

In the beginning I refused to see what I was losing
The years I put into my addictions keep me from seeing, feeling, touching something bigger than I 
If I could go back and erase all the nasty words I told myself on the daily I would hit reverse and yell hey girl what are you thinking?
Those bullies couldn’t see they were missing out on someone special because deep down it was easier to pick on someone stronger than it was to look at themselves in the mirror.
I realize today instead of believing all the rumors all I had to do was believe in myself but all I believed in were my addictions.
Today I tell myself when I open the front door is I am a winner
It had been years since I have seen the photos of those bullies in my mind.


What I Think Late at Night

Standing at the crossroads torn between two lives my grandmother used to tell me someday I needed to learn how to survive 
I had to crawl along the paths I went down lead me to where I thought I would never be
Why did I want to fit in? I knew deep down I didn’t need to be like the all the rest but that is where all my insecurities led my lonely emotions, In a crowded room I even felt alone.
I let my mind feed me lies while my ego stood by i held so tight to my past memories that keep me from moving forward i always waited for a sign.
I took my first drink snorted my first pill swearing to Jesus Christ 
They said if I picked up the first one I might get hooked that took me years to believe they were right
Looking back now and thinking about my grandmother in heaven I hope she is up there smiling with pride knowing I surrender everyday to survive.

All photos copyright Terry J. Allen. 

We had a great time on Saturday, October 19th, celebrating Writers for Recovery’s 10th anniversary in style! We broke out copies of our new book, One Imagined Word at a Time, Volume 6. (You can order it here.) We enjoyed fantastic readings by WFR participants and Vermont Poet Laureate Bianca Stone. Lieutenant Governor David Zuckerman and Alan Cormier, Chief of Operations from the Vermont Department of Corrections, stopped by to share their support. The Bent Nails House Band supplied a serious groove. And as promised, there was cake. Yes, cake! So many WFR participants old and new came to the bash, and it was so great to see all of you

A $10,000 Anonymous Donation!

Just hours before the bash kicked off, we received a $10,000 anonymous donation. Wow. Just wow. We are gonna make the most of that amazing generosity with amazing programming in 2025.

Special thanks to photographer Terry Allen for shooting and sharing the photos you see here. Completely out of the blue, she contacted us to volunteer her services to help us share our anniversary with the world.

I was off balance. Too much work with no play. Too much wake with no sleep. Too much drugs with no high. Self care? What self? I don’t know him. Sometimes I see an image that looks like him, fractured on shards of glass when the light hits it at certain angles. But I can’t care for him. I don’t know what he needs. I don’t know what he likes. I don’t know what makes him feel happy, or safe, or sane. I don’t even know how to ensure his survival. Also… I don’t have the time for care. Or the energy. Or any sense of connection or valuation of this person, this stranger. I’m usually pretty empathetic, but I’ve heard too much. I said I don’t know him, but that’s not true. It’d be more accurate to say I know him too well but can’t recognize what he's become. I know all the worst things he’s ever done. Hell, I know the worst things he’s ever thought. That makes it hard. You think it’d be so easy to forgive and forget if you could read people’s minds? No wonder I spent so long trying to use chemical abrasion to erase the contents of my own.