Different is beautiful; scars are too.

Just because they hurt doesn’t mean

you should too. You’ve earned your

stripes, now let them shine through.

The place I remember

best is Steelville, Missouri.

It was my home so

many times. Different

times in my life for

different purposes I believe/

It reappears in my dreams

every week, the landscape

always adjusted and different

each time. But always

I know it is Steelville.

Like alternate universe

Steelvilles. The main

street, which is the town’s

spine. The hill to its

north with home on

It. The lonesome Yadkin

Creek slowly pushing

through, cutting the

town in half. The

dark greenery and lumber

trucks. Roast beef

at the Spare Rib Inn with

cottage cheese and brown

gravy on top.

The rusty railroad tracks

that serve as a walkway

for lost souls. The

Chinese restaurant on the

edge of town. The

convenience stores serving

as hubs for people en

route to somewhere, like a tool for

convenience socialization

and quick gossip. And the

homes where my

mother lived.

To break the spirit and the soul

there are but four steps. He would

know, just ask the boy white as snow

and he would surely tell you so. First

you must gain his trust for to his

heart this is a must. Second build him

up tall and wide. Third is very

important break his heart in the palm

of your hand rip it out and stab it

again. But the fourth and most

important step, come back again

confess your sin plea it will never

happen again then just when he

needs you most while he sits in your

own hand you sat these words to

him. Stupid boy you believed me

again only a fool would let that

happen now I’m gone because you

did wrong.

Dedicated to the broken.

I am from the
naval base. I
am from my
Grandma’s place
on the Puget   
Sound. I am
from verbal abuse
and other misuse.
I am from a
driveway of lilacs.
I am from bike
riding, skinned knees
and backs. I am from
climbing the tallest
trees. I am from
bays and open seas.
I am from lost love.
And love that has
to be. I am from
DOC, where I can
still be free.

(Click on images to advance through gallery.)

On Tuesday, May 3, the Writers for Recovery Barre Workshop whipped up a live reading of original work at Studio Place Arts on Main Street in downtown Barre, Vermont. Ten folks read their work, and family, friends, and other workshop members showed up to listen. We love reading at SPA—and why not? The art is gorgeous, and Director Sue Higby always gives us a great welcome. Here are some shots from the reading. We recorded some audio as well, and we'll post some later. Meanwhile, take a look at all these smiling faces. They're what Writers for Recovery is all about.

Most of us did not want to end up this way. We did not plan on becoming addicts; we were just looking for a way to ease the pain. When you see us you just see the addict. I’m sure you get some sense of the pain and suffering we are in the midst of, but you can only see the now, what we have become — not the pain that got us here.

You may have been the lucky one who did not wonder if when you got home you were going to get beaten for something as simple as a dish left in the sink, or face a parent telling you how worthless you are. Maybe your never experienced the power being shut off because your parents spent all the money for bills on drugs.

Maybe you have never been the victim of sexual, emotional, or physical violence without knowing how to handle these situations properly. But too many of us have been. When you see us, you don’t see the numbers: two-thirds of people in treatment are survivors of child abuse in one form or another.

What most people don’t understand is no one wakes up in the morning and says “Today is a good day to become an addict.” We simply wanted to stop the pain and the memories, and did not know how.

She found the photograph under the seat of the car. She thought she had lost it, didn't know where it had gone, yet she knew what it was as soon as her fingers touched the glossy Polaroid surface. She didn't need to see the picture to see it-- his lopsided smile, one eye tilted out of the sun, in shadow, a belt of freckles spanned in frozen rotation across his young-boy face. Frozen, that's what he was; frozen in an object from the past, in a present which would not let him grow.

When she pulled the photograph out, she kept it face down, sliding the black backing, facing out, into the back pocket of her jeans.

God thank you for leading me away from temptation. I am new blood. I got my teeth cleaned today. I went to the library in Montpelier. I found the big AA book and read a few pages and thought. Then went to the church next door and attended an AA meeting. I wasn’t planning on talking. I just thought I would sit there anonymously and listen which I did but then nobody was talking and it looked like Peter was going to call on people so I spoke up. I said I was there for the first time. That I hadn’t been to a meeting in years. The last time was in Los Angeles. I didn’t mention that it didn’t take but it didn’t. Anyway. The reason I went is I looked at myself in the mirror and thought this is not what I want. I’m tired of my hands trembling and of regular blackouts. Tired of having worked so hard to lose weight and then gaining it back by spending time lost and hiding with alcohol. So how do you decide on who to be your sponsor? Who to trust with your feeling and your failings?

I didn’t plan on doing this. Just before I left the house I was creating a character name of Bucktooth Johnny. Only thing is Bucktooth weren’t no boy. He’s a girl. That is, bucktooth sounds sort of like a boy’s name. But I do believe bucktooth is a girl, well a woman and quite the looker. But really Bucktooth is a good soul. Walleye Jackson is another character but he truly is a bit of an odd one. So.

Alcohol for me is a great seducer. Alcohol is a tease that will use you and then let you down. Disappoint you. Take your money and time and pride. Fill you with shame and questioning. Act like being with them will be somehow better the next time. It is not so with all people but it is for me. I guess the thing is I give too much of myself to alcohol without regard to my own well-being. The fault lies not in alcohol but in me and my relationship with alcohol. Alcohol is NOT manipulating me. I am susceptible to the intrinsic nature of alcohol. So who is the tease and who is the seducer? It is some part of me that wants to believe that alcohol will somehow make me something I am not. Or some fear that what I am IS not acceptable without the alcohol as a companion, to explain and express myself? Is my use of alcohol a way to feel less lonely or inhibited? If so it is a lie that sadly I have allowed myself to buy into. And buy I have. So much time and money and health wasted on my pursuit of that which has laid me low. A FALSE EXHILARATION, INeBRIATION?

I HAVE NOT INBIBED IN ALCOHOL FOR SIX DAYS.  HOWEVER I HAVE BEEN HAVING DREAMS ABOUT BUYING AND DRINKING ALCOHOL.  I SUPPOSE THIS WILL SUBSIDE AFTER A WHILE. The difference between fear and courage is the action you take.

I have not consumed alcohol in 27 days. I was looking forward to getting my 30 day chip on Friday Feb 5. But Jennifer pointed out to me this morning that I won’t have 30 days until Saturday. You see I count days once they are complete. Well I have to tell you my mood changed. Now I realize I started living in expectations and NOT in possibilities. I will let go of my upset. I let go.

I had a great laugh today. I was thinking about the idea that a pickle cannot go back to being a cucumber. And it occurred to me that the greenCHEVY Tahoe I drive or used to drive I named Pickles because she looks like a pickle jar on its side. Well I thought it was a pickle jar and I and Jennifer were the pickles. Perfect.

I also had a good laugh in the car thinking my mother would approve that I was with a higher class of alcoholics. Like she wanted me to play tennis and not softball. Because a better crowd of people played tennis.

RECOVERY. RECOVER ME. Thirty six days sober. Thirty day chip today. 

He gropes with his relationship with God

Old and feeble, suffering and weak

He recalls the days in the rectory

Stealing wine and breaking every cardinal sin

Rebellious, pigheaded, selfish and bleak

He resurrects the nights he hallucinated

Soaring the cosmos

Seeing his face inside out

Feeling one step closer to an answer

He tosses and turns

Black goes to white

All the while wrapped up in chains

Regrets, missteps, heartache and pain

My addiction came to be when I started liking wine and mixed drinks. I didn’t really think I had a drinking problem until I started drinking too much. I started going to the bars and buying wine coolers and beer and all kinds of drinks. Sometimes I think I did it to have a good time, but in the end I wasn’t really having a good time, and I made myself miserable. Sometimes I think I drank to escape reality but in the end it was just plain depressing and debilitating. I just wasn’t having any fun anymore. It was getting more and more out of hand.

I grew up watching the effects that drugs and alcohol have on people. And I knew the dangers all too well. But this did not stop me. It merely postponed it. My addictions came as a means of self-medication at first, just to forget the past ever happened. But this stopped working almost as quickly as I started using. Now when I try to forget all I can do is focus on the pain. Much like my past, my addiction progressed because I was afraid to ask for help; scared to say anything was wrong.

Fatty and Ducky had scheduled a date.

Ducky got angry because Fatty was late.

 Fatty was eating and lost track of time.

 Ducky was upset and drank way too much wine.

 When Fatty arrived Ducky was wasted.

 Which made Fatty wonder just how Ducky tasted.

The place I remember the best isn't so much of a place as it is a feeling, a moment in time. If I had to locate it, to direct some poor lost tourist or stranger on the street, I'd point stiff fingered to the very center of my own being. Maybe in my amygdala brain matter mush.

Each particulate bursting at the seams with unspeakable secrets. Haunted murky memories of the past and glistening genetic predispositions foretelling the future, far better than any crystal ball.

I discovered this place while I was still young, eager, and naive enough to keep searching so relentlessly in my juvenile quest for meaning or purpose. I stumbled down into a well hidden snare of hopelessness, a deep dark pit of angst and despair. Shouting all around ashamed and scratching at the cavern walls.

I can still recall that nauseating sinking anchored weight. Feeling as if the floor might give out at any moment and I'd plummet through the elevator shaft. And it would give out and it did. Again. More times than I cared to count.

It isn't the drop that's so unsettling, it's the anticipation. The blinding screeching deafening suspense. On guard at all times of the day or night with no off switch or program override to tell this body, my own body, to stand down. Deactivate. Massive amounts of cortisol coursing through my veins stimulating hyper vigilance and surreal, almost hallucinatory, sensory perceptions.

Some mornings I can still taste the faint bitter residual fear from my nightly drives down my subconscious dreams and the bad part of town in my head.

Yes, that place

That place is still there. In here. In me. Inside of mind. It is who I am.The difference being now I no longer fear it. After surrender and acceptance I could begin to really look around my internal surroundings. I know the way in and the way out.

The place I remembered best is behind a waterfall up in the hills of Hawaii. It is the place my father and mother first held hands. They were both in the Army and it was ten years before I was born. Something strange happened there in the cool-blue mist back in 1942. While the water thundered down all around them their tiny hearts began to settle into a common beat. Settled for good they had hoped, as they walked to the side of the falls, still holding hands as many soldiers had done before and jumped into the deep pool below. They later married and babies boomed, first one, and then two, then that’s enough, they both agreed but wait, wait, what’s this, a number three. That was close, because that little mistake was me.

Our station wagon was clever; it had a way back seat that folded up or down as needed. That was my seat. It felt far away from the undercurrents of control that carried my family forward. While they bickered in the front I quietly became one with the tops of trees and clouds in the back.

Chesterfields and Salems, Millers and Gin were my parent’s friends. Later we got a TV, and then TV dinners served in modern tinfoil trays, and my parents drank and drank while the children ate. They would eat later without us I was told. When I grew older my father explained to me that the trick to successful drinking is to drink, drink, drink, and eat, and then go to bed. However, without a family to hold me together I would forget about going to bed and would run full bore out, out, out of the house, and into the world, as though my heart were on fire. Only adventure could sooth the flames.  

Oddly, I can still remember the first sip from a can of my father’s Miller. The soury fizz was unlike anything I had ever had before. I was curious. It wasn’t particularly pleasant, but it seemed to give me pause, a pause that felt new and dare I say, mature, the menthol taste of my mother Salems had a similar effect. Who knew that eventually they would become my favorite friends?

My parents died of tobacco and alcohol related diseases as so many people do. It happens so often that it was once considered normal, in some circles it still is.

Behind a waterfall where love, hope, mystery and delusion, mist together into a compelling pull of adventure is the place I remember best. 

Bess and I had the great pleasure of being guests on WDEV Radio's Open Mike show with Hester Fuller. Hester is a  great interviewer, and we got the chance to talk about why WFR is important. WFR writer Caitlin Ferland even called in! Give it a listen.

Drinking booze.

Whiskey, tequila, whatever.

Wall-less dreams of the chase for more.

Drink it.

Inhale it.

Wolfing drinks.

Not the bottle but what was in it.

Not the taste but what was in it.

Pulling at me.

Sucking me in like quicksand but faster.

Like I dove into quicksand.

A whirlpool of whiskey, wine, tequila, vodka, gin.

Have a Guinness it’s good for you.

Pregnant women drink it.

I will be down 3 years

But I’ll be back

I you love to infinity and beyond. You should know that.

I hope you believe that 2 years down, 1 more to go

I’m missing watching you grow 4 years old. I want you to know you are more than my baby girl, girl you are my entire world.

You ever look up at the night sky, fix your eyes on the moon and ask yourself, “Daddy where are you?”

Daddy will be home real soon

I’m shooting for the stars

Open your arms, this time I’m never letting go.

I’ll be down three years and I’m never gonna stop

I’m climbing climbing to the top

It’s hard to believe I’m hated

On so much, doing time gets

So tough, I want to give up.

Enough is enough.

This time I refuse to give in

Because this isn’t the end.

Sometimes I ask myself “why bother?”

I’ll tell you why I bother.

I want you to be as proud to call

Me your father as I am to call you

My daughter. I’ll be down 3 years, but

We’ll never be apart. We’ll be together forever.

You’ll always be right here in my heart.

If I could have just one wish, I’d

Wish to get back the years I’ve missed.

I’d wish for a hug, for a way to express

My love. I’d wish for a million wishes

So I could give you a million kisses.

Above all, I want you to know

I’ll be down 3 years and my love

For you still grows like a beautiful

Blue rose. And as the blue rose

Grows, I’ll rise, too, and one day I will

Show the world how much I love you.

Until then I’ll keep searching for

Peace although I’m torn to pieces

The only peace I find,

I find in Jesus.

What scares me the most is that I might be letting my days and nights flow by too fast, that maybe there really is something I’m supposed to be paying attention to?

Maybe there’s a plan or purpose that I knew as a child but over the years I lost contact with it. Maybe I discarded it along with my other toys and now I can’t even picture what it might have looked like or where to find it.  

As I wonder about this notion of purpose from my observation bench on Church Street I gaze out toward the people walking past and I can’t help but think that if there is something we’re supposed to be doing, something other than strolling around looking nervous and dopy, it doesn’t seem like the message was delivered very well. By the look of the costumes people are wearing it appears we must be fixated on a sort of stance toward Halloween.

Doesn’t it seem odd to you, too, that we are alive without anything particular to do? I mean what the heck is this all about? It doesn’t seem right that we should have to worry so much on how to keep ourselves occupied. Distractions shouldn’t be the whole theme to being alive. 

There were two billion people on this planet when I was born are now we’re up to seven billion. Pretty soon it will be twenty billion and the stories we tell ourselves of why we happen to be alive will be far different than today. I wonder how the after-life story will hold up. Will the notion of eternity, and judgment, still be talked about? 

What if we live this nervous life to the bitter end only to discover that there is no end. Now, isn’t all this nervousness a bit silly, I mean what were we worried about, we have all the time we can stand.

I suppose what scares me the most is that I don’t understand a fucking thing about how this all came about and where it’s going. If it’s an accident its one hell of a glorious accident and if it’s not an accident then we’re all a bunch of inept nincompoops for not figuring it out.

It started with a small voice, sounding like my own, saying to me, “You need that and nothing will be right until you have it.”

What this looked like as a child was me crying in the grocery store, thinking fast of ways to convince my mother to buy it for me. “Mom, if you buy me the multi-pack, you won’t have to buy me another.”

As an adolescent, it was nice to “smoke the fucking cigarette or Cindy is gonna beat the shit out of you, and you’ll look like a big baby and they won’t let you hang out with them anymore.”

As a teenager, “Drink more she’ll/he’ll give you what you want -- for a price. It’s not so bad and sometimes feels pretty damned good.”

As an adult, “More, more, I’m starting to remember. I don’t want to feel that shit! More, please whatever it takes, I need more.”

I can offer you an ear to listen to what’s happening

I can offer you any knowledge on what’s going on in which I may know

I can help with a shoulder to cry upon

I can only help if you open up about needing the help

I can help by talking to you about my life. That might help in a way

I can help to lead you away from turning your life into the way I’ve made my own

There will be times were we can help each other