This spring, I had the distinct pleasure of leading a fiove-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!

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 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

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.

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