I don’t know quite how to explain it, but what got me started writing again was these Zoom groups, Writers for Recovery. I hadn’t been able to write for years, because I was so worried that my bipolar hypergraphia might rear its ugly head if I gave in and indulged myself with writing, the symptom where I can’t stop writing uncontrollably, even while driving in a car with my hardcover journal splayed open across the steering wheel, with me taking notes hurriedly as if my life most certainly depended on it, 25 miles to Lansing, 55 mph, Steer St, Clinton Street, Hunt’s Automotive 954-399-2424, man with red bowler hat holding a puppy, maybe a Cairn terrier, and on and on. I was afraid the writing would once again take me over, with me left subsumed under the ocean wash of frenetic activity gone mad. And I was afraid with my PTSD, what might happen -- with so many laid up traumas stashed underneath piles and piles of worn-out outgrown selves and personas, buried underground underneath where no one can see, not even me. But the writing is the mystery elixir which lures them back out, all those long ago stories and feelings wrapped around stories. Writers for Recovery gave me a way to tell my life in only 7 minutes, 7 minutes at a time -- just a hot air helium gasp escape, just letting out a tiny burble that expands into a mini-story, too hot to touch fresh out of the toaster but slowly cooling down as we listen to each other’s stories. Just enough to let some of the hot air steam escape but not long enough to bring on the annoying PTSD flashbacks I’d managed long ago to bury deep within myself. Writers for Recovery gave me a new outway to share the hurt of the past while becoming sane again.

Angala Devoid has been a long-time participant in WFR. I love her work and its powerful honesty. She recently sent me a big batch of work, which I’ll share across a few posts. Here is the first. Enjoy!

We Began Again

I was your dream come true but you became my after thought 
You fit in my life it felt so good at the time
Shifted through old memories that keep that closet door wide open
When I saw you in the grocery store I pretended I was blind 
You left me in the dark that was flipping rude
I used to dream we would get back together 
How could I let you do that to me?
I am not sorry for the way I let you talk to me boy am I grateful I accepted I deserve 
So much better
Eventually I grew to love me more than I loved you
It’s kind of the opposite don’t you think? The paintings in my life are so much different know from my past drawings 
I think about these things sometimes before I turn out the lights and finally begin my journey into a good nights sleep.

How Is It I Remembered this Road?

Everyone makes mistakes I thought I acted like a supergirl 
My heartbreak was one thing but my ego I wouldn’t let go 
Whatever devil was inside me I tried like hell not to let it take me over
I left quite an impression in an upside down mirror 
I swore to god I would always lie to be accepted 
I got my tarot cards read with a fake smile what are the odds this was never my time zone?
Why are you still looking at me?
Am I your inspiration?
It’s something I always fell for you always came off very well spoken
You put me in a meditation I tried not to fall for 
Just last week I didn’t have any doubts, I thought I would end this life alone 
What a surprise just to keep me bitching 
Jealous ?
What was I supposed to do? I ended up crying cause it was over
When a cardinal flies by I always find the questions I always wondered about
You guilt tripped me into looking up to you but little did you know I found god in a filled up room.


It Had Been Years Since I Had Seen the Photo

In the beginning I refused to see what I was losing
The years I put into my addictions keep me from seeing, feeling, touching something bigger than I 
If I could go back and erase all the nasty words I told myself on the daily I would hit reverse and yell hey girl what are you thinking?
Those bullies couldn’t see they were missing out on someone special because deep down it was easier to pick on someone stronger than it was to look at themselves in the mirror.
I realize today instead of believing all the rumors all I had to do was believe in myself but all I believed in were my addictions.
Today I tell myself when I open the front door is I am a winner
It had been years since I have seen the photos of those bullies in my mind.


What I Think Late at Night

Standing at the crossroads torn between two lives my grandmother used to tell me someday I needed to learn how to survive 
I had to crawl along the paths I went down lead me to where I thought I would never be
Why did I want to fit in? I knew deep down I didn’t need to be like the all the rest but that is where all my insecurities led my lonely emotions, In a crowded room I even felt alone.
I let my mind feed me lies while my ego stood by i held so tight to my past memories that keep me from moving forward i always waited for a sign.
I took my first drink snorted my first pill swearing to Jesus Christ 
They said if I picked up the first one I might get hooked that took me years to believe they were right
Looking back now and thinking about my grandmother in heaven I hope she is up there smiling with pride knowing I surrender everyday to survive.

All photos copyright Terry J. Allen. 

We had a great time on Saturday, October 19th, celebrating Writers for Recovery’s 10th anniversary in style! We broke out copies of our new book, One Imagined Word at a Time, Volume 6. (You can order it here.) We enjoyed fantastic readings by WFR participants and Vermont Poet Laureate Bianca Stone. Lieutenant Governor David Zuckerman and Alan Cormier, Chief of Operations from the Vermont Department of Corrections, stopped by to share their support. The Bent Nails House Band supplied a serious groove. And as promised, there was cake. Yes, cake! So many WFR participants old and new came to the bash, and it was so great to see all of you

A $10,000 Anonymous Donation!

Just hours before the bash kicked off, we received a $10,000 anonymous donation. Wow. Just wow. We are gonna make the most of that amazing generosity with amazing programming in 2025.

Special thanks to photographer Terry Allen for shooting and sharing the photos you see here. Completely out of the blue, she contacted us to volunteer her services to help us share our anniversary with the world.

I was off balance. Too much work with no play. Too much wake with no sleep. Too much drugs with no high. Self care? What self? I don’t know him. Sometimes I see an image that looks like him, fractured on shards of glass when the light hits it at certain angles. But I can’t care for him. I don’t know what he needs. I don’t know what he likes. I don’t know what makes him feel happy, or safe, or sane. I don’t even know how to ensure his survival. Also… I don’t have the time for care. Or the energy. Or any sense of connection or valuation of this person, this stranger. I’m usually pretty empathetic, but I’ve heard too much. I said I don’t know him, but that’s not true. It’d be more accurate to say I know him too well but can’t recognize what he's become. I know all the worst things he’s ever done. Hell, I know the worst things he’s ever thought. That makes it hard. You think it’d be so easy to forgive and forget if you could read people’s minds? No wonder I spent so long trying to use chemical abrasion to erase the contents of my own.

Vermont Public is Sponsoring Our Tenth Anniversary Party!

TEN YEARS!! As anyone who knows recovery understands, that’s a long time. And like many people who make the leap to recovery, we started our journey dreaming of an idea and wondering if it would ever work. It did, and we're holding a big 'ol party to celebrate all we've accomplished! We'll have readings by WFR writers and Vermont Poet Laureate Bianca Stone, copies of our brand new book One Imagined Word at a Time, Volume 6, and live music by the amazing Bent Nails House Band! 

Thanks to Vermont Public for Sponsoring!

PLEASE JOIN US
October 19, 7 PM
Old Labor Hall
46 Granite St. 
Barre, VT 05641
 
We've met so many amazing people during our last ten years in the recovery community. Please come out to hear new work, talk about old times, meet the new members of the WFR team, and send some good vibes for our next 10 years. Bring your friends! Bring your family! Bring everybody!

See you there!

Bess and Gary

What I imagined when I heard Gov. Peter Shumlin devote his entire State of the Union speech to the opioid epidemic one decade ago was change. Change in the way we see and treat addiction. Unfortunately, this little state that likes to believe it leads the way in making change is woefully far behind when it comes to treating addiction. I’m appalled to hear our Health Commissioner Peter Levine say “This may not be the best strategy for Vermont in terms of getting the best bang for the buck” when discussing overdose prevention centers. I’m appalled that he is unaware of the evidence based research that shows not only do these overdose prevention centers help addicts, but the ripple effect reduces crime associated with chasing sick people. I’m appalled that our state seems intent on continuing a war on drugs that can not be won. We need our leaders to be educated. Johann Hari’s brilliant Chasing the Scream - The First and Last Days of the War on Drugs needs to be read and digested by every one of our leaders. Perhaps if our Governor had a personal experience with drug addiction, it would help open his mind.

Wow Left

Behind gee

So many thoughts

Sometimes it takes the

Wind out of my sails

What I been

What I could be

   Sometimes then I

Come to a time I

Left my self

What I left

Is my family

When I was out

There, I felt a need

I could not get

Behind is the

Wind that took

What I felt

I wondered that I

might have prespoke the

Feelings of the heart that

could result in a bit of confusion

The thing is stay unfocused

pray often

Beam whatever

Seize the darknesss

Sieve a rainbow

Garner the prize

To hold it

But for a

Love long

forgotten

From Ashes

In shadows deep, where demons roam,
I faced them down, but not alone.
With sword in hand and heart held tight,
I fought the darkness through the night.

Their whispers cold, their laughter cruel,
I struggled hard, a weary duel.
But strength waned thin, resolve grew weak,
As their grip tightened, dark and bleak.

With every strike, they fed on fear,
Their presence looming ever near.
Though I fought on with all my might,
The demons triumphed in the fight.

Their claws tore through my shattered soul,
As darkness claimed its final toll.
In silence now, I lay defeated,
By demons' hands, my fate completed.

Yet still a flicker, small but bright,
A spark of hope amidst the night.
For though the demons claimed their prize,
In ashes, new beginnings rise.

Sacred

In shadows cast by silent stares,
She weaves her tale of strength and cares.
Through trials vast and burdens deep,
Her spirit rises, never to sleep.

IIn worlds where whispers echo loud,
She finds her voice, unbowed, unbowed.
Through histories of pain and grace,
She claims her space, her sacred place.

With every step, a dance of pride,
Her beauty blooms, no need to hide.
In every heartache, she finds a song,
Her resilience fierce, forever strong.

Though scars may mark her journey's trace,
Her spirit soars with boundless grace.
For she's a beacon in the night,
A testament to love's pure light.

 
What Am I

In the mirror, I see a foe,
A self I've come to loathe and know.
With every glance, the hate does grow,
A shadowed weight, a relentless woe.

Each flaw a dagger, piercing deep,
A silent scream, a soul to keep.
In whispered doubts, my thoughts do seep,
A ceaseless cycle, no rest, no sleep.

But in this darkness, a glimmer gleams,
A fragile hope within the seams.
For love can bloom from shattered dreams,
And self-compassion's gentle beams.

Embrace the scars, the flaws, the pain,
For they're the threads that make you sane.
In forgiveness lies the sweet refrain,
Of finding peace amidst the rain.

So let the hate dissolve like mist,
And in its place, let kindness persist.
For in self-love, you will exist,
A masterpiece, beautifully kissed.

This story- this life of mine
So many roads, so little time

Always in a hurry
All over the place
In a world SO big
full of no grace

Shadows on the wall
And underneath it all
The doubt and fear
Living another year

With no way out
And no way in
And so, it had to begin

The healing, self love 
And prayers from above

It took me a while - to figure it out
Living this life of no doubt 

Every day met for it to be the BEST I can make it.
Clean and serene, ODAAT- I'll take it ❣️

Prevention and Recovery Poetry Jam! Coming to St. J. this Friday!! Cosponsored by Writers for Recovery. Thanks to WFR Workshop leader Gavin Wynkoop-Fischer for helping to make this happen!

What was I expecting?  It is like exceeding your expectations when you have none?  I used to wait tables in a place where they’d make you pass out comment cards.  Each one would be worth like 10 cents.  This would translate into the company’s own dollar buck system where you could get food or swag.  Exceeding expectations is like that.  Like when you have to pass out a comment card as way of spending dollar buck bonuses at a place where you are waiting tables.  Almost a total pointless loop.   And they will raise your salary 25 cents in the next two years if you get dozens of comment cards that say, “exceeds expectations.”  

Or you have to rate your professor, or even worse,  be rated as a teacher by 14 year-olds who want to tell you about how much weed they can buy with a million dollars, but are not interested in your academics as a teacher.  How are you supposed to exceed expectations then, huh?

It was very hard to give testimony to get the diagnosis last week.  I had to put a lot of things into words that had impressions and feelings, and may have been left untold.  There’s a myriad of conditions, factors affecting every moment.  

Richard Dawkins has said that the specific gravity of the doctor delivering you has more pull than the gravity of the stars on the night you were born.  There’s no way of telling which of the conditions count, what’s the signal to noise ratio.

How up do you feel, or down?  

Music engineers can see a soundboard and read the dials and knobs.  To them it’s not just clutter, or noise, or a ripped up Doctor Who set in disrepair!   

The conditions:  the sunny day, the amount of iron in my last meal, my B12  levels, noticing fun, accessing joy, harnessing gratitude, intrusive thoughts, a loop–who knows the conditions?  

And maybe I was missing something crucial.  Or prevaricating, or embellishing.  I come from a long line of lecturers and educators.  Rover says, if I were faking it,  I would have to be a “Muchauser”, a baron?  I loved that Sarah Polley/ Robin Williams film as a kid: Baron Munchausen. Is that what he meant?  I guess the point being is that  I would have to be the most supreme faker of the century if I were able to pull this off this presentation of conditions without having the actual thing.  

Last week, I did not get a chance to deal with spilling the trauma stories in a white-walled office, the potential diagnoses, and I then had a reprimand at work… and maybe not such a reprimand, my lurking unfriendly narrative of myself would call it a reprimand.  More than a reprimand: confirmation of my fears, my imposturing, confirmation that everyone hates me as much as I thought, so that I may hate myself more and get ahead of the train. 

 I guess that’s part of the conditions too, being wretched to your own inner dialogue, hating your body, wanting to press the eject button on this cartoon-proportioned reality and emotional scale, but really that’s part of it too? 

I wasn’t what I expected, although I have had it all my life.  I now have a diagnosis.  The doctor said alcohol is often running with it, body treats alcohol like a benzo; alcohol actually treats some of the conditions.  It’s gonna be a process. 

Almost fist fought the pharmacist when he said my meds were ten times what they were last month…  but we’ll try again next week.  My sponsor says they’ll figure my hormones, my thyroid. However, in her line of work, she thought it may be…

My arm is pockmarked by all the labs, I will have to deal with this my whole life, and maybe I will have more of a life.  It will swing and swing again.  I…

I have several diagnoses this week, no iron stores, pernicious anemia, ADHD, generalized anxiety, abysmal ferritin, perimenopause, tanking estrogen, stories surfacing and changing colour being refigured under the heading that it might be, or has always been… 

Lots of research to do.  I guess about it, now that it is on the books.  It is written.  Maybe I say it out loud.  Say it at this pre-formed stage.  Don’t know what it means yet.  Say it before I discover… say it before my expectations about it take over.

 I am bipolar.  

Rather, I am bipolar, too.

This is what I really wanted to say: 
Thank you. 

Thank you for being a human, a good human, 
a human who hears and heals and grows along. 

This is what I wanted to say: 
I am glad we got the plumber to fix the sink 
and I got to move your noisy gum cleaner thing, 
but also I kind of like sharing the other sink 
with all your floss and shaving stuff and good smells.

This is what I wanted to say:
Thank you for the adventure for always saying yes.

This is what I wanted to say: 
Yes.

“Untitled” by Jim Main

 My drinking inspired by my
inhibitions retired.
Bringing to me my fears more at
ease, my timid, releases, I thought
I was free, finally, me being me.

 
Then I would see its benefit bring
me to my knees, grasping at life
and what I once hoped it would
bring.

Me and my drinking in the way of
our dreams. My crying soul
screamed, I could have never
occurred my drinking from me.

Yet now here I am. With my
fears held at ease, my timid
released, me being me, and me
being free.

My drinking inspired the losing of
me. Today is the day, for me to
be me. Today is the day for me to
be me.

I drank away my days
in a blank and hollowed haze
wasting who I was, and never 
growing up. The more undone I
come, the harder I had to run, I
just could not keep up, just were
no more fun.

I drank away my days, in a blank
and hollowed haze, wasting who I
was, refusing to grow up.

When no drinking came my mind
was in a fuss, tangled tight and
muddled up, broken is what it was
I drank away my days in a blank
and hollowed haze, wasting who I
was, never growing up.

The more undone I come, the
harder I had to run, I just could not
keep up, it just were no more fun.

I drank away so much, now I'm
living for today, I'm a better man
this way, my boy is growing up.
I'm a better man this way, my boy
is growing up.

I began to notice 

I began to notice the trees

I began to notice the trees and the frost on sloping hills and I learned I needed to pump the brakes and pump the brakes to avoid skidding off the road and into their snowy embrace.

I began to notice the trees and the frost and the scary sloping hills and the one way roads without street lights as I cruised through the dark abyss, eyes flicking up and down and back and forth as I checked the location of my wife on my phone, wondering if she made it home safe. Was she alive?  Or would I have to drive around on this dark lonely road until I found her lifeless, beaten body discarded in a frost covered ravine? 

I began to notice the trees and the frost and the scary sloping hills and the dark, dank one way roads and the pick up trucks with thin blue lines that would beam me into oblivion with their high beams as they speed around and past me too quickly to notice I could barely see the road through my tears. 

I began to notice how often I think about death. Dying. I am dying. I am dying here in this place. I am afraid and unsafe and perhaps I am already gone. Will this be the day my body swallows AR bullets at the queer dance night at Babes Bar? Will today be the day I rush my whole world to the ER with oozing, gaping wounds imbued by a stranger with fists full of hatred? Fists and kicks and punches and lunges full of the politicized rhetoric gleaned from endless news cycles where our bodies– freed of the binary, are their favourite subject. Their dirty little obsession.

I can’t help but notice the trees and the frost and the scary sloping hills and the pumping of the brakes and how awful it feels to live in this idyllic northeast kingdom.

— This piece is dedicated to Nex Benedict 2008-2024 

It was a substitute
For compassion
For empathy
For tolerance
For love
For reality
It was a substitute
For happiness
For contentment
For friendship
For connection
It was a substitute
For doing the work
For getting it together
For looking in the mirror
It was a substitute
And now it’s gone
Someone please
Recommend a substitute for my substitute
Because i need one now more than ever

When it’s going right Write
When it’s going well, Write
When it’s going wrong, Write
When you've got it all figured out, Write
When you just can’t take it anymore, Write
When you hate him, Write
When you love him, Write
When you wish he was here, Write
When you want to scream, Write
When you want to cry, Write
When you want to die, Write
When you want her to die, Write
When you regret everything, Write
When you regret nothing, Write
When you couldn’t be happier, Write
When you couldn’t be angrier, Write
When you don’t know what you feel, Write
When it’s going just right, Just Write.

I mean all problems have solutions right?

All theories should be falsifiable.

But do all problems have solutions?

Does a problem with no observer behave differently in the absence of observation?

Is there an answer to every question?

You see,

I’ve been chipping away at my shoulder for a long time, my baggage ripping rotator cuffs.

When I hear the city speak it shows its true intentions, but it speaks in the cadence of family. Each time I try to find a way to get this curse out of my blood I’m left bloodied and bereft. The indignities an addict suffers on a minute to minute basis is enough to want to keep one’s head down, cap peak held low, hood up in a don’t speak to me, just let me die in peace, don’t watch me kill myself, avert your eves unless it’s to give a passing hello, just let me be alone in public because I can’t stand to be alone, alone.

It came out of nowhere, My Rage
that’s what I always say, afterwards
and I believe it
it certainly SEEMS true
when I explode over the smallest things
did it REALLY come out of nowhere?
or has it been brewing?
truth is, it’s always brewing
I'm on a hair trigger
and I don’t know how to take my finger off of it
I wish I could unload the gun
but it appears I have infinite ammo
I need a reverse cheat code
down down up up right left right left A B start
nope, that didn’t work
as expected
nothing works
“just choose to be happy”, they say
“they” always being someone who’s never had an angry thought in their life
sure, thanks Becky
why didn’t I think of that simplistic and unrealistic solution?
empty advice from a vapid mind
always something that’s been suggested a million previous times
and never works
yet that all think they’re saying something groundbreaking
“why don’t you just”
the rally cry of the heartless