The disease of addiction affects millions of men, women, and children across America, destroying lives, devastating communities, and tearing families apart. In One Imagined Word at a Time, forty writers from across Vermont share powerful truths about addiction, recovery, and the healing power of love and forgiveness. Once you’ve read it, you’ll never think the same way about addiction again.

      I would get up before she’s awake

strong black coffee in the shower

   cold and to the point to save time

shaving too, avoiding eye contact

    as much as possible

leave the shower

   skin soft

       and veins popping.

Reach for my heroin hobby kit

    in the brown leather shaving bag

  I stole form my father

Used needles,

    clean needles,

      cheap aluminum tins,

Q-tips, and tiny wax envelopes

With words like

    “Black Magic,” “Reagan,” and “Ambition”

stamped on them.

      I begin the ritual—

         mix the shot, find the vein,

draw back—

       push down, push off, push away.
Heroin gives me a chance, I think.

    The strength to look myself in the eyes.

I stare in the mirror and see a mask

and I adjust it

      but no matter what I do each morning

         my mask gets harder and harder

           and harder

   to breathe through.

I’m still in the process of losing.

Nothing has yet been recovered.

One day I woke up and it was all gone.

Everything I knew and loved was mine no more.

The woman of my dreams called the police.

I was told I no longer had a place to call home.

I couldn’t even say goodbye to my children.

My furniture, TVs, silverware, dishes,

even my washer & dyer were gone forever.

I thought I still had my freedom,

but that was taken, too.

I was ready to give up,

but I refuse to give in.

Every day I wake up and tell myself

“Today is the day my life begins.” 

Insecure,


Think I'm smart, but not for sure,


Really scared of kissing her.



Fearful, fearful little boy,


Angry cuz you stole my toy.



Racing thoughts, such a mess,


Non-stop anxiety,


Read the Torah to impress,


But no real sense of piety,


I'll never fit in this society.



Smallest kid on the playground,


Angry parents, often frowned.



The coolest kid,

I want to be,


Won't let you know the real me


Happy, fun—don't give a fuck—


That's what I want you to see.



Friends say I own


my sexuality.


Delusion sewn


by a fallacy.



Put up a front; I love that self,


But guilty about my parents wealth,


Forced to make a joke of my mental health,


Take a look at my trophy shelf,


But alone at home, I want to kill myself.



So ashamed/of my past,


Façade of perfection will never last,


Give me the bong, one more blast,


To leave the club, I'm always last.



I pretend I'm an intellectual,


4 yrs.—16 credits—I'm just ineffectual,


I'm only good at being sexual.



Debate, debate, debate, debate...


Fearful and lonely. Is this my fate?







Combating shame,


A war in my head,


Battling pain,


Wish I were dead.



Can't pull the trigger.


Instead, go figure:


In-no-cent casualties


Ian! Ian! Call us please...



You say I'm so hot


I say not


“So pensititve”


Just sensitive



“So mature and put together”


Could rock my ego with a feather


Bipolar thoughts like a ball on a tether


Can't stop this lightning, dark, stormy weather



Call it cognitive dissonance


Emotionally sober, haven't been since...


Caron. Now, I'm back again


Caring? How? Instead of sin?



I have a choice


I hear God's voice


Main Caron to bane Caron


I've come full circle


Pain-bearing to sane sharing


I wanna be a whole circle



Seige the wall of defense


Return to my sense


I wanna be...


The real me.

                                           (click images to advance through gallery)

Saturday night, Writers for Recovery had the honor of opening for a performance by Dwight and Nicole at the Flying Stage in Barre. If you haven't heard about the Flying Stage, you will. The brainchild of Diana Levine, it lowers from the ceiling of Barre's ReSource recycled goods store to transform the joint into a dynamite venue for music and other creative arts.

Writers representing three Vermont communities gave readings on the Flying Stage. Patty Garvey and Caitlin Ferland came down from Burlington, along with Stan Worthley and Sarah Ferland, who came to cheer them on. Angala Devoid and Nancy Bassett came down from St. J. with WFR Executive Director Bess O'Brien. And Pat Murray and Kurtis Thompson represented the home town of Barre.

“The deep and personal readings by our fellow Vermonters in recovery is a sign of sunlight invading the dark recesses of addiction in our communities.”

                                                                      —Dian Kahn, on Front Porch Forum

After we did our part, we settled in for an incredible show by Dwight and Nicole. From down-home Muddy Waters blues to soul, jazz, and pop, they simply thrilled us all. And on their tune "On Top of the World," they had some awesome backup vocals, courtesy the Trojans Singers from Twinfield School. 

The Flying Stage might be new, but it's already becoming the kind of venue that can transform a community. Thanks, Diana Levine, Fred Wilber, and everyone at the Flying Stage for creating such an amazing night of entertainment—and for bringing Writers for Recovery along for the ride!

Writers for Recovery is pleased to announce that we have just been awarded a $7000.00 grant from the Rona Jaffe Foundation. The grant funds will be used to support our free writing workshops for people in recovery as well as our public presentations, website, and teacher training efforts.

Rona Jaffe (1931-2005) was the author of sixteen books, including the bestselling novels The Road Taken, The Cousins, Family Secrets, Mr. Right is Dead, Mazes and Monsters, The Last Chance, and Five Women. Her foundation also provides critical support for women writers through its annual Writers' Awards, which this year gave $30,000 awards to six writers.

Writers for Recovery greatly appreciates this generous gift, and we will be working hard to use it for the benefit of people in recovery across Vermont. 

I am from small towns.

I am from 4-wheeling in the Sand Pits.

I am from long walks on logging roads

while hunting game birds with my dog Abby.

I am from drinking coffee at my parents’ store

while listening to our customers and friends gossip about their day.

I am from drinking and partying at camp

while standing next to the bonfire telling

stories about the past week.

I am now from North State Correctional Facility,

paying for my mistakes.

Now I am going to help others not make my mistakes.

I’m still in the process of losing.

Nothing has yet been recovered.

One day I woke up and it was all gone.

Everything I knew and loved was mine no more.

The woman of my dreams called the police.

I was told I no longer had a place to call home.

I couldn’t even day goodbye to my children.

My furniture, TVs, silverware, dishes,

even my washer & dyer were gone forever.

I thought I still had my freedom,

but that was taken, too.

I was ready to give up,

but I refuse to give in.

Every day I wake up and tell myself

“Today is the day my life begins.” 

I am from combined attributes

of an egg and sperm.

The holders of each spawned

a poor decision.

I am from the child taken @ 2

to live a life with someone new.

I am from the child accepted @ 4

by an unwanting father

and an alcoholic whore.

I am from the teen whose poor

decisions led to a life of hell.

I am from the person trapped inside

Lost in confusion with nowhere to hide.

I am from the life born anew

When all pain and misery will subdue.

I am from where I’m not yet

but I know in the end

everything I’m from doesn’t make

me who I am.

I am from kindness.

I am from love.

I am from freedom I hope to obtain.

I only recovered a part of my life that I lost so long ago.
I’ve found family that were lost.
I only recovered a part of me that is for life.
I’m always going to have that thought of ending my life,
but I’ve put that on hold and realized my fears, my past, my now.
I have only truly just started my recovery because of all I tried to hide away.
Trying to pull myself into the light instead of living in the dark.

I am from my mother and

Father once great and upstanding

Now troubled and lost.

I am from a childhood of

Misunderstanding, hardships, and abuse.

I am from the 80’s big

Hair bands, snap bracelets,

And the “get out and go

Play in traffic” era.

I am from the 90s

Kurt Cobain, Biggie, Puffie

Stolen Cars with 5 stars.

I am from an addiction

To everything, love, drugs, women

Cars, food, and trouble.

I am from where I hope

My children to be not.

I want to be from

Happiness

Not active addiction

I am from a family that is part of the history of the United States, building New England & the state of Vermont

I am from ancestors that landed on Plymouth Rock & fought in the

Revolutionary War

I am from stalwart Vermonters that drove the logs down the Connecticut River and survived

I am from a family that honors family

I had my own family that got a disease, the disease of addiction.

The addiction killed and wanted to kill me. I was fighting my own personal war.

But just like my ancestors, I persevered and I am a survivor.

 I am from the past, but now I am building my family’s new history...

A history yet to come…

Dear Caron, here’s what to do to help your addicted kid

You can’t do anything

You can’t help

Help yourself

Go to the Sunday night parents meeting of Al-Anon in Burlington. Big, and

Drinking and smoking weed non-stop

Cut him off, can’t do that he’s only 18.

Send him to rehab. It’s expensive. It might not stick.

Talk to him. With detachment. As a person, not as a parent. Find out where he is coming from. What about the drugs does he like? The euphoric feeling? The relief from hard feelings? What are other ways of relief? Because his friends are doing it? Are they really his friends? Do they have his best interest in mind? Maybe drop the follow up questions at first. LISTEN. Because these are all valid reasons to like drugs. But once you accept the validity of the choice, he might then be more likely to share more with you, or also accept the validity of other (maybe healthier) choices that you offer. 

Send him to boarding school. Expensive. You might miss him. He might run away.

So many options, so many potentialities – unforeseeable causality, chain reactions.

Ultimately, you are powerless over him. Just as ultimately we are powerless over everything in our lives. That’s not comforting, but accepting that might provide some relief. I've heard it’s the hardest thing to accept in the world when your child’s life is on the line.

I went to rehab when I was 18. I stayed sober for four years, but I stayed stuck in other ways. I had so much shame and fear, I didn’t feel like I could honestly ever share what was really going on with me. But things that I didn’t understand or accept at the time, they’re still in my head, and they’re helping me now.

So Bingo, this is what I wanted to tell you. I’ve noticed that you rarely hang with friends and you often avoid calling me back.

Others have reported the same run around. (Sue) Your oboe practice sessions have gotten much shorter. (Wayne) You burn with an unfixated anger that doesn’t die away. Worry pulls your
face like a downward dog.

Wanna share what’s happening? You were there for me before I got into the rooms. I’m listening.

Welcome to hell. In all forms, prison is the best place to go if you don’t appreciate life. Because once there, you won’t have one. Expect the entire range of fear: little fear, medium fear, and outright terror. Expect to be denied everything at any time. It is not a good idea to anticipate things because there is a good chance that you will not get them. All the food you loved to eat is gone. Denied. If you eat all the food you are given, you will turn into a whale. When asked if you would like to go outside and work off the pounds with weights supplied and you decline, you will become a beached whale. Shaving when you want—denied, Going to sleep when you want, denied. Packages, for unexplained reasons—denied. There are a series of weeks that must go by so that you will remember who you are.And why you are here and why you should be. And maybe come to terms with how time stops and ...moves...slower...than....when... you...were...in...e...l...e...m...e....n...t...a...r....y... school. There are funny times, when the Dorm is quiet and someone passes wind and you hope it’s not you and sad times and times when you try to remember your dreams. What catches in your throat is that you can’t leave, you can’t go home, you can’t hug the children you love. Unfortunately, this is your home. I have to look for things to keep me sane. Writing poetry and a book help tremendously. Actually, a prison would be a great place for writers, because you have timeless times and a minimum of interruptions, to create your text. So if you have to go to prison, decide you are going to be a writer. Maybe you will luck out and they will teach a writing class there.

The haunting memory of that night corrupts my sleep and dreams. The night the law came was the night our life was torn at the seams.

Wearing a mask of anger to hide my sins in an iron clad disguise. All I can remember from that night was the fear in those pretty blue eyes.

Wishing I could go back to the future like Doc and Marty McFly, this prison time is real and staying strong is the option I can try.

What was done is not alright, yet we are not always in the wrong. We were branded outlaws like in that old Wild West song.

The look in those pretty blue eyes is what I remember about that night. Please always stand firm my dear, don’t ever give in or lose the will to fight.

The confusion of that nightwas hazy but turned to a vivid blur. Being controlled by addiction is a sickness and prison is not a cure.

Those pretty blue eyes will always remind me what I have done. They remind me of the good and bad and I couldn’t forget our unborn son.

Hindered by feelings of anger, hatred and heartache pain. Now I am walking with a scar of embarrassment covered with a dirty stain.

I dream of your true blue eyes. It never changes, it’s always the same. I am sorry for everything my dear I feel bad and all sorts of shame.

Dear (whoever it may concern)You might not get how people can get addicted to things. But let me tell you, it’s real. My addiction to me is like the mother I never had and when I am feeling lonely or sad or even depressed, it’s there to hold me, give me a hug and a kiss and always promises me everything is going to be all right. Life is hard, at least to me. So I ask you, what’s better then grabbing a bottle and within 30 minutes, your mind and the way you feel makes you feel better. I’m not proud of my addiction. I am 28 years old and i have been struggling since I was in my early 20's. You might not be addicted to something. But just because your not, don’t try and judge me or my character, because the bottle does not define me. Look at yourself before you wanna start talking about somebody else.

1 tender and loving Mom

1 already seasoned old school Stepfather

1 Heavenly spirited big sister (for inspiration)

2 20 lb. cats (extra cuddly and playful)

3 cups of therapy

1 cup going back to school to become a teacher

2 tbsp writing and reading every day

2 tbsp music (the cosmic dance of the soul)

2 tbsp laughter

Season liberally with forgiveness, patience, understanding and love                                 

Stir gently and often

Allow to simmer - One Day at a Tim

To the kid who broke into my neighbor’s car last Thursday.  I just wanted to say, was it worth it?

You had you whole life ahead of you, excited for your 16th birthday coming up in two weeks. Waiting, impatiently, wondering if you present was going to be a car so you could just drive and drive and forget about the letter you’d found. You were looking for that frilly black top to wear on your first official date with Zeke, the star basketball player, when it fell from the top shelf of your mother’s closet.

The letter was written on the finest of paper with soft, poufy clouds floating at the top with the sun’s rays poking through. The letter, with its curvy words, was full of fancy embellishments; every word, every letter full of anticipation, new beginnings, and new possibilities.

The name at the bottom, “James,” wasn’t familiar, but the stationary was. You knew that your science teacher, Mr. Caswell, had that same kind of paper because he let you use it once to write a note. You didn’t think about his first name until you saw it in your mother’s possession.  Then, when you dug the a little deeper, you saw your mother’s own stationary, with nature scenery on it, and you noticed that some were missing.

And when you cuddled with your father one night when your mother was “out,” you got very angry and decided that you did not want “James” Caswell to have any embellished words written from your mother. You decided to visit your teacher, since he lived three houses over, to search and retrieve any such letters. But alas, you found none in his house.

So, one night, you slipped outside, when all the houses were dark, and you knew everyone would be asleep. You went over to “James’” car. Your heart was pounding in your ears, giving you a slight headache. You peeked in the window. The light from the moon shone in, and you could see some papers with nature scenes on them. A rush of anger surged through you, and you punched the window. Ignoring the pain, you grabbed the letters, and ran around the block, once, before climbing up the tree and going into your bedroom window.

Now, you sit in the office at school writing down this letter “to the kid who broke into my neighbor’s car last Thursday”. Waiting, impatiently wondering, what your fate will be.

P.S. To answer your question: Yes it was.

Oh, I must say

Even though

I’ve despised your shrill sound

So often, on far too many mornings

(and perhaps afternoons)

It might have been you, after all

that helped keep the paychecks rolling in

for more than a few jobs