For me, here’s the bottom line

I’ve reached the end of the show

Take my bow

curtsy to the horror

dancing in Revolution — I can’t be tamed

Please.

Vaulting into the horizon

Burning with the Amber of the sky

Falling, crashing into stillness

Help.

Frozen in the heat of my choices

Wondering and yearning.

Me.

Here’s my bottom

            take the line.

Now, it’s I need to love me @ all costs. I’ve been beaten down, lied to, left behind, and forgotten by so many people in my life and it’s hurt more and more every time. And each time, I would add to the hurt by blaming myself and finding all the ways I deserved it even if not true. Hanging like my own pity party piñata countless times, I would seek seeks affection from anyone who would love my way. I gave so many of those people full time positions in my life when they were only part time help love or support. I had given my value away for free every time and the bottom line then was I just couldn’t love the woman I was. Abandonment, abuse and no self-worth in my mind contributed to that. So back to where we began on this piece. Bottomline, I need to love myself and that is my biggest goal and my hardest fought battle so far. But every day, I’m getting better. I may not be where I need to be, but I’m glad I not be where I used to be.

It started as a shell and it cracked.

and once open it was frightened

and partially wanted to be in the shell again –

but the embryo inside grew astounding

grace and sought the light, the words

compassion, the gentle touch, the caring

yes, of another’s soul, the pulsing of another hand that

wouldn’t hurt and it felt the warmth

and the rhythm inside of that hand and

wanted more and stepped outside the shell

and the universe welcomed it with the

deepest of reverence for it had been waiting

for it ever since its birth

Something I Won’t Forget

by Sharon Reed

She came in the driveway in a Ford black sedan as the car stopped the first thing visible was very tall strong stature and that blue tint, beautifully coiffed hair and the smile that went in the stratosphere – in her arms was a large loaf of bread – the freshness filling the air with its begging to come hither. In the other arm a jar of red raspberry jam – and as she walked she seemed to float on air – the essence of her being assuring each step – “Just thought a slice of homemade bread and jam would fill your tummies,” she said – it of course was more than substance she fed us it was the connection of her soul to mine that fed us that day and for all eternity. Her “cupboard is never empty,” as she said, “we can’t have that,” and her live was never bounded by anything but pureness.

I believe there is good in all people, 

 Yet I am having some doubts. 

 I believe there’s a sense of greater good and kindness and all, 

 Yet I am having some doubts. 

I feel there is a sense of a higher power; the world isn’t merely a coincidence, 

I haven’t any doubts. 

I believe in humanitarianism, though I don’t see [this] being prescribed or any such teachings. 

I’d have total faith and no doubts if animals could rule the world and lead lessons taught to humans - on all levels.

I’d have no doubts. 

This year, Writers for Recovery is working to increase its impact and demographic reach. As part of this effort, Bess O’Brien led a fantastic writing workshop with new and expecting mothers at the Lund center in Burlington, VT. If you haven’t heard about Lund, check them out. They provide adoption, education, treatment, and support all aimed at supporting children and their families to make sure young people grow up in safe, healthy environments. Thanks to Lund for inviting us to join them!

In conjunction with the release of the “My Heart Still Beats” podcast, we collaborated with Vermont Public Radio to hold a “Voices from the Series” public forum at the Turning Point Center of Chittenden County in Burlington, VT. A great crowd turned out to listen to samples from the podcast and talk to people from the series about their stories. By the end of the night, we’d had a great community dialogue about the nature of substance use disorder and how we can work to help people avoid and recover from substance misuse. Thanks so much to the VPR, the Turning Point, and our panelists for making it a worthwhile evening! And if you haven’t heard the podcast, you can find it here.

Am I a drunk because my dad’s a drunk? Is that really how it works? Or is that just something our health teachers told us to scare us kids that have seen our parents continuously attempt to drink themselves into oblivion out of ever picking up the bottle?

They say that if your parents are drunks you’re chemically more likely to be one yourself. What a wonderful way to take the pressure off me. “The chemicals made me-they were whispering, chanting in my ear-“Take another drink. Take another drink.” I didn’t have a choice. I’m no scientist, but I’m pretty sure that’s how it works. People also say though that it’s a learned behavior. “I’m a drunk because I watched my [so-n-so] drink, that’s what I was taught.” But of that theory I’m not quite convinced ‘cause I watched my dad drink and it wasn’t exactly a lifestyle I desired to imitate. Like, it didn’t look fun. I didn’t watch my dad turn jaundice and frail thin and think, this guy is crushing it, sign me up. But I don’t know, I’m not a scientist OR psychiatrist. I would just rather believe that we’re only meant to be what we are chemically combined to be. Nothing more, nothing less. The chemicals decide and we have very little say in the matter.

My dad thinks I think I’m better than him because I study at a big university and I get angry when I talk to him sometimes. But actually I’m angry because I study at a big university and I know I’m no better than him.

Don’t get me wrong, I have an incredible, creative, sensitive, beautiful father. I love him more than life. Despite his problems, because I know we all have them. But I used to hate him for reasons—reasons that have taken permanent residence in a place in my memory where the hurty things go. The things that make you want to curl up when they touch you like a roly poly bug does when a child tries to poke it—reasons that led me to believe that he loved booze more than his family. I know now that that’s ridiculous, but it doesn’t change the fact that I believed it at one time. And I’m really not kidding. I like really hated him, but honestly I hated everything. I hated being “trailer trash.” I hated that people told me “girls like you do this, girls like you can’t do that” but, mostly, I hated that I believed it.

At the age of 15, “I had enough hate in my heart to start a fucking car.” At 15, I didn’t know how to deal with rage like that. I could try to drink it away like my father did. Like a pissed off teenager. The truth of the matter was, I didn’t know how to stop hating. Myself. My life. My town. My school. My parents. Helpless, blind, stupid. I wanted to punish the world for being so fucking unfair to me. Idiotically, my destructive habits fueled everything I hated. Reinforced the stigma. I stopped going to school. When I was at school I was detached, painfully hung over, still drunk, or working on a buzz. If there’s one word that describes my high school experience it would be ‘inebriated.’ I was absent more than I was present, was threatened with truancy, was suspended, regularly assigned detention, was a habitual “slacker.” I spent the majority of my educational experience resenting or avoiding school entirely. If I was going to be a failure, it would be of my own doing. I wanted no one else to have control of it.

I remember my vice principal asking me, the first time I was suspended, “why did you think coming to school drunk was a good idea?” I argued that it didn’t exactly seem like a bad idea. That response is what pointed my vice principal to the conclusion that could only have been more obvious if I had “yikes” tattooed across my forehead: I was fucked up. I mean, not like 2006 Britney fucked up, but well on my way.

I was allowed permission to return to school only under the condition that I attend substance abuse counseling. You know, the typical things sophomores in high school do: homecoming dances, learning how to drive, and don’t forget about AA!

“Why are you here?” the counselor had asked me.

“I have to be. If I want to be able to go back to school” – which I didn’t – “I have to attend these sessions.”

“Have you ever been to therapy before?”

“Nope, first time.”

“Okay, well, let’s just start by answering a few questions.”

Then she asks ridiculous questions like, “what do you do for fun?”

I have to say, lady, if you’re in substance abuse counseling at 15, things stopped being fun quite a while ago.

What’s so interesting about that experience was that I left that session with a prescription. For a drug. After she just got done telling me, at length for 50 minutes, that I’m dangerously abusing alcohol. A drug. Ludicrous. Could you guess how long it took for me to wonder if I could overdose on it? ‘cause it was almost immediately, haha.

One time, when I was…I don’t know…maybe 11? I was “curious” what would happen if I snorted and took a bunch of Tylenol. So I tried it. And before you ask, yes I was actually that stupid. Literally too young to understand that there’s a difference between drugs, like, for example, the pills my mom takes for headaches and the pills that pop stars take in the movies are not the same ones, I crushed up a hefty amount of acetaminophen on the foot end of my princess bed frame and up my nose it went. If you can believe it, it was not fun at all. Imagine my disappointment that after consuming about 4,000 mg of Tylenol, all I got was an upset stomach and probably liver complications in about 30 years.

I can see it now, the doctor will come into the patients’ room with the test results and there it will read: hepatic failure due to trying to kill self with too much Tylenol when patient was 11. How embarrassing.

I actually don’t remember particularly wanting to overdose and die. I’ve just always been fascinated by pushing the limits, dancing with the boundaries of self-destruction. It’s all very fragile; life, the world. That’s pretty scary. I think I just want to know what it takes and what it feels like to carelessly bend something flimsy and see where it fractures.

For example, my parents used to scream at me, like seriously get so angry, because I was literally incapable of opening a cereal box without absolutely destroying the box and the bag. Same with potato chip bags. But it’s really the same reason for why I pick at a peeling cuticle or a scab just starting to detach from a wound. if something has a weakness, I have to explore it, push it further. I always regret it later when it’s completely impossible to pour a bowl of cereal, when that cuticle stings in agony every time it’s touched, and the prematurely removed scab retaliates by coming back. I’ll just pick it again. As I’m sure you could imagine, I have a lot of scars. All because I can’t just let things be. Let them heal. Let them remain in their perfectly good condition for holding mom’s breakfast. I think that’s what made my parents to so angry—that every time they poured a bowl of cereal it reminded them that their daughter is careless, reckless, destructive.

But I get it from them.

Is that really how it works?

I’m back from the dead
My heart still beats
I’ve opened my eyes
And refuse to sleep
I am battling forward
Without fear or shame
I am stumbling onward
To reclaim my name.

We are proud to announce the premier My Heart Still Beats, a 6-part podcast series by Writers for Recovery and Vermont Public Radio. The series features stories about addiction and recovery from all around Vermont. The series runs on Vermont Edition (noon and 7 PM) from February 25-March 1 and on Weekend Edition (8 AM) on March 2.

Please join us—and spread the word!

My Heart Still Beats is funded by the VPR Innovation Fund and SB Signs.

I am from a place a shitty old place i used to call mine, now i look back on the days i used to stay & kick back & chitchat but the place i am from some call da slums & they sit back with a blunt without absolute care and if the cops roll by we all run & hide

 WHERE I AM FROM THE SUN DON’T SHINE.

If i were in charge things would be my way

If i were in charge people would come & go as the please

If i were in charge there would be no money things would be free you would take what you want as you please just talk to me and you’ll be pleased & if you come with me there would be ease

Darling just walk with me & you will see how easy things could be if

I WERE IN CHARGE

Can I ask you something? Why don’t you remember. Where do you go? Your eyes.

What do you remember? Why did we do that stuff?

When will I know?

Where will I be?

What was I like?

It’s starting to come back.

I think too much at times.

I question it all.

My answers will take time.

Right now I’ll continue to breathe, live in the moment, and be true to who I am.

I take time to fins myself. My best friend in the mirror can end my curiosity.

When someone I know is using

I wish I can help them see behind,

All the confusion

To tell them that life does get better

In that other side is fear

but it really is just an illusion

I wish I can tell you that it pains me

To see you like this

I too was lost couldn't see

Anything else worth living for

But it’s up to you to decide

All I can hope for

Is that you won't die

To this disease

I hope you can find your way out of the dark I'm here for you now

Before I wasn't

Until then I love you my friend …

Here's exactly how it happened.
I looked away. I closed my eyes.
I didn't say,
didn't say anything.
I never told.
I said, yes, yes, yes,
and never no.

Dear addiction,

I'm writing to tell you that I no longer need you. You lied to me .

You sure did make me feel good, for a little while, but chasing you and waking up looking for you everyday,

Just to get to work or get out of bed. Then in a couple hours chasing you again, and again, hoping you'd stick around for longer this time. Was out needing you more for a little pill this time. I lost everything because of you. Most of all my two little girls.

I went through withdrawals and vomiting, can't believe how you made me feel sick. I nearly died for you. I wish in the beginning you would have told me the truth. That chasing you is never ending.

I lost it all thanks to you. I'm better now, you no longer control me. You’re in my ear, and.. I HEAR you. You know my debit card number. But no more ... I'm done with you ...

I want to talk to you for a minute about sobriety. Sobriety means… not drinking and stuff. Not doing drugs. Finding a power greater than yourself to restore you to sanity. 

This last part… this is the part that screws people up. People hear power greater than self and immediately turn it into higher power. Higher power, within AA, is code for God. Some old timers still say God, which is ok, but these days, it’s more hip to say Higher Power. 

The way I look at it, a power greater than one’s self, can be taken literally — we all have a self, it’s known as the ego in psychology. Eastern philosophy teaches us the ego is a delusion and a source of suffering. I’m pretty sure this is what Christianity is referring to when they say “the body” and what makes all of us sinners. 

A power greater than myself, therefore, is a power greater than my ego. A power greater than my ego can restore me to sanity. This is a beautiful thing, and is refreshingly simple. It only means that my ego is crazy — something I’ve believed for years. 

So what is a higher power then?

I like to think of it like this: Like most people, I have thoughts inside of my head. Like most people, I think with words. I get wrapped up in these words and create stories out of them. Stories that I believe. I believe I’m the main character in all of these stories, and most importantly, I believe that I, myself, am telling these stories, first-hand. I am not the narrator though, this is actually the foundation of my insanity. The narrator is actually, my ego. 

I am not the narrator, if I can hear the narrator. It’s that simple. I am not the inner voice, I am the inner ears. I’m not the words, the thoughts or the thinker, I am the one who can listen to all of these, to hear them and respond to them appropriately, or not at all.

In order to grow out of my drinking problem, I must first grow out of my ego. I must be the higher power inside my mind who can hear my thoughts objectively. This higher power can be subtle, but it is definitely there.

When the rain finally fell, I wasn’t that excited

The last three days of rain hadn’t broken the humidity so why should today be any different?

When the rain finally fell I listened 

to the ker-plunka-plunk as it hit the ground 

the roof

the polyester hood on my rain jacket

When the rain finally fell I watched the cars go by 

and I realized I missed having somewhere to be 

something to do

someone to be because

when the rain finally fell

I realized I was beginning to fall too 

She’s in my mind at random moments: when I toss frozen food into my grocery cart with a resigned, what-the-hell attitude; when I share special moments with my galpals; or when I notice myself doing something with spunk and humor. She’s been a role model since I was about 10, and ever since, she’s felt like a friend. I was still playing with Barbie dolls then, but they grew more sophisticated when she came into my life. I remember a nightstand with a cubbyhole for books that I emptied to decorate as an apartment where my single, career-minded doll could live, just like Mary. I sewed outfits for her to wear to work or on dates, just like Mary. I wanted to grow up to be carefree and independent, just like Mary. At the time, I meant Mary Richards, her iconic character; but I grew up to be more like Mary Tyler Moore herself in many ways.

Our home was loving, but also chaotic. We had moved to a farmhouse, and for the first several years, we weren’t just family anymore. The hired hands lived in the house with us. They were a series of mostly good guys, just back from the war or hard on their luck, but some were what my mom called “doozies.” They drank too much and carried on in ways that were both fascinating and frightening to us kids. Our home wasn’t a sanctuary from the world anymore, and the people we trusted to live with us did not always live up to that trust.

So I’d escape in my playtime, imagining that my Barbie was like Mary, a strong, caring, funny single gal who had a job and people she loved. Mary made a difference and was an example of feminism at a time when it was a radical idea. Women were burning bras, and little girls were fighting for the right to play Little League, but Mary had a more gentle style. My Barbie had her job and friends, dated my brother’s GI Joes, and enjoyed her own refuge from the world, her apartment—a renovated nightstand with as much panache and style as my talents could muster. She loved her independence, and I loved mine.

I was full of ideas and passion for learning, and dreamed of being a journalist like my friend Mary Richards. But I was also riddled with insecurities and ignorant of how to proceed in my real life. I didn’t know how to marry my dreams to my reality, so my reality got further and further from my dreams, and I drifted.

While my life had joy and meaning, my insecurities led me into the abyss and abandonment of alcoholism. I forgot who I was and what I wanted. When I was brave enough to reconnect with my story, I was too overcome with disappointment and shame to start a new act. I’d get lost in the miasma of the alcohol and dysfunction, even as, on the outside, I managed to enjoy some success. But it was all a performance, one that involved my energy and skills but left my essential self behind, quietly bottled up inside. I sent mannequin girl into the world to go through the motions of my days, but her hollowness left echoes. The prisoner inside got smaller and smaller, her voice harder and harder to hear on those rare occasions when she’d show up to audition something new.

I worked up the courage to hit the stage most days, but I’d retreat to the dressing room as soon as possible, dodging my supporters in search of solitude or bottled courage. I’d isolate, comforting the lonely girl the only way I knew how, buoying her fleeting ambitions with the one fuel sure to produce only bad reviews. Until at last, I was stretched too far and couldn’t carry on the farce any longer.

Then I found recovery. I learned how to heal and bring all the pieces of me together again. All the roles I’d played merged into one, and I freed and embraced the bottled-up girl inside. I exchanged the false courage of alcohol for reality and relationships, including old friends like Mary.

Along the way, I learned that Mary Tyler Moore was a recovering alcoholic, too! She’d grown up in an alcoholic home and eventually turned to alcohol herself. But she found recovery and courageously shared that part of her life, too, in interviews and memoirs. Now she inspired me in a new way, showing the pluck and optimism of Mary Richards but also the vulnerability and resilience of Mary Tyler Moore.

People are capable of powerful transformations, and we learn from each other’s examples. I smile now, knowing that, after all, I can cherish all of me, and hold a special place in my heart for my friend, Mary.

SOMETHING THAT IS REALLY HARD FOR ME.....

WHILE DRIVING AT NIGHT.....WAS A TERRIBLE FRIGHT.....HAD LAZY EYE FROM BIRTH.....WHICH LEFT ME NO MIRTH.....HAD TO WEAR PATCH.....DID BLIND ME TO SCRATCH.....AS ONE EYE YOU SEE.....WAS PIRATIVE GLEE!   I WOULD GET TEASED.....AND FELT NOT MUCH PLEASED.....WAS TOLD BY MY MOTHER.....COULD NOT DO MUCH OTHER.....WHEN TALKING OF SPORTS.....I COULDN'T DO SORTS.....WAS PLAYING IN FORTS.....WITH OTHER COHORTS .....OF KIDS,ROCKS AND AND BOULDERS OF VARIOUS QUARTZ.....WAS TOLD THAT I COULDN'T.....AND TOLD THAT I SHOULDN'T.....COME BY TO TRY.....AS JUST HAD ONE EYE.....SAID IN MY MIND.....NOT TO BE KIND....."WILL SHOW YOU.....NOT TELL YOU.....JUST WHAT I CAN DO".....                                                                                           

ONE DAY I SAW MY REFLECTION AND THEN.....

WAS A DAY AFTER.....OF I DON'T KNOW WHEN.....HAD BEEN HERE......HAD BEEN THERE.....WAY TOO MUCH BEER.....ALL OVER WHERE.....HAD DROPPED ME SOME ACID.....WAS NOT VERY PLACID.....MY HAIR WAS ALL FLOWING AND BLOWING.....WITHOUT ANY WIND.....FOR IN THE MIRROR THAT DAY.....REALITY SKIMMED.....I LOOKED IN MY EYE.....WITH NOT MUCH OF A TRY.....STARED DOWN DISCERNING.....A LOOK THUS MOST STERNLY.....SAID "HEY YOU DUMB BOY.....WHAT MIGHT YOU BE?" IT DID COME TO BE.....YEARS LATER YOU SEE.....

AN INVESTMENT IN MYSELF I'D LIKE TO MAKE.....

WAS A SHARE IN LIFE'S MARKET THAT CRASHED AFTER I CRASHED MY CAR FOR A SECOND TIME.....LOST STOCK IN MY CONNECTIONS WITH FRIENDS AND WAS AT A LOW POINT WITH OUT DOW JONES..... LOST BONDS WITH PEOPLE AND HAD TO INVEST IN A NEW COMMODITY.....HEARD OF A NEW STOCK OF THE STANDARD AND POOR THAT SPECULATED SOBRIETY COULD BE A FUTURE VIABLE INVESTMENT WITH POSITIVE RETURNS AND MUTUAL BENEFITS.....IT HAD LONG TERM INTEREST WHICH WOULDN'T SHOW IMMEDIATE RESULTS UNTIL SOME TIME HAD PASSED.....MY BROKER TOLD ME.....WITH MUCH GUARANTEE....A NEW TIDE WILL TURN.....AS TIME DOES NOW MEAN ..........(T)HIS (I ) (M)UST (E)ARN!