Otis was sitting there,

stooped over his

clasped bony hands,

looking absolutely

exhausted and bewildered.

He was an old old

old black man born and

raised in Louisiana.

His long white beard

was brightly lit,

almost neon against

his coal skin tone.

It was obvious

he had see a lot

in his day, but

What he just confessed

seemed to toss up and

toss around that

crawfish soul like

confetti.

Now it was on me.

My responsibility

to explain he was

wrong. Thank God.

I’m learning that if I need help that I need to ask for it, not just wait and assume that others “know” that I need help. Even though ESP is an interesting concept, I’ve never actually met someone who has it. Also, keep it simple. I tend to talk too much and get totally sidetracked, frequently forgetting what the hell I was asking in the first place. Ask someone who hopefully has experience with a solution to your problem, and if they don’t, maybe they know someone who does. I also pray for guidance, seeing my higher power has never let me down. I can ask my higher power to move a mountain, but I will frequently be handed a shovel, and don’t know where to find the shovel unless I ask someone, or several, someones, where it is. When someone asks me for help and I am able to share a solution that works for me, I am very grateful, for it reminds me that overcoming the problem not only helped me, but others as well. So when I need help, I ask for it, hopefully. Until I let go of my ego and realize that asking for help is the easier, right thing to do, then I will suffer, and suffering is not how I want to live my life today.

I was shaking, he was smiling
My tears, my fears
Entertaining to His image
He left me in the parking lot
With no shoes, without my glasses
And those broken bottles,
I couldn't catch them
And obviously, I stepped on them, 
But truthfully, 
The blood dripping from my toes
Led the next poor, pathetic girl
All the way home

The fact was that all that warm weather and sunshine was making her feel just awful. Lounging by Bongos, her voluptuous figure fit with a simply clad bikini. Sipping fancy drinks with stupid names and even dumber displays teetering off the glass rim.

Sally had just scored a big sale at her fresh new job. The height of luxury, most thought. Then why was she still such a fucking wreck inside?

This was supposed to be it, she thought as she glanced at her novel new wedding ring—the one with the ridiculously large stone. But maybe this wasn’t it at all.

The fact was that all that warm weather and sunshine was making her feel just awful. She used to love being in the sunshine, feeling its warmth, smelling the grass, hearing the birds. Sitting on the porch, waving to the neighbors, reading the paper without a care in the world.

Then she went to the doctor’s, unsure of what to think. The freckle had gotten bigger, no longer round, color darkening. She tried to ignore it, but it only got worse. After a simple biopsy, her fears became reality. No amount of sunblock or shade could make her feel safe. Who would have thought that a simple freckle could destroy her entire world?

The sun was like a demon, waiting to burn her at first touch, the birds laughing and all the grass stinking its putrid smell. Back into the house she goes, draws the shades, gets back into bed, pillow over her head, as to not hear a sound.

In fall, 2014, Bess O'Brien and her crew from Kingdom County Productions shot footage in our workshop and our reading at the ECHO Center in Burlington. This morning, Bess sent me a link to the result, which we are pleased to share with the world. Thanks, Bess, for everything you do to make Writers for Recovery possible, from fundraising and setting up readings to this wonderful tribute to our writers and their work!

(Click on image to advance through slide show.) Last Friday night, Writers for Recovery shared their work as part of The Turning Point Center of Chittenden County's Authors on Addiction Series. The main event of the night was a presentation by novelist and former CNN editor John DeDakis, who shared stories about his days at CNN, his interview with Alfred Hitchcock, his Lark Chadwick mystery series, and how writing played a role in grieving the loss of his sister, who died by suicide, and his son, who died of a heroin overdose. 

Writers for Recovery opened the evening with a half-hour reading, which ranged from stark meditations on the nature of addiction to stories of recovery and works of fiction. I can't tell you how proud I am of these folks, who are setting the bar for recovery writing in Vermont and showing the community an example of how writing can help people overcome addiction and the family trauma that goes with it. Most important, we had fun together. Thanks to John DeDakis for visiting Burlington, to Gary DeCarolis of the Turning Point, and to those who came to listen.

What a dance

Full of romance

Into a trance

Thrilling

Chilling

My guts spilling

Killing

Me

Dark

                                                I am broken

                                                Completely alone

                                                Why

                                                God’s grace

                                                Acceptance

                                                Re-emergence

                                                Light

Alone

Together

Together alone

Alone together

Together

Alone

                                                Fear

                                                Love

                                                Love Fear

                                                Fear Love

                                                Love

                                                Fear

When this winter is finally over I’ll paint the house robin-egg blue. The paint was on sale at Sears and I’ve already bought it. The color was my mother’s idea.

Two years ago, just before her heart gave out, Mother and I sat at the dining room table drinking one of her expensive Russian teas; the kind that Mother claimed always gave her inspiration. Holding a dainty cup with her little finger properly pointing out, she slowly waved her other arm to direct my attention through the picture window toward the yard and pronounced in a grandiose and magical tone, as though she were waving a wand; I’m going to paint the house robin-egg blue and plant huge yellow hibiscus all along the drive.

With me, her forty-year old deadbeat son, as her only audience and housemate, the unsaid implication was that I would be doing the planting and painting. After all we didn’t have much money and we haven’t heard from my father since the divorce some thirty-five years ago.

I smiled back at Mother and pretended to be inspired, too. “Mother that sounds gorgeous,” I said, cheering her on. Though deep down we both knew this would be yet one more item to add to the list of how I’ve let her down.  

I calmly watched Mother’s expression as she sat with one old thin leg crossed over the other and let the pain of this ugly accumulation of facts wash through her. She wore an attractive floral dress even though it was only us, always, only us. I don’t know why she had so many nice dresses, it’s not like she ever went anywhere. Sure, she would have liked to go out to dinner or spend a weekend at the shore but she’d want me to go with her and with my anxiety condition going out of the house was always excruciating. So we sat in the dining room while Mother’s unsaid exasperation dissipated and the subject soon changed to something more pleasant.

But now that she is gone I find myself dining here alone and all I can think about is how much I regret not doing more for her while she was here. She was such a lovely person and asked so little of me. I miss her terribly. My regrets are immense.

Last week I dug through the pile of brochures she had hopelessly discarded in the kitchen drawer. I chose a modest bed and breakfast just off the beach and stayed there two full nervous nights. I might as well admit I calmed myself by wearing her summer dress under my clothes when I checked in. Not only did it feel as though we were holding hands but more to the point I was finally taking her to the shore. I have become consumed with righting my wrongs with her. We go out to eat; we walk through shops just as I knew she would. It’s worked out well that we are the same size. I’ve taken to wearing her jewelry, too. Finally she is showing off her nice clothes. I know it pleases her.  

When this winter’s finally over she’ll watch me paint the house robin-egg blue. 

Isolation…

Silence…

Nothing but my own thoughts to occupy me.

Everyone is gone;

I am just left here,

Forgotten…

The voices come and go,

Telling me my anxieties

Then leaving me alone.

“Why did you even bother to get up today?”

“Don’t speak,

You know no one wants to hear you!”

“I wonder what would happen

If we walked into traffic…

Looks fun!”

“Blood is the only release you will get;

So pick,

Scratch,

Go ahead and bring a knife to the party!”

“Time to go to bed

Hopefully you won’t wake up again…”

Dear Addiction:

I just wanted to say thank you. I understand this may sound strange to you, but thank you anyways. I have always believed everything happens for a reason and although at the time I could not see the reasons for our relationship. I do now. I used you as an excuse for a lot of things in my life, some justifiable in my own mind and some as just an excuse.

But I do know without you in my life, I would not be where I am today. I do not know how my life would have turned out if we had never met. Would I ever have had a chance run-in with Kathleen? Would I have gone to school and ended up in Vermont? Would I have met all the people that have come in and out of my life? I don’t think so.

Not everything worked out the way I had hoped, and I blamed you for that, even knowing in the end that everything was my choice. I believe there is a reason I’m in these rooms and church basements on a daily basis, and I thank you for leading me here. I would never wish the road we have walked down on anyone. But I do know it is the one I had to take. 

The first thing I want you to know about Vermont is it is very beautiful—the countryside, its big lake, its brooks and streams, its changing seasons. And these things are all free, to whomever wants to look up and look at and drink them in. The winter is very cold, with temperatures well below zero, and it can be very windy. But it is a wonderful time for woodstoves and cozy blankets and you loved ones nestled close.

The fall is incredibly colorful, with oranges, reds, and gold rustling in the breeze. And spring, ah spring, welcomed with open arms, blossoms and mud and full of promise. Vermonters cherish where we live—the good and the not so good. We are a friendly bunch, often waving to people we do not know, smiling that knowing smile. We Vermonters know something no one else knows.

The cage of my addiction is not very big, with widows so small only an arm can fit through. Little like comes in, and the odors you smell are horrific. I only talk to those who bring me stuff, and to others I say “I’m tired; leave me alone.” “I don’t want to go right now.” “I don’t feel well.” “Fuck you! Go away.” I will sleep whenever I can, and when I can’t, I stare at a wall, or the ceiling, a drab color, causing me to focus on the withdrawal I have felt hundreds of times: restless legs, nausea, profuse perspiration, chills, hallucination, the shakes, seizures, gastric obstructions, “fuck, don’t call 911 again.” My enabler holding me down, not letting me go. 

My cage is built of soft clay

Easily malleable

Held up together by fair weather friends

Their supports crumble at the first sign of rain.

The base is caving in, floorboards removed reveal quicksand.

How far will it pull me under this time?

The only way back up is to surrender.

To accept my plight means to finally stop

Treading and release control.

She was just a block from her house when she found the blue envelope on the sidewalk. With very little hesitation Sherry picked it up and continued walking home. At age twenty-two she was at her peek of curiosity and this was just the sort of thing she needed to offset her long hard day of waitressing. She figured someone that took the bus as she had just done had probably dropped it.  

There was no name or address on the envelope and the flap was securely sealed. It felt like a card inside. Sherry thought maybe it was an invitation to a party; that would make sense, a blue envelope, yes, that was probably it. As she continued walking to her house she let her imagination wander. She thought of all the things she wished she had and all the burdens she’d like to unload. Walking up the steps to her tiny house Sherry stopped, softly stroked both her cheeks with the envelope and sniffed at it. The possibilities of what it contained seemed to sooth her.

Good, no one was home. Gail, one of her two roommates had left her a note. Barb and I went to Bob’s for dinner; adding a little heart underneath. Sherry frowned at the heart. She thought it juvenile, it reminded her of all the gifts Gail received from her relatives while Sherry was strictly on her own- … and just remember if you leave here with that boy, you are on your own, her father practically screamed two years earlier as Sherry was quickly packing.

Sherry declared to him that Joe was the love of her life. He was, as she liked to say, her first really, real, boyfriend, though looking back they really barely knew one another. Joe left her six months later, because, he said, she “was smothering him” -only to discover later that he was indeed seeing Jackie just as she had accused him of.  He did however provide the reason Sherry needed to leave her father’s house and maybe, after all, deep down she knew Joe wasn’t the one for her.

For the next few hours Sherry went about the house making dinner, looking through magazines, listening to the radio, and always touching the envelope each time she passed it on the living room table. It had taken on for her a giddy-sweet push and pull of anticipation and wonder. Later, before her roommates returned she brought the envelope to her room and placed it in her underwear drawer. She liked how the envelope had begun to buoy her imagination.

As the days passed by the imagined contents of the letter changed. One day it was a letter from a new boyfriend, on another day an invitation to a smart and lively party. When the hard days at work would build and tumble on top of one another she imagined it contained an acceptance letter for new employment. The tiresome wiping and setting of tables was made less dreary as she imagined the new job descriptions held within the envelope. After coming home at the end of her shift Sherry looked forward to opening her drawer and holding, or if her roommates were close by as they almost always were, at least seeing, the blue envelope. Just knowing it was there gave her comfort. It seemed to contain her most valuable possession; it contained her imagination. When her moods were particularly harsh and dark she placed the envelope reverently and secretively under her pillow. Each and every time she touched the envelope she most certainly thought of opening it, but each day would end with the envelope still unopened.

Some days when her mind felt weak she imagined the envelope may have been placed right there on the sidewalk for her to find and she would scan in front and around on the bus to see if there might be something else, something more. It pleased her to think her roommate was not the only one to have unexpected gifts come her way. Sherry was usually not one to pray or believe in superstition but something about this envelope had resurrected her childhood sense of hope. It felt good. It almost felt like love.

One morning her customer Fred, who she had become friendly with, approached her with the idea that she might work for him. His right-hand man at his coffee-shop had fallen ill and he was sure that she could quickly catch on. The job paid a whole lot more than she was currently making and there was talk of eventually making her a partner. She agreed right then and there to take the job and they shook on it. She gave her two weeks notice at the end of her shift. 

The next morning on her way to work she took the unopened envelope from her drawer and placed it in her purse. As she approached her bus stop she held the envelope to her chest, closed her eyes, and prayed for the first time in years. She prayed that someone might benefit from this envelope as much as she had, and she thanked that that had placed it there. Then with no one watching and to the best that she remembered she placed the envelope exactly where she had found it and walked away

Copyright Gary Lee Miller 2015

Some people know the feeling;

The feeling of being alone…

                            Being scared…

    The feeling of sadness creeping up behind, grabbing you. You try to get away, but it holds on; eventually consuming you.

    Life is hard. For some people, it gets so hard, they hide. They hide deep inside themselves; shielding their soul from the hurt and pain they suffer.

    They smile, trying to hide the hurt from others. When people look into their eyes, they can see the pain. When they stare out in the distance, looking sad, their loved-ones ask “are you okay?” they lie by saying “I’m fine; just thinking.”

    Outside, they feel moments of true happiness.

                        Joy…

                            Love…

                                A true sense of belonging.

                But at home, they're tortured;

Constantly feeling pain again, and again.

They feel trapped. Stuck with nowhere to go. They’re scared, afraid that they’ll never get away. For some of them, they’re scared of a certain object or action that brings bad memories.

    For me, it was seeing the familiar bottle on the counter; a few ounces of clear liquid sitting in the bottom. Seeing the dark figure sprawled out over the couch, her chest slightly moving. All of the memories would flow back from an unwanted past.

    The memories of coming home from school to find her slumped over in a chair or passed out on the couch with an empty bottle nearby. Lea and I would beg her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen. All she cared about was getting another drink.

The memories of the fights and pain would fill my head.

        Being afraid...

                 Hiding it from everyone...

                                It’s something I’ve gotten used to.

    It’s become part of my everyday life. Being around others, I might have shed a tear, but I lied to cover it up.

    Growing up alone in this hell-hole has made life hard. The harder life keeps getting, the quieter I become. The deeper inside myself I hide.

People have told me that life is going to get better.

                                I just hope someday it does..

(EDITOR'S NOTE: This story has a happy ending. The poem was written years ago. For Sarah, whose mom is in recovery, things are much, much better. It's an amazing contrast, and an example of all the joys recovery can provide)

Copyright 2015 Gary Miller

For starters, we prefer the name "woodchuck" to "redneck." For your safety coming to an intersection, if you have out of state plates, the guy with the biggest tires always goes first. Yes, that's a real gun in the back window and no, it's not illegal. Also, no, you can't hold it. Please do the speed limit or above when looking at the leaves in the fall; some of us do have jobs we need to get to and your slow driving just pisses us off. No, I have no idea why there are a set of whale tails on the highway. Nor do I care if you do.

My father owned a pine box that had brass hinges and a lock that kept the top from opening up until you were ready to open it. Inside he kept shoe polish and shoe brushes and rags. Screwed onto the top was a wooden stand shaped like the sole of a shoe with a cut out where the heel of a shoe fit. This box acted as a sort of miniature shoe-shine stand. When I was young he gave my brother and I the job of shining his shoes. My mother soon learned to make sure we put newspaper down first. It could get messy.

When my father died I inherited the box and polishes and brushes. My brother inherited his wooden shoe trees that are used to keep the shape of the shoe sturdy when they’re not being worn.

My father was a salesman and having a good shine on his shoes was important. I was surprised when his obituary came out of how many clubs he belonged to. He was the past president of a few of them. He was a real go-getter. I think this may have been because his father eventually committed suicide and he felt bad about it. My uncle told me this, my father never did. It’s strange what motivates us. Though we may point to this or that I think unconsciously we swim in our family’s unfinished business. We return to the comfort of where we’re spawn.

I became a salesman, too. Dad and I worked side by side. We both had well polished shoes and great smiles. He once split the cost with me so I could attend a week-long Dale Carnegie Salesmanship course. I still remember the CRIAC method for overcoming objections: Cushion, Repeat, Isolate, Agreement, and Commitment. Later on I learned that the new, new method was building relationships, not overcoming objections. So it goes…

I never joined many clubs, unless you call Alcoholics Anonymous a club. My Dad’s dad drank himself to death, so did one of his brothers. A friend once joked, Yeah, but they weren’t that bad. I wasn’t that bad either, though I wrecked every car I ever owned and often forgot about appointments. I did however have nicely polished shoes. I was somebody.

When my father died I quit buying the kinds of shoes you have to polish and then I quit selling real estate and then I quit drinking. I never liked competing for the business. I got a job in a warehouse. I liked getting things done.  

I’ve moved so many times since he died that somewhere along the way I must have decided the box took up too much room and ditched it. I feel the same way about drinking. It was taking up too much room. Recently I became a drug and alcohol counselor. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to see what sort of unfinished family business I’ve been working on.

I never felt an overwhelming compulsion or need to compete or be someone special. In fact I tell people the good news for modern man is; at least, you don’t have to live forever. I don’t imagine my obituary will read very well. In fact, I don’t imagine there will be very many at my wake. You could say I’m not very polished. Mistakes and me; well, we get along pretty well. And besides, like my mother said, polishing things up can get pretty messy. 

In the beginning, all I wanted was a normal life. White picket fence, kids, husband and a cat. Work 9-5, dinner at 6. Bath time and TV, snuggly nights by the fire.

This wouldhave been perfect, I thought. This is what I was raised to want in my life. Little did I know how wrong I was.

Fast cars and fast boys. Easy drugs and plentiful liqur. Expenseive clothes and numerous houses. Secret nights and wasted days. The disease of addiction growing inside me. “I got this.” My favorite saying. An empty shell is what I became. A shell about to shatter.

In my lowest of lows I became willing to grow. With no outside “stuff” to make me happy, I was brought to my knees by the wait of the world.

“It’s not your job to carry the world,” I was told.

Then “It’s not your job to do it alone.”

“By helping you, you are helping me.”

“Walk in my footsteps and I will show you the way.”

“The solution is here if you want it.”

“Have you had enough now.

“Yes,” I said. “Today is the day. Give me your hand and show me the way.”

I took their advice and walked in their path, and no outside stuff could compare.

“Normal” life is not for me. Not if I want to know serenity.

The pen remembered. It remembered everything. The day it first received ink was almost 30 years ago. Coming to life in Mary Constance’s hand. The feeling of power coming from her hand, vibrating through its platinum casing. The importance of the work it did.

The intimacy they shared. The heartbreak. It relished the diary writing, where Mary poured her soul into and out of the pen.

Sometimes the frustration became so overwhelming or the anger so intense the pen would become air-borne or when a period became an ink spot worth looking at! Exclamation marks were thrilling. The flourishes used flowery, flowing script and proved how beautiful the pen was.

Encased in its platinum sheathing the pen was aware of the world around it. By the nature of the words, and expressions of angst. Joy, humor, and the delicacy of which they were produced.

Rarely were the words pouring out of the pen undecipherable, not matter the mistress’s multi-lingual capabilities. It was emotions the pen could relate to, the core of the word’s meaning felt as real as the Earth that the core of the pen’s platinum originated from. There was no difference!

All human emotion comes form the vibration of the Earth and the rotational pull of that which surrounds it!

The pen knew!

The pen didn’t age as Marty Constance did; it received new life blood every time it was refilled. (As that was a matter of course.) It continued to be an extension of Mary Constance’s conscious and sometimes unconscious self. The pen’s only life came from those who held it. They were the Gods, the puppet masters, the pen their slaves. For whatever was in their mind came out of the pen, no matter the information.

As Mary Constance aged, she grew bolder and stronger in her convictions so the pen felt its own power. As Mary Constance battled age and fatigue the pen was ever sure, if a bit hesitant. The shaky script had no less conviction in its truth.