The following information is very personal. I offer it to the public freely. I do so in an effort to convey to readers just how easily life can be derailed after substance abuse. I want to begin by saying this. Not learning is a pitfall. I once believed I was wise for my age. What an embarrassingly boastful view of myself. I could not see that I traded the fullness of feeling my life in for numbness. Certainly the pain I experienced from my past was intense. But all the vodka and benzodiazepines did was increase my wounds while masking the pain. I didn’t know I was in trouble. I was blissfully bleeding out. That kept on until my substance abuse, which I thought I was in control of, affected others. And then ultimately a life was lost. A regret of mine which haunts me daily.

I was arrested, defeated, and staring down twenty five to life. I wouldn’t eat. I just laid there in administrative segregation at the St Johnsbury Vermont correctional facility waiting to die. All was lost. I couldn’t even remember much of my past or who I was as an individual as opposed to just another statistic. Then without any choice, I withdrew from alcohol, benzodiazepines, and caffeine all at once. The medication they gave me to assist with my withdrawal didn’t seem to help at all. 

I began suffering from nightmarish hallucinations and delusions. I can remember them to this very day. At one point I believed that an African American inmate was killed during a riot which my unwelcomed presence incited. And then as a result, An African American militant group called Puma had openly placed a high price on my head, which criminals, civilians and law enforcement alike were clamoring to collect on.

During another delusion complete with audible and visual hallucinations, I believed that the Vermont Department of Corrections handed me over to the mob for execution. I believed and even saw the mob set up a casino in an execution room and offer me a chance to gamble for a less gory, or if I lost, more gory execution. I can remember I won two shots to the lungs and one shot to the head. The whole ordeal was pure torment; hell on earth. That is when I attempted suicide by ingesting copious amounts of solid and liquid soap in an effort to avoid a horrible death. I was hoping the poison would enter my blood stream through my stomach and then the lights would go out. Instead I vomited up lather and blood so hard that I lost my voice. That earned me time in a dry cell and suicide prevention smock.

Looking back I realized that the hate from others that I perceived originated from my own mind, which hated myself. It took time but I came to the conclusion that if I lived, I could begin to attempt to pay back an enormous debt that I owed to God. If there is one absolute truth that I understand; it’s that there is still so much that I do not understand, and so much I do not know. I have learned that the family of the deceased want my statement. And given the chance, I will make my statement. Though I’m sure they would settle for a bullet to my brain. It is my responsibility to live with that. In closing I want all who read this to know that one harmless day of binge drinking can lead to two thousand days of binge drinking. And you’ll never see the black ice on the road of your life until you are upside down with a steering wheel in your mouth. It is that fatal. It is that tragic.

This is what keeps him awake at night, his painful scars, skin deep, his darker memories, should he keep? They torment him like evil deities, corrupting his mind. He reaches for something to numb his pain, the sort of freedom long lost to him. Stupid boy, they shout with words only he can hear while laughing. Evil says he is worthless, striking him with fear.

Well when I came to prison I was real messed up, I was hiding behind the mask. My behavior and thinking led me down the wrong path. My sneaky behavior got the best of me, laying in bed thinking “Why did I do it and why didn’t I listen to the truth people was pointing out to me?” I lost my family, wife, kids, the respect that people had for me, the money I spent on my addiction and not being there for my kids and wife. I had the power, control, and I was entitled to my freedom as anybody. I could go out, and my lie, drinking and drugs, was my friend. I never knew what I had until I lost everything.

But I found the faith to keep going on was my Higher power, a positive friend.

We are all equal under god

We are not all equal on earth

Worst mass shooting in U.S. history

But the mass was not held in a church

Nor a school

Nor a mall

Nor a mosque

Nor a temple

It was a gay nightclub

I feel the asterisk in people’s minds

God has stricken

An abomination

That

Is

An abomination

That separation of life’s value

If it

And the life it is

Is of no value

That though is alive

I could hear it

That indiscriminant discrimination

I am

That

I am

What I am

There is that

Nothing more

Nothing less

I am

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.

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.”

As I attempt to open my eyes the fog set in fast. For a moment I didn’t know where I was. Then it dawned on me: you’re at home, knucklehead. Two moments have passed and the flashes of what I believe to be memories from the night before start flooding in.

·      People in my face yelling

·      A scuffle with someone I can’t remember

·      Swilling straight vodka out of a handle

·      Blue lights coming through the living room window.

—Back to reality, I looked at the clock. 9:59 am. My head us spinning, I feel like shit.

Ruff…Ruff…

It seems as though everyone is recovering from something. It may be substance abuse, other kinds of abuse, loss of a loved one, a tragedy, unlucky circumstance, or the pain we have caused by our own hands. I unfortunately am juggling with recovery from all of these things. But the most powerful struggle of my life is dealing with the pain of my own actions. I never wanted to know I could caused so much damage in so many lives including the life I accidentally but absent-mindedly took. I never wanted to believe I could be a monster or a heinous villain as the media has presented me to society both locally and globally. I always believed that in my core I was a good person with good intentions. Sadly the old cliché rings true in my case. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. And to amplify the treachery of that road, it was also made slick with the woeful union of vodka and benzodiazepines. My crime has changed me. I can never be the same person who was free from guilt, shame, and persecution. A youthful part of me has died.

My religious belief tells me that I could never be worthy f the level and depths of the creator’s mercy and love that he offers. The a great sacrifice was made to pay in advance of the transgressions of mankind and the dark ripple effect caused by their actions. I am to believe that because I am repentant, truly seek to be forgiven and thereafter work towards helping my fellow human beings, which is all true; that the symbolic blood stains on my hands have been washed away. However I cannot seem to forgive myself as much as God is willing to forgive me. Self-forgiveness is a jagged and sharp horse pill to swallow.

I cannot envision a life where everything important to me isn’t touched by the death of Isaac. How can I enjoy anything I used to again? How can I just laugh and make other people laugh? Who do I think I am? How can I enjoy Christmas again, when the holiday focuses around the birth of a young, pure, and innocent life? How can I walk in faith that God is with me when a passage from the Bible states that it is better to wear a millstone around my neck and drown myself in the deepest ocean than to hurt one of God’s precious children?

I am told life will go on. That one day I will let myself off the hook. One day I will be out of prison. Christmases will come and go. Events in life will transpire. And I will do good works according to any kind of divine inspiration I may receive. I am told time heals all wounds. But I cannot see a day when the wound will cease to hurt. The wound caused by taking a young life will still bleed and ache. I am told that I should remember that it wasn’t malicious, that it was accidental. And that is true. It was not malicious. But that does not seem to soften the blow. After a year and half of deliberation I have decided that I will continue to live. Not because I deserve to. Rather because if I take my own life, then evil wins a double victory. While I may be worth little, God can still bring good things out of me. And honestly I believe I own that to him and will continue to owe that to God for the remainder of my days. I am not important, but the helping of others is.

It was 10 in the morning when the dog showed

up at his door.

He told himself he wasn’t going to

continue where he left off the night before.

When he awoke he said never again

but his hands were shaking by 10 am.

Just a little bit to calm his nerves

a little turns into a lot

what he told himself before was soon forgot.

Can’t stop now almost there

will do whatever it takes to get to

the end.

Then 10 am rolls around again.

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.