When I’m on the road leading Writers for Recovery workshops, my life is a series of downright pleasant surprises. Last night in Burlington, I met an aspiring musician named Oscar Delgado, Jr. He’s got one of those voices that sounds like it’s meant for radio. Oscar wants to use his music to lift up people in the recovery community. Here he is doing one of his original tunes.

Here I Am
What I brought with me, was probably not the best choice.
But I wanted it.
And you are probably wondering, what it is I brought with me.
I suppose you think I’m going to begin with a list of provisions.
But the truth is I brought nothing.
I came with nothing.
And this body was here for me.It has been quite a curious experience.
I’m not sure if I brought my breath, or if breath is what i was.
Maybe just some kind of spark of humanity to inhabit this corporal self.
A spark begun, or lit 58 years ago.
It seems so odd that we just kind of take for granted that we exist.
I’ve been getting up recently thinking how tickled I am that I am here again.
Like the movie Groundhog Day, only instead of it being the same,
it is a different day.
But I’m the constant.
And I've been this constant since I came out of my mother.
But where was i before that? Or was I?
And will I be Me when I leave?

.

The hardest part about it .....what is it.....WHAT IS IT  ?

Is "IT" in me, the hardest part about me ? The puppy in the mill breeding thoughts distorted by another's belief "ie" means of measurement to be or not to be.  "IT" being my father wanting boys....not me...his measurement  your response to his lash....a leather strap or worse yet his words when"IT"  came out after his 3rd highball of the night...the vapor shimmering  off his lips thru the fluorescent light descending from above... heat waves rising of fresh hot tar that has just been pressed in to the earth in late July. 

CRY....cry no tears even thou your crying inside...no tears if you want to be a man...a man means no tears no frills.  I will show you something to cry about...YOU will know what real pain is !!  

You will be a man "IT " said.

"IT" was brutal ..the lashes no longer come from his hand it comes from mine...THOSE ITZIE BITZIE thoughts that come in the early morning before my eyes are even open...before the presence of me....not as often as they once did....they rest upon the ceiling of my unconsciousness....waiting for the "It"...soaking my t shirt..."IT" was making my heart race..."IT" was fear.  Fear from everything and everybody..including the ITZIE BITZIE in me. This is what "IT" taught me.

 The big "IT" died ...now I am left with the Itzie Bitzie in me...

and I can handle it....

with your help ....you have taught me differently

Why does the sky turn light blue on sunny days,

Grey on cloudy days, and dark blue at night?

Why do people cry, smile, and laugh?

And why is there such a thing called pain?

Sometimes, these things make me wonder.

About the law of nature and its way of life.

Why is there a negative for every positive

An up for every down

And bad for good?

How do I even know what’s the truth

And what’s a flat-out lie?

These are the questions that cross my mind.

I was very sad to learn that Carol Van Etten, who was a member of the Barre Writers for Recovery group, passed away on October 7, 2019 at age 68. Carol was a wonderful woman and a prolific and dedicated poet. Over the years, she regularly mailed packets of her work to friends and relatives, and she participated in several WFR readings at Barre’s Studio Place Arts Gallery.

In recent years, Carol had lived in New Jersey. Just last week, Bob Purvis from the Barre Turning Point passed along an envelope Carol sent to Deb and me. We opened it this morning to find a warm letter filled with Carol’s usual positivity, along with a drawing and a number of recent poems. I’ve posted her poem ”Windy Town,” as it includes so much of what made Carol an amazing person: her love of nature, her connection to New England, and her enthusiastic outlook on life. Carol, you will be missed.

Windy Town
by Carol Van Etten

 Taking a deep, full breath of air —

Gaze at the winsome cobalt sky —

Such gratitude persists in my heart

Reminiscent of hearing a baby cry.

Tender, aching sounds abound —

Nostalgia for the love and trust

near me in New England in yesteryear —

In my old home town in Vermont.

Now is a new reality and vibrant

Existence where drawing, reading —

Becoming acquainted with new folks

Cherish the “old” — Welcome the “new.”

I'm crying in the parking lot of the liquor store;
my head's pressed against the steering wheel.
And with the dash directly in front of me,
I realize my car is the perfect analogy for me.

All the lights are on:
the right rear tire is low on air.
The maintenance required light is on.
The back is full of shit from my last move,
and I don't know where to put it or what to do with it.

And the worst part is that the gas light is on.
Because I'm close to running on empty.
And for the first time in my life, that's exactly how I feel.
I am running on empty.
And I don't know if I have the cash to refill.

I am the one who said yes to my first drink, and my first smoke. I accepted being a drunk, a pothead, and a junky. I was good at it, so I thought. But I am the one who made a stand and faced my fears of addiction. I no longer depend on substances to solve my problems. Life is what drives me, and being successful at life to my understanding is what fills my soul. I am the one who woke up today and decided to live — in peace.

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.