I am powerful. I rescue people then fade away leaving gratitude in my wake. In my secret heart I know how to help, know what to say, know how to heal. In my secret heart all the pain, anger and fear in me is transformed into compassion and hope. In my secret heart my world swirls with the colors of hope, love, compassion, grace and all that is good. In my secret heart I am alive.

It comes into your life usually unwelcome and uninvited, like a stranger who happens upon
your door and you let them in because you think they’re harmless and might be able to help
you.
But soon you realize that what started out as harmless and helpful became haunting and
overwhelming.
So you tried to ask the stranger to leave you, but they were no longer a stranger, they had
become a friend, a confidant, how could you ask them to leave?
At times you’d put them in the closet or attic so that friends or family would not know that they
lived there.
But soon they were everywhere you went; work, home, in good times and bad times, they were
always with you.
You needed help to rid your life of this stranger, this uninvited guest who clung to you and
would not be dispelled.

I walk and breathe deep..
On the endless circle walk
With Beauty. Beyond..
The crow soars over
Gleaming razor sharp
Circular barbed wire
Sings a love caw in passing.
While the way back is gone,
Only forward...

I can hear you now, I said to my mom. "You can do this" her voice was sweet and songful. Her whispers of encouragement danced in the air.

And I could hear her in that almost malleable moment. I could hear her powerful prayers for my recovery; they were just whispers - soft, spiritual, gentle.

"You can do this."

Her tone was compassionate, clear and concise. She leaned in closer to me , winked and said,

"Breakfree from this self- incarceration."

In that tangible instant I could hear her . Maybe even more importantly I understood her. She was doing for me what I could not do for myself.

"You can do this..."

It's the same thing over and over

Patterned living, regimental life force

The gifts have left, the promises stopped.

We can follow the Spheres, but are gone in a stale heartbeat.

She holds a baby, doorstep bound.

I give a bunch away in the church basket.

Some left Hungry, some left Rich

Some early, some late

There is that voice again, graveling wide in my ears.

It repeats itself, just charging through

Over and Over, listening only to itself, to hear itself, to BE itself.

I can hear her now

But I won’t tell

Which way she's going.

If you haven't seen Bess O'Brien's amazing films about opiate addiction The Hungry Heart and Here Today, you'll your chance. On Wednesday, September 6 at 7 PM, Vermont Public Television will show The Hungry Heart. The following evening at 7, they will show "Here Today." After the September 7 screening of Here Today, Vermont PBS will hold a live panel to discuss the film. You can even submit your own questions for the panel--click here or read below to find out how. Don't miss this great opportunity to see the films that helped change the conversation about opiate addiction in Vermont, and helped launch Writers for Recovery!

In addition to these screenings, there will be special community screenings and panel discussions of Here Today in September. The Brattleboro area screening will take place at the Latchis Theater at 7 PM on Tuesday, September 12. The Rutland area screening will take place at Rutland High School at 7PM on Wednesday, September 13. And the St. Johnsbury area screening will take place at 7PM on Thursday, September 14 at Catamount Arts.   

TO SUBMIT QUESTIONS FOR VERMONT PBS DISCUSSION PANEL

In early July, we got together to celebrate the publication of volume 2 of our annual anthology, "One Imagined Word at a Time." The evening featured readings by many of the writers featured in the anthology and music by Vermont songwriter Mark LeGrand.  If you'd like to buy a copy of the anthology, you can order it here. (Please note, the image on the page shows last year's book, but we will indeed send you this year's if you order.)

And in case you missed it, here is the complete text of the reading.

I Am From

by Mollie Hoerres

I am from

a gravelly alley

Dusty rocks and

Cracked, asbestos shingles

I am from

traffic jams

People yelling

I’ll kill you mother-fucker!

I am from

Max and Joan

The two who never should have spawned

Except,

Then where would we seven be?

I am from

dishes smashing

Knives flying

Windows crashing

I am from

hiding in the wall

To save myself

From being seen

I am from

Don’t you ever talk

About what goes on

In this house

And from

Clean yourself up

It’s time to go to church

I am from

Respect the father

Do as you are told

Children are to be seen

Not heard

I am from

Don’t be a pussy

Stop your crying

And,

I need to get off

The phone Honey,

I can’t talk now

I am from

Don’t go out

Stay here with me

I might die if

You go out there and

Live

I am from

Help yourself

To a drink

While you make one

For me

I am from

Notes on refrigerators

Saying

No drugs

No boys

Take out the garbage

I am from

code names

over the telephone

for the dealer

Be careful what you say

I am from

Shut up and

Leave me alone

I just want

To be gone

I am from

Rough streets

Tender hearts

Calloused hands

Quick wit and

Constitutions that

Never quit

I am from

A shifting landscape

Changing

Moving along with the tides

And phases of the moon

I am from

The Universe

Ever flowing, expanding

Limitless

Reaching across dimensions

I am from

A world of forgiveness

Generations of hope and

Beings of love.

Where I'm From...

by Suzie Walker

I'm a farmer's daughter from cow country, from my dad's dairy farm, to college Cowtown USA, to the home of the Strolling of the Heifers. 

I'm a farmer's daughter from a loving family, gregarious and celebratory, but who often tipped back too many and toasted too much. 

I'm a farmer's daughter from voracious reading stock, where we passed books from grandparent to parent to child and talked about big ideas and felt deep feelings. I'm a farmer's daughter, caught between wholesome and naughty, as the various limericks and stories go.

I'm from a farmhouse where we kept more beer than milk, and we thought neverending 12 packs were a staple of life everywhere, where the bulk tank in my dad's milkhouse held gallons of fresh, frothy milk while the milkhouse fridge held a quarter-keg of its own foamy beverage.

I'm from a family where loved ones gathered at parties and reunions became strangers as the booze flowed freely and the day wore on, where I tried not to get caught in the sloshy swirl of the drunken chatter.

I'm from a family where the white mustache smile is beer foam not milk, but we learned to wipe the foam away.

I'm from a family who said "Enough!" and cut off the flow, embracing recovery, from my mom, to my siblings, to me.

I'm a farmer's daughter, who discovered that I'm enough and learned when to say when.

I Am a Disposable Human Being

by Q.

I am a disposable human being

Use once and discard

Do not reuse

            Do not repurpose.

                        Do not recycle.

I come to you an empty vessel

Begging to be filled with hopes and dreams

Yet I am told I am irreparable

A cog of malice in this machine

I have purged myself of rust and stain

Yet still I am haunted

Do not allow me to feel needed

God forbid you trust me

For such as claim correction

I feel I am denied the care I seek

I have changed every broken part

Yet I am somehow unworthy of use

How is it that I will heal

Without a tearful, fierce embrace

Denied making reparation

Because it does not fit my stereotype

When it is I attempting virtue

But barricaded on every side

Tell me, who is failing

I leave for you to decide

A Morning in the Middle of My Addiction

by Richard Gengras

Goddam. Stumble to the kitchen, down those friggin’ stairs.

Find the 1⁄2 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.

I Am the One

by Angala Devoid

I am the one who lost custody of her two older children 20 years ago.

I am the one who did not care if people tried to help me get them back. All I did

was push them away.

I am the one who fought and fought the system for years. Stop drinking stop

using just stop and your

babies will be back in your arms again.

I am the one who did not listen to those words. I stuck cotton in my ears

picked up a drink and tookthat demon’s hand.

I am the one who stood in front of a judge and said my drink my drug I love

more than my kids then

turned around and walked away.

I am the one who after all those years of fighting walked into my Lord’s arms

and said I am willingto

surrender now, help me win this fight.

The Moment I Knew Something Had to Change                         

by Doreen Phillips

The moment I woke up

I came to realize

My forehead was throbbing

Rolling out of bed required

Careful positioning of my frozen legs

As my back was in lockdown

I waddled to the bathroom

Stripping myself naked

I saw the mottled patches

Of purple and blue

Another night, another blackout

Another step closer to death

The moment I knew I was in serious trouble

A stream of crimson blood

Streaked the porch floor

My head split open

Gushing

As I stumbled and crawled

To arrive on my feet

The panic knowing

I would soon be found out

For another tumble

This time during broad daylight

I escaped the need

To be sewn back together

The party ended

On an abrupt note

I face-planted on the floor

Down from a barstool

The paramedics arrived

One of them the son

Of an old friend

Attending the party

We had just reconnected

After seven years

What were the odds?

He was from another town

The moment I knew

Something needed to change

I took inventory

Of years of moments lost

Body battered, soul shattered

So I packed my bags

As God’s hand reached out to me

You are coming with me

To live.

A.K.A.  Ugly Bulb

by Johnny NoNo

I was once the one with the reputation

For wearing the Lampshade.

At Parties

It was an expression

For the one who played The Fool.

Occasionally,

I found an actual Lampshade

And put it on.

I had an insatiable appetite for the attention,

And I was very convincing

As the Fool.

I was always the last one

To leave the Party,

And my Hunger was so great

That for me,

The Party never ended.

I stopped removing the Lampshade altogether,

And danced to the Music in my head all the Time,

Never worrying about the Bruise on my reputation,

‘till I found myself

Doing time

in places like this.

Now I see that the Lampshade

Doesn’t look that good on me anymore…

It didn’t look too good in the first place.

The Promises Made, the Ones I Keep

by Connie Perry

Oh Gee, I need to put this damn life aside.

To make a better one.

For me.

To get along with people.

To keep my thoughts to myself.

Live in peace and love for others.

WHO AM I KIDDING?

This sucks.

Do I want to be a good person or a hater?

Damn, we have enough haters out there.

There are days I want to tear up the world.

I’ll never be a saint.

Damn, but I can and will change.

But know…that there are days when I will be as mean as a bear.

But anyhow, I want peace for the world

And I.

You Should Have Been There

by S.

It was one of those meetings, you know the kind, where the topic strikes a chord and the sharing is deep and meaningful. Like the other night when the topic was ‘Sobriety First.’ There were the usual remarks about the importance of attending meetings and going to any lengths until somebody got fired up about the need for being selfish and taking care of yourself. After all, how can your sobriety come first if YOU don’t come first? How can you help someone else if you’re not ready? If you’re still struggling to take care of yourself?  If you’re not spiritually fit and strong? It all made perfect sense.
 

After all, we had finished our self-indulgent drinking journeys and left a trail of carnage and wrecked lives, but we were better now. We’d made amends, become contrite and humble, and were ready to extend a helping hand and serve others. Of course, in order to stay sober, we needed to be a little selfish and take care of ourselves first. It seemed we’d come full circle.
 

There were metaphors about life jackets and learning to swim before giving our own away, about getting our own house in order, and about cleaning up our side of the street first. Ultimately we needed to put ourselves first, put our sobriety ahead of all other things in order to be prepared and effective helping others.
 

Then our leader, bless her heart, came up with the perfect metaphor:
 

‘It’s like being in a plane,’ she said. ‘The plane is passing through a storm and we are experiencing turbulence. The cabin begins to decompress and the oxygen masks drop down.’
 

I have a fear of flying so I’m not liking this example.
 

‘But we know what to do,’ she continues. ‘Put our own mask on first. Before we help the armless man across the aisle or the little old lady sitting in the seat beside us. Even before—hard to imagine—but even before we help the sweet baby child that we’re holding in our arms, we have to put our own mask on first.’
 

There is a long reflective silence, a pregnant pause. Everyone in the room is nodding quietly, thinking it through and loving the metaphor. Yes. We need to help ourselves before we can really help someone else. And save all our lives.
 

So there we were, imagining being in a 727 with no oxygen when somebody makes a comment that takes the rest of the air right out of the room:
 

‘Yes, but if the plane goes down, we’ll all be dead so it really doesn't matter.’
 

Who says alcoholics aren’t realists?

Craving

by Maura Quinn

I was having a craving

First it was for crawling back into bed

So, I did

I was having a craving

And it kept coming at me

I was having a craving

And I wanted to give in

I wanted to run out or drive out

Just, get to what I wanted

Because it was a pull that kept pulling

It would not back off

I was having a craving

So, I went to a meeting

And it subsided for a while

So, I thought it would be safe

To go out

And it was for a while

But then I got restless again

So, I went home

I went home

And I tried to distract myself

I wrote and I watched soap operas

But I was having a craving

And it still won’t go away

Because I’m having a craving

And the craving craves

So, I’m hoping for sleep

And hoping it will pass

But it is powerful

It is consuming

It swamps me

So, I have

To

Just let time pass

 Don’t quit

And don’t give in

Because the craving craves

And the craving can never be filled
 

What might have been…

by Nancy Bassett

Sometimes I think back to when I was using & how it might have been…

Like, if I hadn’t gotten arrested,

Or if heroin hadn’t consumed my life the way it did…

What if Wayne hadn’t overdosed and died?

Would we still be together?

I’d like to think so,

but maybe we would have killed each other by now…

And then I think about it a little more,

I wouldn’t be sitting here right now…

Maybe I’d be dead, too

I’m glad I’m here…

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 …

Eyes open into the life

Lucky enough to still be here

Still free

laugh at it all

and with the chance to breath

evenly in the new

moon

Yet it is

with God that I have

sight, the comfort 

at still having a voice

hope

heart

the gentle bloody

listening of it

all Regal

Immediate

eternally finite

the even throated

youth

of yes it is okay

it will be better

not Alone

Not really

Hope is my best friend now

A gift for the soul

vision for the rest

of this brief

Dance on the head

of a spinning Earth

Now I can

sense the

essence, before

the cloud always

there stopping

interrupting

interfering

with the true open

spirit

A door is open

Walking thru now.

I guess it has always been common for adults to talk down about the younger generation. You know the drill. They have no values. They have no ambition. They aren't as talented, or as creative. Their music is terrible. But I recently spent five weeks with the amazing kids at the Woodside Juvenile Rehabilitation Facility in Colchester Vermont leading a Writers for Recovery workshop, and I am here to tell you that the news about young people is good. 

The students at Woodside, were smart, friendly, creative, and fantastic writers. They were willing to take a chance on a total stranger, to put hard truths on the page, and to share them. Oh, and the hard truths weren't all of it. As you will see as you read the work that follows, they wrote with not only fearless honesty but with introspection, imagination, and an outright wacky sense of humor. The time I spent at Woodside was one of the highlights of my summer. I want to send my heartfelt thanks to the students and their incredible x 10 teachers for sharing their time and their work with me.

What follows is the text of the reading the students did at the end of the workshop. To protect confidentiality, all works are presented anonymously. Read on, and be amazed. 

Something That’s Really Hard for Me...

 I find it hard to trust, to communicate, to open up.

All the burnt bridges I’ve caused,

I find it hard to look em’ straight in the face.

As I look out the window, I find it hard not to cry.

As I think about the past, I find it hard not to blame myself.

As I think about my weight, I find it hard not to purge.

As I look in the mirror, I find it hard not to turn away.

When I wake up shaking, I find it hard not to cut.

When I think about love, I find it hard not to hide.

When I think about Jamaica, I find it hard not to dream.

When I think about life, it’s hard for me not to say screw it...

FINALLY I UNDERSTOOD THE TRUTH...

Finally I understood why my Mom committed suicide,

Finally I understood that everything happens for a reason, that not everything is perfect,

Finally I understood why people always walk out of my life,

Finally I understood why I make the choices I make,

Finally I understood why I’m sitting in Woodside,

Finally I understood why people s*** on me,

Finally I understood why My dad is sitting in jail,

Finally I understood that the world does not revolve around me,

Finally I understood why why is not a good question,

Finally I understand why people tell me I’m a good sister,

Finally I understand that you can overcome anything you want to

as long as you are determined to overcome it.

Finally I understood why people give me chances,

Finally I understood to take what people say with a grain of salt

Finally I understood life is hard for a reason and that reason is to push people past what they can handle because you can handle way more than you think you can.

Ode to a Taco

 Oh taco, you are so good but you make a mess

I love that you are so meaty for me and 

neatly with a lot of spice.

Oh taco you lay on my plate.

Wait until I tuck you in so you can sleep in my body with that nice feel.

And you fill my gut.    

I Am the One Who

I am the one who took the cookies from the jar

and gave them to a troll under a bridge.

And the troll gave the cookies to a princess.

And the princess found love so the princess gave

The cookies to an elf

And the elf

Well…

Ate the cookies.

I Am From

I am from the city of drug addicts and criminal behavior.

I am from a home laced with domestic violence.

I am from the worst walk of life.

I am from a place that fighting is average and walking teens is all you see.

They are on an adventure to find the next high.

I am from a place I call luxury; others might not see it that way.

I am from a town known for drug dealers.

I am from a toxic place I call

HOME.

I Am the One Who

I am the one who

Makes poems like this:

Monkeys are weird

Monkeys are cool

Monkeys are sweet

Just like you!

My

Very

Excellent

Mother

Just

Served

Us

Nine

Pizzas

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Roses smell good

and so do you.

Snakes are slimy.

They slither all over you.

They are weird, just like snails

Floating like a butterfly stinging like a bee

Eating some food because I’m so hungry!

I Am the One Who

I am the one who

Is called brother

The one called grandchild

The one who is called son

The one called Friend

But I am the one who gets pushed to the edge

I am the one who sees nothing but hears the whispers that say:

Brother, Grandchild, Son, Friend

I Am From

I am from a place called home

I am from a place with trees and stones

I am from rolling hills and feather manes

I am from a roaring river

I am from a placid lake

I am from a place no other

I am from a place called home

I Am From

I am from a place called home

I am from a place with trees and stones

I am from rolling hills and feather manes

I am from a roaring river

I am from a placid lake

I am from a place no other

I am from a place called home

I Am the One Who...

Tires, I am the one who makes a beginning

the one who learns from his mistakes and moves on from them

The one who likes to forgive and take chances.

I am a person who shows others how to do things from experience,

I am a man who has a personality of kind

who loves to play sports and teach the little ones when he has time.

I’ve learned from all the mistakes I had chosen and believed in fate.

Taking Forgiveness from my friends and family is an importance in what I am.

I now will take things as an honor and move on with them while I still can.

Ode to Chocolate Covered Blueberries

Chocolate covered blueberrries,

just writing the name makes me melt in my seat.

I could eat them three meals a day without no complaint.

The way they explode in my mouth, it’s like a day in heaven.

Angels soaring thru the sky, even the devil comin’ out to sneak a peak.

Oh boy, they’re so delicious.

I would jump in front of a train to catch a bag

oh yes I would

my life depends...

SOME WORDS I WISH I COULD TAKE BACK...

 Some words I wish I could take back are

I’m a failer or you’re not worth my time.

I am all about hurting people verbally when I’m upset

not just others, myself included

I wish I could take back saying goodbye to people

because goodbye means forever and forever scares me.

I wish I could take back telling my mother that she’s a druggy and she’s just going to die.

I told her that and guess what?

She is 6 feet under from her usage of drugs.

I wish I could take back all the hurtful things I said to myself and others

and lift them up instead of bringing them down.

It’s not just words I wish I could take back.

It’s also all the dumb choices I have made.

I wish I could take back everything that has hurt me or others.

But guess what?

Not everything is perfect

And I can learn from my mistakes,

I also believe everything happens for a reason!!!!!!!

Something That’s Really Hard for Me...

Having to Say No

Accepting the Consequence for Not enjoying the results,

Having to take things further than expected.

Not liking the truth,

Staying at these placements that aren’t meant for me

Having to feel pain,

having to now feel that words are cheap

That they meant nothing.

I’ve now taken my life to something

that’s really hard for me

taking it to a place that’s going beyond deep step.

The Strain of Five Broken Souls

The strain of five broken souls

Souls that came with a flame

But the flame was no match for the gust of shame

Five souls out of love

Five souls from heaven above

Five souls that deserved the love

Superhero

One day you buy a necklace that you discover make you fluent in any language.

Astronauts land on a distant planet.

As soon as they open the shuttle door they see the most amazing sight.

A group of students are hiking,

When they come across a gold egg at that very moment it hatches.

You’re in the middle of a coffee shop, and time grinds to halt.

One morning Jessica wakes up and realizes that she is magnetic.

you meet a girl who, when she closes her eyes she can see the entire universe.

She has a twin brother who, when he closes his eyes he can see the fabric of time itself.

A light in your backyard gets brighter and brighter, until . . . Flash!  Flash!  Flash!

Grim, steeler, crush, toke, scorian

A planet exactly like Earth but one big difference.

Finally I Understood the Truth...

How things happen

How it cannot be solved

First it hits then it becomes a mystery,

Realizing what’s left to understand.

Having to vandalize your friends

not knowing which direction you’re going

not knowing the decisions you have left .

Finally I understood why?

The truth?

Your Right from wrongs...

I Am From

I am from-

Long lost places that have little meaning.

I am from long back roads that don’t have traffic,

I am from feeling the wind in our hair from having the top down.

I am from the small town turn around,

a place we all meet on Sunday to see the clash of the modified cars

I am from the occasional mix of blood and grease falling from our fingertips.

I am from the backwoods where we all know what we have done.

But at the end of the day, we sit down in this place that I am from

to see all the scars we have made from this little town.

One of the best things about Writers for Recovery is the chance to meet amazing people. Take Robyn Joy. She's sharing her recovery with the world in two uber-cool projects: A blog called The Comma Struggle and a print 'zine called Best Intentions, which she shares with recovery friends and sells on Etsy. In the blog, Robyn publishes her responses to Writers for Recovery prompts. In the zine, she goes deeper, with essays, art, personal musings, and helpful tips for people in recovery. In the future, we'll be posting an interview with Robyn about her work. And we'll be expanding the blog to include more info about cool projects by WFR participants, as well as more recovery news. Meanwhile, check out Robyn's work, and send her a comment or two. It's all part of the great community we're building, and you're part of it, too.

Each droplet a crystalline vision of the past, falling by so fleetingly that it could not be fully appreciated before the next.

            And the next.

            And the three after that.

            Seven more now, and the windshield holds a few to appreciate for a little extra time before, reversing their direction, they climb out of view, into the darkening strip of blue.

Faster now, they fall too fast to even glimpse them all, just the few, obscuring the view, in the path of where you were going.

            Wipers temporarily clear the field of vision through the accumulating past, but still the rains fall.

            Each droplet contains a condensed soundscape of the time, a rising chorus of all the past voices and conversations, the crunching cars of accidents, the whinnying of a horse, that concert, those thunderclaps, that alarm, all drowning out your favourite song on the radio.

            Finally, the storm of memories is too much to see through.

            The cacophony too much to bear.

            Overwhelmed, the past flooding in, the wipers are ineffective, the tyres lose their grip, the vehicle is out of control, and no sandbags can keep the rising waters at bay.

            Driving becomes swimming.

Swimming becomes floating, as you’re carried off by the currents, down your personal river of history.

The Black River Thundered past my bedroom windows

Over the longfallen ruins of The Mill

Shaking the foundation of The House

Clinking the plates and glasses and such

If you placed them too closely together in the cabinets

Shaking the pots and the pans on the rack like the Subway did

Back in The City

Shaking the tools on the bench

Causing distraction

And Forcing a Daydream

There goes two hours – what was I even dreaming?

The Rumble makes me sleep so deeply it seems this must be what a Coma feels like

The Rush of the water is like a giant White Noise Machine

Watching that River is Hypnotizing

Like watching the Fire

On a dirty-yellow morning

Twenty years ago I drove my

Plymouth out of town.

I was free, I was hopeful,

I was gone.

And now I’m back looking

For work, looking for love,

Looking, looking for a

Way home, again.

When I decided to live

things began to change.

When I decided to stop pouring poison into my body

life began to change.

When I decided to take back control

And then surrender

Life changed

I began to change

When I decided to advocate for myself

and let the part of me

that loved me and wanted to live unchained from alcohol

Life changed

Thank god

When I decided to listen to what people suggested I felt better

Shocker.

When I decided to listen to my friend and say the 3rd step prayer

I started letting go of the bondage of self

The bondage that held me just as much as alcohol

The bondage that stopped me from living a full life

When I decided to accept the things I can’t change

And to have the

Courage to change what I could

I could breathe

And I started to breathe

And it works

Thank god it works

Thank you god it works

I LOVE YOU

I’M SORRY

PLEASE FORGIVE ME

THANK YOU

Three years of Writers for Recovery have proven to me that writing can help heal the mind and spirit. New Studies show that writing can heal the body. You can read all about it here. 

Photo by Nick Adams

We are oh so pleased and proud to announce that acclaimed author and teacher Jessica Hendry Nelson will be leading our Montpelier WFR workshop. The workshop meets on Thursday evenings at 6 at the Bethany Church in Montpelier. The workshop begins on Thursday, May 25.

Please spread the word about this amazing opportunity to work with one of America's brightest young talents. The workshop is open to people 18 and over in recovery or whose lives have been affected by addiction. If you're not familiar with Jess and her work, here's some info from her website: 

Jessica Hendry Nelson is the author of the memoir-in-essays If Only You People Could Follow Directions (Counterpoint Press), which was selected as a best debut book by the Indies Introduce New Voices program, the Indies Next List by the American Booksellers' Association, named a Best Book of the Year by Kirkus Review, received starred reviews in Kirkus and Publisher's Weekly, and reviewed nationally in print and on NPR—including twice in (O) Oprah Magazine. It was also a finalist for the Vermont Book Award.

Her work has appeared in The Threepenny Review, Prairie Schooner, Tin House, The Los Angeles Review of Books, The Rumpus, The Carolina Quarterly, Columbia Journal, Crab Orchard Review, PANK, Drunken Boat and elsewhere. She teaches in the MFA Program in Writing and Publishing at Vermont College of Fine Arts, the MFA Program at the University of Nebraska in Omaha, Champlain College, and serves as the Managing & Nonfiction editor of Green Mountains Review. She lives in Vermont.

Welcome aboard, Jess!

I am from a cardboard box, too large yet just right to fall through every imaginable crack.
I am from oceans of tears that have welled up from my own broken and salted soul.
I am from a family tree of historical giants who neglected to water the last seeds.
I am from me, a lifelong collection of personalities, gathered fruits on the path from those admired, Raised on Sun and observation alone.
I am from the giant heart I house with grace.
I am from, hanging in there one more day, day by day, until I stand and say.......' i finally love me and where I am from'.

I don’t know

That’s

the story of

my life.

I find I’m in

a place

that I can’t help

but hate

and I mean really

really

hate

That’s

the story of

my life.

Two days ago

maybe three

I dipped into a

low point

a hopeless wallowing that

is sucking me dry

currently

I’m in a coffee shop

surrounded by

bodies &

voices

and I can’t help

but ask

I can’t help

but wonder

I can’t help myself

from pondering

a lost and hopeless

diminishing thought

that goes something like:

Is it so much to ask

that I can have

a single meaningful conversation

with someone

with anyone

but all I see here

through a desperate haze

are shallow faces

and plastic stances

too vicious and stuck up

to care about what

I’ve got to say

Or maybe I’m just

projecting my own desires

because I don’t really care

about what you’ve

got to say

I’m projecting this need

through desperation I project

a desire to be understood

by all

in the process rejecting

the needs and desires

of all my fellow parasites

We’re All So Carefree

and so freakin careless

a bunch of

narcissists needing the

acceptance of others

to feel whole

the acceptance of a race

of hate-mongers

waiting in the back rooms

on the back streets

in the back of the

classrooms

looming tall on

dilapidated rooftops

just waiting

just waiting

just waiting for you

to come up to me

and see me for

who I really wanna be

But how you perceive me

and how I’m received

I find no relief

pandering to this blatant need

to be cherished

but not loved

as I perish amid

a locked derelict closet

I’m so lost and disturbed

hurt

deserted and I’m

rather perturbed

Now that’s

the story of

my life.

Standing on the edge

of the knife///

I am from the sky.
I am from an airplane I built with my own hands.
I am from the death of my airplane, crashing through the trees with me inside as she died.
I am from a tiny mistake I made in my beloved airplane’s cooling system, a mistake which I didn’t understand until years later.

I am from a lovely house in the seacoast area of New Hampshire, a home I loved with all my heart.
I am from a ten acre plot of land, which I shared with a thousand or a million ticks.
I am from a health care system which cares not about those who are invaded by a terrible disease.
I am from a system which does not work.

I am from the love of friends who helped me get access to legal cannabis in the hopes I’d get well.
I am from a place of terror, induced by the cannabis which did help me get better.
I am from a place where the THC from ten or twenty joints is distilled into a tiny drop of resin.
I am from a place of terror, from which I am desperate to escape.

I am from New York, and Massachusetts, and New Hampshire, and Vermont.
I am from a place of hope.
I am from a Turning Point.
I am from a place of growth and healing.

A piece of wood

With six steel strings

It’s there for me to play and sing

A perfect shape

A perfect tone

With my guitar I’m not alone

The sounds it makes echo through time

With different rhythms different rhymes

A certain riff I’ll stop and start

To catch your ear and touch your heart