"I Began To Notice" by Robyn Joy

I BEGAN TO NOTICE how it impressed boys when I drank as good as or better than them. I noticed that I had a special power that my brother couldn’t put in his shadow when I used my body to speak instead of my words. I began to notice I wasn’t the prettiest or the most popular or smartest or most talented at the best at anything, but I was good at being awkward and not fitting in with anyone, and sometimes that earned affection from someone interesting. I began to notice I was my sister’s little sister until she went to college and had her first baby, and I was my brother’s little sister until he graduated from our high school, and then I wasn’t sure, so I became Billy’s girlfriend and then someone else’s girlfriend and someone else’s and so on unless I was the party girl who was anybody’s and could keep up with anyone but still graduate from college with a solid C average and hold onto an endless string of adequately paying jobs in customer service where no one cared about how hungover you were as long as you arrived on time and said it with a smile. I began to notice years later when I became a wife for the first time that I didn’t have any idea who I was, except that I did, and I loved not getting to know her better, because I found her to be too angry and volatile for public consumption and it was easier to just play along with what everyone else liked than to bring attention to such an undesirable girl.

Gary MillerComment
"It All Felt a Bit Overwhelming" by Caitlin Ferland

It all felt a bit overwhelming. I was tired of running out of my shit, and when I did I was so sick. Depending on what I was withdrawing from ,there were different symptoms. Restless legs all night, the sweats, the shits, the unbelievable anxiety. Sore muscles, insomnia, headache. The shakes, the fatigue, the rage . The all consuming knowing of impending doom. Get it!! It doesn't matter how just get it!!! Stop fuckin' around and figure it out!! You've got another 5 hours till you try to sleep and don't forget about the morning. 2 for now, 3 for bed, 4 for morning to not get sick. I have a total of 6? Fuck!! Get some alcohol , that might help, probably not. Call the Dr. again, try not to sound pissed. Over and Over Day after Day. A Slave to get it, a glutton to take it, a whore to keep it, a thief to steal it, a liar to hide it, a fake to make it through the day. Enough is enough. I can't do it anymore!! I'm tired. I'm done.

Gary Miller Comment
"Living in a Nightmare" by Gabriel Brunelle

The water rose
while everyone was sleeping, silently and slowly,
and no one seemed to notice.

And they were sleeping while they were walking; and they were sleeping while they were sitting; and they were sleeping while they were working;

and the only time they seemed to be awake was when they were actually sleeping, when they were dreaming.

Only then
did the pressure of the doom produce the appropriate reaction. In their lives
they were held in distraction.

The water rose,
higher and higher,
past the ankles and the tires;
past the roses and the fences; past the doorways and the lintels.

They were sleeping in their waking, mouthing bubble words
which could not be heard
until they rose to the surface

in their dreaming subconscious AND SCREAMED!

Gary MillerComment
"How Is It That I Have Returned to This Road?" by Jack Gower

He hadn’t been on Cherry Tree Lane in over a decade, but not much had changed besides his vantage point. A few feet taller now. Regretfully, he hadn’t seen a single cherry tree in his travels. Honestly, he was a little doubtful that cherries even grew on trees — they seemed better suited for a shrub or vine, like most berries. He had seen plenty of cherries, just not the fresh-picked kind. No, these cherries were sickeningly neon in color and unnaturally saccharine in taste, mostly for show—an unnecessary beverage ornament. Something to distract.

Gary MillerComment
"Love Between the Sheets (of Paper)" by John Gower

Though Doris and I spoke in the hallway every so often we had never so much as shared a pot of tea, and yet, when she died she left everything in her apartment to me.

One morning Charles D. Sullivan; Esquire, rang my doorbell. It had been years since anyone had rung the bell and it was as though a fire alarm had gone off. Mr. Sullivan wore a dark-blue pin-striped suit, bow tie, and shiny black shoes. In contrast, I was wearing the same bathrobe I’ve worn most everyday since retiring ten years ago.

He said; “Are you Andrew Copperfield?” I said I was and invited him in. Not knowing my relationship with Doris, he cautiously explained that Doris had killed herself. When I showed only a moderate interest, he picked up the pace and notified me that she had left the entire contents of her apartment to me. “Me?” I said, “Why would she leave me anything. We were just acquaintances, just hallway friends.”

He handed me her key and said; “Just take what you want. I’ll be back next Monday to retrieve the key and whatever is left, I’ll donate to the Salvation Army.”

Though it was none of my business, I asked him why Doris had killed herself. He said with a shrug of his shoulders, “She probably just got lonely, I see it all the time.”

Her apartment looked a lot like mine, and there wasn’t much that I wanted. I exchanged a bedside table and lamp for the one I already owned, a couple of nice pots and dishes, and an almost new toaster-oven. What really caught my attention though were two very tall stacks of black and white composition books leaning dangerously against one another in the corner of her living room.

I carefully took one from the top and, though it was clearly a journal, there were no dates entered, and it was written in a style and voice that implied someone other than herself would one day be reading it.

I sat in her living room and read it cover to cover, all the while feeling as though I were peeking through a half-close blind. Before the week was up, I had brought the journals to my apartment. I read them with a passion only a voyeur would appreciate.

One snowy afternoon, half-way into maybe my tenth journal I came upon a line that read:  Andrew and I met at the library today. Hidden between the book aisles we kissed like teenagers, kissed as though we had been kissing for months and months instead of just a peck goodnight like the other night. It was my intention not to kiss him again, to put him off, at least until we got to know one another better.….

I felt ill. Dizzy. “Again”? What was she saying? Several pages later she wrote; Andrew would understand why my soufflé fell flat, wouldn’t you?... “Wouldn’t you?” Was that a typo? Was she writing to me? Were all these journals written for me to read? I raced through the journal looking for my name but my name never came up again. Quickly I picked up the next journal but it was obviously out of sequence to the one before. Carefully, I undid both the stacks, hoping to get to the final journal but there was no order to how they were stacked. It dawned on me she did this on purpose, she wanted me to finish every word. So, I stopped hurrying, I slowed down, way down, I surrendered to her and let her take me in.

Her writing was lovely. At times she seemed to care so much for me and it was clear that I loved her, too. Page after page we would fall in love all over again. She had me say things, teasing things. In her control I was at my best. I was witty, clever, and such a confident lover. The randomness of the journals was her way to ensure that I would never leave her. Well, I always did like strong women.

Eventually, after I had read every word, she stayed in my mind for days, for weeks, idle, quiet, and lonely. I missed her. My health began to take a turn for the worse. Then one day, while picking up my prescriptions, I bought a black and white composition book. And I began to write. I wrote about the dinner Doris and I ate that night. I listed all the ingredients, along with my trip to the store to buy them. We went to bed after dinner, promising one another never to leave again.

Eventually I soon had my own towering stack of journals but at some point the need for novelty began to creep into my writing. Harriet down the hall seemed so lonely. After our affair began, Doris had a fatal heart attack. Now it’s just Harriet and I. We sometimes speak to one another when getting our mail. And yes, I’m putting words into her mouth. I think she likes me. I can’t wait for her to read this.

 

Gary Miller Comments
"How to Talk to Me So I Will Listen" by Ronald Locke, Sr.

Please don’t holler at me.
I’m right here.
Will you listen to me?
I’m sorry.
Can we talk now?
I want to tell you how I changed.
I wrote letters; no response.
But now I want to tell
the truth to you. Will you forget the
Past, and ask me any question
you want. Wipe those tears away.
Because I will always love you.
It’s been 10 years since I talked to
You. Let’s be friends.
I’m sorry.

Gary Miller Comment
"The Text I Never Sent" by Jenny Deupree

Dear Mom & Dad.  It has become very clear to me that both of you have a problem with alcohol. I knew about Mom since I was 23. A school friend, after Mom had drifted in and out of the room, asked “How long has your mother had an alcohol problem?” Bam! The lights went on. I knew there was something wrong, I just didn’t know what it was. I remember cleaning off a table from breakfast, and there was a cup of tea left at your place. So I took a sip. It wasn’t tea, it was bourbon. Dad, I thought Mom was the alcoholic and you were the sober one.  She got sloppy all the time. I only saw you sloppy once. I had come home from college, the bus took me from the airport to a hotel downtown where you were supposed to pick me up.  I waited and waited and finally you staggered through the door and fell down in front of me with your head in my lap. I got you up, to the car, took the keys away from you, said “No, I’ll drive.”  I never said the word “drunk” in your presence. I always said things like “Mom’s not too good.”  When the “Children of Alcoholics” information came out in 1984, your 5 children immediately became the Deupree ACOA group.

Gary Miller Comment
"I Could Have Spoken Up" by Gavin Howley

Sitting in the passenger seat. The usual place to feel awkward and uncomfortable. She drove. The silence felt agonizing but it probably wasn’t. She seemed to like me? I guess? I mean, she kept asking me out for after-work walks, probably only due to the anxiety level that naturally builds up during the work day. She would have walked anyway. Nothing to do with me.

Plus she liked to have someone along when she ate. She did think I was funny. I do get that a lot. “You’re hilarious,” or some version thereof.

But did it “mean” anything? I mean I could have spoken up at any time. I was convinced I was “in love” with her, whateverthefuck I thought THAT meant.

But she did seem to enjoy my company, so obviously there was something off about her...

How the hell do you even initiate that question?

“Hey, so um, I ‘like’ you...”

“Oh I really like you too!” she says, very quickly and enthusiastically, “you’re SO great to talk to and I LOVE our walks! You’re such a great friend!”

Oh well. There ya have it. It’s ok I’m basically a spinster at this point. I wear sweaters. I tuck my shirt in. I have concerns about belts and socks. That’s ok. It happens.

 

Gary Miller Comment
"The Road" by Gabriel Brunelle
DSC_0011.jpg

How is it that I have returned to this road?
Time and again;
no matter the pain;
no matter the consequence; no matter the damage.

How could I
let this happen?
And wait -- wait a minute;
before I smash myself in the face; before I smash
a desk, a table, or a wall.

Because of the pain; because of the consequence; because of the damage.

That is why.
Like the snake eating its tail.
Like Escher's ants
marching the double twisted ribbon of double elliptic infinity.

I remember
being so hung over,
so dry,
in a firetrap apartment on a dusty second floor; smelling cat shit; smelling mold; smelling piss.

And I remember a blasé telephone, and my father's voice,
from the road,
telling me

it was a bad one to be on.

Gary Miller Comments
"It Seemed Like a Terrible Thing" by Stefani Capizzi

It seemed like a terrible thing, but some good came out of it.

I thought it was difficult and uncomfortable and upsetting - setting boundaries and telling the truth. 

I put it off. I was afraid. I did not want to feel the probable anger and hurt that would follow. And the rejection that would surely be.  

Fear of rejection, in so many ways, kept me quiet for so many years. 

But I have learned,  I have learned. 

In the end, something good came out of it. 

I was able to stand on the line, my line. I did not fall off on one side or the other. The other person did not die, nor did I. 

Their ability to be awake, to hear, did not define my ability to speak.

 

Gary Miller Comment
"My Mom Once Gave Me Some Good Advice" by Caitlin Ferland

My mom once gave me some good advice: "It can always be good in bed, but it's when your feet hit the floor that really matters." 

Of course for me, sometimes it was mediocre, even bad, in and out of bed and I still stayed. Why? Now that's the question isn't it!! Because he was someone instead of no one, or maybe because I felt loved once upon a time... I really don't have a definite answer. But what I do know is what I don't want today, and I hope that that helps with my next choice. If there is a next choice. Because I kind of like being with me and only me sometimes. A lot of the time actually.

If there is another choice on the horizon than great, and if not, I think I'll be OK☺

Gary Miller Comment
"Funeral" by Richard Gagnon

When it comes time there will be no fanfare,
no second line New Orleans send-off
trailing children and yapping dogs in its wake.
He’ll be cordially stuffed into a stout black bag,
ready for that slow ride--sans lights or sirens,
these thin-lipped jail staff perpetually dream of.

At unforseen moments, algebraically brief and crystalline, John
restores the Weimar, though layered deep in faltering gray matter:
such lurid stories, rich with glottal stops, umlauts and barking consonants.
His polestaff father was born in 1892, sometimes 1880,
any belle epoque instant inconvenient to the fatherland’s greatness.
Midsentence, a vast pause, eyes clouding with crematoria smoke.
The scream, avalanche-like, cannot wait for nightfall.

What has he gifted them with during
those twoo’clockthreeo’clockfouro’clock nights,
delivering his staccato message padiddle bomb boom,
banging that green steel door eight
to the bar quick as Old John Henry’s hammer?
Only this calamitous ululating shiva
battering the wings of sleep.

Gary Miller Comment
"The Only Time I’m Really Free is When" by Nancy Bassett

Remember the words to that song? I’m free?
     I can’t even remember who sang it—

Richard will know…

I’m free with music
     The guitar, the drums, the beat

It makes me move
     The rhythm is a part of me

I love it when I can sing the words
     But they don’t always matter

But certain lines of a song can just reach out to me
     I remember those lines again & again

I’m free…

 

Gary MillerComment
"A Morning in the Middle of My Addiction" by Richard Gengras

Goddam.  Stumble to the kitchen, down those friggin' stairs.
Find the ½ pint for mornings
Puke
Drink water.
Get sorta right, put on pants, shirt
It's 7:45.

Walk to the Center, get a pint at 8:00
And start walking home, drinking, in public.
No shame, no cares.

All of Hartford going to work.
Shit.
I gotta get to work-not till 10:00.
Have a drink boys-your loving bride awaits you!

Yeah-right, she awaits something.

Fuck, I'm tired. Get some blow on the way in.

I wish I was back on heroin.

Gotta puke again.

Mom calls, says I'm drinking again.
How does she know?

I haven't talked to anyone today.

 

Gary MillerComment
"I Am From" by Robyn Joy

I AM FROM my mother, who is from her mother, who was hidden with her mother in an attic when she was learning what it was to be in this world. I wonder how much of that DNA passed to my mother and then to my sister and my brother and finally to me. I’ve felt a visceral fear of abandonment since I was a baby, but I was always well cared for, too much so sometimes, due to how ill and tiny and sensitive I was. Is this DNA where it comes from?

I am from a house with quiet murmurs and secrets that I don’t really understand yet. A family that looked and still looks lovely and loving from outside, but uses over-sharing and personal traumas as weapons in conversation.

I am from the ether.

I am from lonely winter days and endless summer ones where we played hide and seek and green eyed ghost as a neighborhood.

I am from Billy Martin’s cologne and the sweetness of Southern Comfort burning my throat as I flirted with anyone who was interested in a girl with a hole somewhere deep in her ribs that she could never fill, no matter how much she poured in. I am from parties where we drank too much and smoked too much and made “bad decisions” that are now remembered as assaults and crimes.

I am from people that no longer talk to me because my sobriety makes them uneasy, makes them look at their never-ending glasses of red, wondering why I stopped when everything was just fine.

Gary Miller Comment
"It Was Almost Dark Before the Rain Began" by John Gower

It was almost dark before the rain began. Usually Roberto would sleep in his tent but not tonight. Big Red got mad when Roberto gulped the last of the Thunderbird and he made long cuts to the top of the tent. Now whenever Roberto sees Big Red on the street he looks for something hard or sharp in case he wants to talk about the Thunderbird again. 

Roberto hurries to the Salvation Army. His friend Billy works there and even though he is a little late Billy will let him in.

It used to bother Roberto the way Billy forced him to say the Lords Prayer with the other men. But one night when Roberto was alone looking up at the stars through the rips in his tent the Lord’s Prayer rolled round and round in his head; Our Father, which art in heaven, hollowed be thy name;” and also the part about forgiving trespasses, well, it felt okay that night. Then he began to think of the men at the Salvation Army like a sort of primitive tribe gathered around a camp-fire, each of the men looking up at the far-away stars just like he was doing in the tent and together they’d be praying and hoping that their sad, hard lives might begin to change for the better. Hollowed be thy name, meant to Roberto that there was something so big and so strange that to name it would surely make it smaller than it was. And these men, and him, they were all a part of this gigantic swirling thing. Prayer was just a way to acknowledge the enormity of it all. After that night he began to pray with the other men and not feel bad about it.

Tonight, Roberto is grateful to be out of the rain. He’s not thinking of Big Red, and it invigorates him when Billy leads the prayer. Later he helps Billy clean up the kitchen, after that he plays some cards. Something about tonight feels like a big green pasture set before him. He begins to think maybe, maybe tomorrow morning he’ll go to the Early Risers AA meeting.

After a hot shower Roberto falls asleep. In his dream he is twelve or so, he was with his parents on a street corner but then they were gone. He wants to leave the corner and look for them but he’s afraid. He begins to float away, and he doesn’t want to go, he swims in the air trying to get back, but the wind is pulling him away. He wakes up and the room is crowded with sleeping men. He misses seeing the stars through the roof of his tent. 

Gary Miller Comment
"The Moment I Knew Something Had to Change" by Daniel New

The moment I knew something had to change, I

knew it was sink or swim. I had to take

charge and press a forward control to the

track and let the rage out of me. Fear is

useless here. The only way to leave is to

end the flow of emotions and pull the trigger.

The moment I knew something had to change,

I had a choice. But I let myself down

and I continued to drown. The fear of

never knowing isn’t comparable to the fear

of never breathing again. Will the next time

be the last time?

Gary MillerComment
Writers for Recovery Reads at the Vermont State House

(Click on image to navigate through slide show.)

Lee Larson graciously invited us to read at the State House as part of Recovery Day. The event was fantastic, and included recognition of some of the biggest contributors to the Vermont recovery movement, including Lee, who received a lifetime achievement award for her many years of work. We also heard updates on issues such as housing for those in recovery, a proclamation from Governor Scott, live music, and more. 

Six members of WFR read their own work, and Bess and Gary read work from three other WFR participants. The Burlington, Barre, and St. Johnsbury groups were all represented. It's just another way of getting our work out there, sharing our stories, and reducing the stigma of addiction. Great work, everybody!

Gary Miller Comment
"He Found the Photograph" by Johnny NoNo

He found the photograph under the seat of the car, it broke his heart. The dam burst and he was swept away by the memories so wonderfully, brilliantly colored, splashed with Love and Joy and Warmth and Fulfillment and so deeply shadowed with Conflict and Sadness and Pain and Anger and Cold Aloneness and Anguish and Desperation and he was drowned in Regret and Sorrow and reborn for discovering it. Sadly pleased to possess it, he knew he could never look at it again.

Gary Miller Comment
"A Premature Overdose" by Jeremy Void

A few months ago a good friend of mine died of a heroin overdose.  He was a good kid—too young to die, too stubborn to live.

Today I saw a woman passed out on the sidewalk.
Shaking.
Drooling.
She looked sick.

Two firemen stood peeling her off the pavement.  One woman stood by, watching the firemen work.  Who was this woman?

A Friend?
A Concerned Citizen?
Somebody.
Nobody.
Anybody????

A few months ago a good friend of mine died of a heroin overdose.  He had just gotten home.  Back from the road.  I saw him at the bus stop before I boarded a bus to Montreal for my cousin’s wedding.

He was gonna stay with me for a bit when I got back to Rutland, VT.  No using drugs when you’re with me this time around, I said.  (He stayed with me before he had left.)  I mean it, I scolded.  Okay, he told me.  Okay, I won’t.

A few months ago a good friend of mine died of a heroin overdose.  He was a good kid—too young to die, too stubborn to live….

Gary Miller Comment