The space between

Rocks

Striatious on a

Cloudy day

The reason for tulips

A wave of indeterminate

Length

Her soft round eyes

Lingering for a moment

On the dash

The bright fate of

My eyebrows

Singed by this shadow

Today I came across a conversation happening between a correctional officer and a few inmates. So, the officer seems to be in depth in the conversation so I dropped in. Just as I had come in to the chat the officer was telling the inmates that addicts make the choice to be drug addicts and that the MAT program is bullshit. That its just another way for addicts to get high. I let the officer continue talking until he brought up Narcan and how its bullshit that people play God by using Narcan to save someone in an overdose. That we should let them die because they made the choice to use and that they know the consequences. They want to be junkies and they know the risk is death. So, I figure I’ve listened enough and no one else is saying anything to this officer. So, I’m like “I’ve heard what you think, now let me tell you what I think. You say it’s our choice to be an addict, well I am an addict. I’ve been addicted to opiates since the age of 15 and I’m here to tell you that I didn’t just wake up one day and decide that I wanted to be an addict the rest of my life. This life is not a choice for us and MAT is not just a legal way to get high. In fact, MAT and Narcan have saved countless lives.” I told this officer that addiction is a horrible disease and there is plenty of scientific proof and scores and scores of information to back this up. Addiction is a disease that is treatable but a lot of people don’t have the patience or the want to help an addict. I think there are so many people out there that do not understand addiction and I think that people have their own opinions about addiction and their own ideas about the best way to handle the epidemic and handle drug addicts. But these people that are biased toward addicts are the ones that still follow the old stigma about addicts and they still believe a very distorted concept of what an addict is. But the truth is, addiction is a very serious disease and I too suffer from this disease. And I am still a good person and am working very hard toward my recovery. It is a very tolling process but it doesn’t help anyone when you act like we are unfixable things as opposed to treatable human beings who have suffered so much without the added stigma. Needless to say the officer didn’t have anything to respond, but if I did change his mind…….that’s one small win. That’s what I think.

At a ceremony on Thursday, September 24., the KidSafe Collaborative presented Writers for Recovery and Scrag Mountain Music with the Janet S. Munt Prevention Award for their collaboration on the Lullaby Project. In the project, WFR and Scrag Mountain helped moms at the Lund family center in Burlington, VT write lullabies for their children. Scrag Mountain then performed the lullabies in a series of concerts across Vermont. It was a magical time, and the moms were incredible. Watch this video, and you can see just a little bit of the magic that happened.

I’m having a blast running a workshop at the Lund family center in Burlington. Even though the classes are on Zoom, the ten-week workshops with approximately twelve women is going great!  The writing comes many times from a place of loss and trauma, but is surrounded by the strength, resiliency and the incredible hard work these women have done to turn their lives around for themselves and their children. The women are writing about their recovery, their reconnection with their children and the strength they derive from being strong Moms. Their writing is vulnerable and proud and insightful.

Love these wonderful ladies!

Thanks to all who are participating!

Bess

Jeff Morse is a long-time participant in Writers for Recovery. HIs work is strange and mystical, and if I said he was one of my gurus, I wouldn’t be lying. Hope you enjoy these untitled works.

 Untitled 1

A wish fulfilled

The action of

stillness

a chance to laugh

Riding the wave

of light oh heck

I would rather

of given my druthers

As my Mom used to say

be given a green

you can

with respect and guidance

be and in that

being for all the saints’ sake

breathe the love and be the love

Untitled 2

To soar

unintended

pre emptied

post pardoned

priest lathe starred

fate faith fissure

wrath of none aboard

strangers welcome

of course

Untitled 3

Just a pinch of ice for the coming

of the clown who,

when pressed, admitted

that his happy face

was sad and his sad

face was bad, that has

been obvious since he was

a child killing ants

in the backyard with a

mirror and the sun

Untitled 4

It is the

breathless and full

everything

Nothing even is

quite active

neurons atoms n such

why even that state is

full in its expressionless

honesty no just step

away from the ledge

and it will be FINE

Untitled 5

The wish

may get you

there fuming

raising a fuss

conjuring up a drama

ghost shape shifting

your way across the

damp dusk

skirting the fetid

air freshening in the

beat of your

steady wings

Torn... Like the equator being stuck between two poles; splitting the earth as they are pulled in different directions from the universe. In-balanced from the fight between light and dark. Much like my past haunting me, turning unexperienced emotions or desires into crushed dreams before they were even an experience.  
       As I’ve said before life has it’s unforgivable misfortunes, I feel they are caused by my lack of direction. My thought are, when you dive head first into so many cultures, people, places and things you find a love for them all.
      Where you never want to let go but, the tighter you try to hold the reins the faster you lose them. Making me feel like I leave that piece Of my heart with them so they don’t have to feel the emptiness that follows once they are past memories. 
        I don’t know what hurts more, the fact that they become past memories I chase, or that I find myself numb and unwilling to experience new exciting yet fearful ventures.         This is caused by the fear that, I don’t know if I can take the loss of something I hold close to my heart. Especially of this existence; where we lose everything in the end. 
        The pieces Of my heart I have left to offer are singular, where I feel I have to protect them, because the pain of losing them would cause me to lose the last piece of myself I have, to whom, or what love I have left to give. As well as where and when to do so.
       I vision This being the love of a lifetime leading to a unalterable demise. Now left cursed with latching onto it; for there is some much I have yet to see, and at the same time Unwilling let myself go to see them. Much like the reins I grip so tightly. I know to experience this love as it is in fact my last, I have to let the reigns go, and let the universe unfold as my higher powers intend. 

“I Am From”
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

I am from a place where excellence is expected where if you fall, 10 people saw it and each have something to say.

From a place where if your parents don’t make a lot, you’re not worth too much

From a place where loyalty is simply a word or a tattoo

I’m from a place where once you’re labeled, it’s almost impossible to shake it.

If that place and didn’t have that silver spoon and longed for anything else to feel as though I mattered

I’m from a place that bored me and sought to find myself elsewhere

To escape the monotony, to escape my labels, to find my other outcasts

I’m from a place that I never felt I belonged and it’s taken me ‘til

Now to realize that where I ran to is simply worse than where I ran from

“Here’s Why I Called”
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

Sometimes I find it amazingly difficult to call my family. I came from a family where I am the black sheep. No one in my immediate family has ever been arrested, never mind sentenced to prison. What goes on in here they don’t understand at all. And why should they have to? They expect and assume that the rules of a civilized society can work here and as anyone who’s ever been locked up knows, nothing could be further from the truth. Dealing with argumentative inmates or c/o’s who only want to make life more difficult for us, who wants to hear about that on a 20 min. phone call that costs $2? Why would they want to hear about how their loved one is being treated poorly and fighting against a system stacked against us?
So the “how have you been” question sucks. So I lie 9/10. I tell them I’ve been OK, “just bored” meanwhile I want to rip my hair out. I hear about how people are living their lives, having fun and moving on or about how someone else passed away, is sick or having $ issues. And I’m stuck in here feeling like a bum, missing out and unable to help.

So it’s not always easy to call and go through prompts and entering your inmate# just to talk to a loved one and be reminded you’re being recorded. No being told you’ve only got 1 minute left is painful. But here’s why I called …

I called because I love you. Because I need you. That I want you to know that even at my worst I think of you. I wish I was there and am sorry that I’m not but called just to hear your voice and I want you to know it’s the best 20 minutes I’ll have all day. I love you.

“The Hardest Part”
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

The hardest part of making changes to my life is most simply that it’s all I know. My entire live has consisted of the same basic outlines. The places have changed, the people have changed, but I have not. I lie to myself a lot and try to make excuses for why I’m doing the things that I do but the main reason has always been because I’m afraid. Afraid of the unknown. Its sounds weird, but it’s true. I’ve only ever tried to find the shortcuts. My mind works in a very abstract type of way and in my mind I think I’ve figured it all out. Clearly I have not. The hardest part is not acknowledged, that I’ve done, but where do I start? How do you attempt to find that one 1st step to connect almost 15 years of mistakes. Where does the path begin? It’s very overwhelming when you think about it like this. That to me is the hardest aspect of changing my life and a question I am constantly thinking of and do not have a full solid answer yet.

“I’ve Made Some Changes”
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

The address remains the same.

You still turn left at the old Lovelace farm, and you still go about a mile before you come to the farm house on the left.

The trees are taller.

Driveway’s in the same place.

But the mailbox is different.

Who or what ever took down the old fence that ran along the driveway did the property a favor.

So did whoever finally mowed the god-damned lawn.

The landscaping is no longer controlled by wind and gravity and the junk pile is now behind a couple of old cars which are now begin a small workshop.

If you’ve passed this way in the last 20 years, you’ll ring the bell and when I get to the door you’ll say “The place looks good.”

“I’ll made some changes,” I’ll say. “Want a beer?”

“I Have a Better Idea”
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

I have a better idea, let’s try science!

Fuck all this politics bullshit.

Want a better world? Listen to the data, not the pundits.

I don’t care if you want another Jet-Ski™.

People need to eat.

Got a fancy car?

A big truck that makes up for a small dick?

Good for you.

Stop complaining about the price of gas, you’ve obviously got enough to cover it.

IN fact, let’s raise the price so we can plant some trees and your grandkids can breathe in 50 years.

Got a nice house?

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Want to keep poor people from stealing your shit?

Pay for school.

Pay for re-hab.

Pay your fucking taxes, you selfish piece of shit.

You actually think that’s your money?

Really? You made it all by yourself?

Seriously, who do you think “paid” for the infrastructure, the security of the monetary system, or the cheap-ass agricultural and consumer goods upon which your entire business model is based? Who fought and bled and died and innovated and immigrated and worked and rebelled and agreed to a set of rules that even made your greed possible?

So why do you think it’s acceptable?

What if I’m Wrong?
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

I turned the corner, my bike tracking perfectly with the tire marks left by the truck through the fresh snow.

 After about fifteen minutes, which seems like and hour with frozen fingers and a fogged-over visor, I have convince myself that he didn’t know I was back here, following his every move as he trundled across the county on every back road that looked passable.

As the road climbed toward the transmitter tower for a long-dead radio station, a tower which sprouted microwave transmitters and a cell phone repeater over the last twenty years or so, it dawned on me that he would soon either be force to backtrack or risk some pretty nasty trails if we had much farther to go.

I put down a foot as I carefully stopped, put the bike in neutral and put down the kickstand.

The road was more slippery than I thought, and I wonders how a worn-out set of Dunlops could do better than logger boots.

I paused to warm my hands on the top of the engine before fumbling around to lift the seat and pull the headlight fuses.

“Stealth mode enabled,” I whispered in my helmet, fogging the face shield a little more.

I mounted up again — carefully — and got on my way, hoping he couldn’t see me coming…

(But) what if I’m wrong?

“This Too Shall Pass”
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

 This too shall pass

The words were scratched onto a piece of notebook paper

Yellowed with water stains and cigarette smoke

Arriving at my prison cell as I begin a sojourn through hell

That will last twenty years.

Tears burn at the corner of my eyes

So much the powder in the corners of the paper

Scored off the yard, used up and disintegrating in toilet water.

The high too shall pass

Like the sands of time that is my life

But will the agony pass as well?

I think not.

But with the parting words of the hope-lost lover,

It seems that my path should change.

Must change.

Or sacrifice the empty carapace of the life I have left.

This too shall pass.

The demons once fallen will never rise again.

Unless I continue to place them with powder and paper

Disintegrating with my life in the toilet water.

One crumple paper must be the last,

It must be I who removes the damage

And ends the chaotic cycle of decay.

“For Too Long”
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

For too long have the waters

Raged above my head.

Sunlight trickles through

Angel hair thin.

It sears my pale skin

And my night-blinded eyes.

I am drowned beneath

These crashing waves

Scrambling for the surface

Unsure of what the land will bring.

Breaking the surface,

I taste air as if for the first time.

Now it’s my turn.

Too long have I been claimed

By the shadowy depths

Threatened to be smothered

Into futile oblivion.

No.

I cast aside

The velvet cloak of delirium

And choose once more to stand.

“Do You Know?”
by Anonymous
Northern State Correctional Facility

Do you know what I just heard?

Do you know what he’s in for?

Do you know what he is?

After being cast out of the light of society

One would think to find some commonality,

If not some comaraderie,

Amongst the dregs of humanity.

Yet we squabble to find who is first

Among the last

Who is king

Of the garbage heap

Never mind that we are all the same

To those beyond these four walls.

The word “inmate” is said through gritted teeth

Like a racial slur.

“Inmate lives don’t matter”

“They make their own beds”

And to no one do we have recourse

Because who would listen to the voice of a monster

Let they find that we all

Make our own beds

And that we aren’t so different after all.

“I Still Remember that House”

 Took my current paramour there the other day. We stood in the gravel 

driveway of the church and I pointed past the gazebo 

to the grave of the Shih Tzu I brought to prom*. 

How many times have we given that house Puck’s “Through the House”?

Do you remember? Or a Rumi poem prompts a tear to read it accurately?

We were all married there.  Nana would wear the wedding dress, 

the one my mother wore, the one I wore 

to the end of the driveway for a picture to send as Cheesecake

to the Colonel during WWII. Ostentatious and humorous.

“Good enough for Benson” was the family expression for 

‘no need to gussy up’, not 

Sunday best, “Good enough.” 

I still remember that house, the one where I first came to Vermont 

at eight months, and every house which will never live up to it yet.  

It’s a sleep-aiding technique to try to recreate and remember 

every bedroom, but there’s not one of us, even those who do not dream, 

who have not visited it again in their sleep.  

*Baby Princess Astronaut Wraparound Splotch.  You tried to resuscitate her mouth to mouth.  She died in our apartment on July 11. Persephone was born 22 July.  The Dog Star rise. 

“How Did It Happen?”

They only know time after the Big Bang, not before, not during

The four causes in Aristotle without the watchmaker

How did it happen, now that there is a one-in-one chance of it happening?

What were the conditions?  The scientist, the sleuth, and mendicant prefer 

the journey to the goal.  Is it time I write my own Sherlock Holmes-lore 

story about it?  The first year’s answer was, “I had help.” A lot of help was true.

I had to have the whole job done, the whole rehaul, the whole recall: the real 

“I’m gonna be a brand new bug” meets Book of Job. I had read everything back then.

How did it happen? It was amazing that it hadn’t yet happened for me.  Who better 

than me to have it happen to? Did I know when it happened or did it escape 

my notice?  Did I just stare at it until it changed color, an over-focus, not manic.

My friend said he’d been to 58 meetings in his life, I had done that in five weeks.  

Is it happening again?  Happening continually, or happened?  I still can watch the 

Golden Girls to help me through an evening.  The obsession disappeared, evanesced, continues to fade.  First year, fraught vegan cheesecake.  Last year it was popsicles.  This year 

I may bring popsicles again.   I don’t know how it happened, but it seems to me 

I am now entirely different.  Did I get exchanged, renewed, discarded, rebuilt?

Like getting a recall on all my parts.  I had so many people working on me:

A very loose jalopy with the semblance of a cohesive girl.

“I Just Don’t Know”

Socrates said, all I know is I don’t know.

Smartest person in the room may well be the most ignorant, 

and open, willing to learn, willingness

readiness is all, right?  Heard that before, right?

When Peter and Peter’s wife took 

me and my shih tzu on that canoe 

We mused about who had taken these paths before

I said the Old English word for “Ocean” is “Whale Road”

The professor had claimed he knew Johnny Depp,

Extolling his virtue as best actor, because he was most vapid

An empty vessel, entirely open, the perfect instrument to 

let a role inhabit him.  Aren’t we filled with knowledge in the same way?

Like a haunting?  Do we possess knowledge or are we possessed by it?

I’m coming to know my preconceptions deserve to be challenged.

The liability I once  counted as strength was in extrapolating, 

Seeing the chess moves ahead, 

summing all y’all up so that I may isolate.

Peter says, “put your demons on the PA 

so you can be party to their deliberations”

Jeff says, “put your demons on the witness stand  

so you can cross examine them”

I can quote all sorts, it can penetrate 

my skin like reverse sunscreen.

I am learning listening over editorializing, 

although I like to curate memories, contextualizing them 

without glorifying them.  I can listen now, 

but I just don’t know, I synthesize.

I Still Remember that House

Kansas.  I can't remember much

About living there,

Not the street

Or even the neighborhood.

But I remember that house,

The sky, the big green lawn,

The swingset where I encouraged

My little sister to climb

The ladder to the slide.

She chickened out at the top,

Tried to turn around, but fell

And broke her leg.

It was 1968 - so she must

Have been 3,

And I was 5.

I know it was 1968

Because Dr. King got shot

When we lived in Ft. Leavenworth.

I remember that because 

My dad was a student

At the Army War College.

His table mate was Colin Powell.

My dad said, "They're really

Raising Cain up in Kansas City,"

And I didn't know what that meant.

Captain Powell said, "He was a good man,"

And my dad agreed.

The Missouri River must not

Have been far away.

I remember the clouds and the wind,

The steep waves on the river

And a red and white diver's buoy,

Bobbing on the surface -

And learning that someone was down below,

Down below those dark waters

On that dreary dreary day. 

“What’s Hidden Beneath the Surface”

What’s hidden beneath the surface?

Being late? Not on time? Not showing up?

Showing down? Somewhere else? Where? 

Where is she? Did you screw up again? Did 

you walk through batwing doors and get smacked 

in your face? Knocked out, Thrilla-in-Manila style?

Socked, punched, whacked, biffed in the head? 

Did you see stars? Where? Which stars did you see? 

Constellations? Tell me. I want to know what happened 

when you showed up late. Loaded with anxiety, and 

expectation. Released. Mesmerized.

Ready to write it down. To spill the beans.To dissemble 

the assembled, to take it all apart like an axonometric 

diagram of an exploding fridge in an Antonioni movie. 

Light up a big one Martin. Let’s watch Zabriskie Point 

and be stoned when the fridge blows up, and the beautiful girls with 

their golden oyster shoulders move through space like piranhas

eating crabs chewing the cud letting the lamps know it’s okay to shine

to be brave, to be new, to say f-you baby this is me. 

Magical Awesome Beautiful Free! 

“Now It’s My Turn”

Now it’s my turn. To dive into the shadow. To 

spear the fish of discontent.To revel

to embrace the cactus. To ink

the spot. To sign on the dotted line.

To fake it to make it. Now it’s my turn 

to use the phone. To dial the number to sit

on the grey metal housing for

four fat London phone books.

Perhaps I should consider whether it 

might give way under my weight.

As sounds come from my mouth. As

ballet dancers move past with their

eccentric garments, and their knitted 

woolen hosiery impeccably tousled around

their gifted ankles somehow managing to

avoid contact with scattering trash finding 

it’s way to Euston Road. I forget

the name of the pub where the Pogues used

to play after their brief chaotic commute

from their unruly domicile on Burton Street….

06-17-20. Peter Fried.

Do you have a minute to talk to me rather than at me? Do I enjoy our conversation ? I enjoy a minute or two when you have time to talk with me. The hardest time to listen is when you have a minute to only talk at me. Do you have a minute to talk with me I asked the doctor? Do you have a minute to talk with me I asked my husband? Do you have a minute to talk with me I asked myself? Myself was the hardest one to get to cooperate. Myself gave me the silent treatment. But as I work my way toward a journey of with instead of at, myself is loosening up a bit, coming around. Do I  have a minute to talk? I think I do.

I lost myself in my own darkness. I found myself in my own darkness. I lost myself in my own light and found myself there, too. I have continued to lose and find myself in the shifting shades of life. I have lost myself in the corners of my mind, and I have had to peel and pry back the edges to find myself lurking there again, wedged under some small spaces. In those spaces, I must root around and pick up the broken pieces of myself that were scattered when I lost myself. I glue them back together carefully, so that they resemble a whole part of something more recognizable. I keep finding these pieces hiding under all beams and struts that have caved in from the dark storms that blew in and caused them to be lost in the first place. They have scattered far and wide. I journey to pick them and carry them, oh so carefully, so that they can continue to be pieced together. The renovation continues, a years-long project to reconstruct a building that will last. I lost all the parts, but I am finding them again. I am finding them again, so that I may build something beautiful.

But...
We DO RECOVER...

It has been a little over 5 years now..
That I claimed my freedom...
from opiates..
Has it been easy...
Not at all..
I am in Chronic pain..
everyday...
But this is and will be a fact of my life..How I choose to live with it is also my choice...
And this belief of others...
I'm not sure..
If that really matters..If we do it for others..that's not real...
But it is also part of the process...
In having others believe in us...it strengthens the beliefs in ourselves...

I would never have believed..
I could have the life I have now..
But perhaps others did...
Especially at a time...
When I couldn't love or believe in ourselves..

I believed I could recover and I held fast to those beliefs...

With a lot of hard work and everyday...

And I still get judgement calls..once in a while...

But Believe it ..or not..

I know the truth...and that's all that matters...
I am an addict...
No longer in active addiction...
I am thankful to have traveled those roads...
And so humble...
I am not on them anymore❣

Last week, we lost Gavin Howley, an early participant in Writers for Recovery and a close personal friend. Since then, I’ve heard from a number of the people who knew and loved Gavin, both online and by phone. They all shared how much they loved him, and talked about his impact on their lives. So I thought I’d add my own to the pot, because I loved him too, and because he’s a guy worth remembering.

I met Gavin in July 2014, at the first Writers for Recovery workshop at the old Turning Point on Bank Street in Burlington. Even six years later, I have fond memories of that group and the amazing people who were part of it: Stan Worthley, Caitlin and Sarah Ferland, John and Jack Gower, Leslie Bonnette, Patti Garvey, and a bunch of great other folks. That first group literally went on for years, with and without those folks and including many more. It had a huge impact on my life, and for that I am most grateful.

I’m not sure how Gavin found out about WFR, or why he showed up. I recall him saying “my therapist made me,” but it could be that I am making that up. In any case, he put his stamp on the workshop right away. Later, I would find out he was a great musician. (If you haven’t seen his version of Alison, check it out above, before the copyright team at YouTube finds it and takes it down.) But before I heard his music, I read his words. From his harrowing (and surprisingly funny) early piece “Why I Really Went to Jail,” I learned two important things that I would carry throughout my time with WFR.

First, I discovered what could happen when a writer was brave enough to tell the truth without holding back. When Gavin read the piece out loud, we were all just stunned. And it wasn’t only us. I posted the piece on the WFR blog, and for the following six years, it has been the single most read post we’ve ever published. I told Gavin that once, and he mumbled something snarky, probably about not deserving it, but he did deserve it. Because the piece is unreal, as you can see for yourself.

Second, I learned that not everyone who struggles with substances and mental health issues looks like they struggle. Ever-casual in slacks and a dress shirt, Gavin was warm, friendly, funny, and cool. But when he started reading that first piece, I realized there was so much more below the surface, including courage and deep-seated pain.

I liked Gavin from the get-go, and after he asked me to give him a ride home to South Burlington one night, we became friends. I told him I’d be glad to give him a ride if he was willing to stop by Trader Joe’s with me on the way. He agreed, and soon we were wandering the aisles, chatting and cracking jokes like old friends. If I recall correctly, he grabbed some kind of wacky combo juice, Pomegranate-Hemp or something equally odd, which became the first of one of many of our long-running jokes.

Over the years, we grew closer. I’d drive up to Burlington for some errands and meet him for a 5 Guys burger or some Gaku Ramen and an afternoon or evening of wandering Church Street, poking around in the shops and looking for a suitable and fairly-priced pair of pants, which Gavin had an idea might be at LLBean. (As far as I know, he never did find them.) Then I’d give him a lift back to SoBu, as he always referred to his home town, and we’d agree to do it again.

Sometime after Gavin’s dad Jim died in 2017, Gavin, his mom Kathleen, and his sister Laura came to Montpelier to spread some of the ashes at Hubbard Park, which Jim loved. We had a nice lunch on the back porch at Deb’s and my house. And Gavin came along with me for Deb’s standup comedy debut at the Vermont Comedy Club, where he got to meet some of my other friends. Now, of course, I am regretting that I didn’t see him more in person. But that was only part of our relationship.

I’m not really much of a texter; I do it for convenience and minimally. But in the past few years, I texted with Gavin almost daily. While our in-person talks often focused on serious topics—how Gavin was doing in his recovery, how his work was going, his difficulty being social and getting himself out in the world, the texts were 99% humor. To know Gavin was to know his wit, which while often self-effacing, turned its sights like a Death Star laser beam on the hypocrisy and inanity of American life in general and Burlington (and SoBu) life in particular.

On any given day, we might riff on the fact that the SoBu Public Library is in a shopping mall, dissect the grammar missteps of the junk email Gavin got from Nataliya, the stunning Russian sexpot who was dying to meet “Real American Man,” or mock the overblown guitar stylings of blues guitar god Joe Bonamassa (or, as we referred to him, Joe Massive Boner or just BM). In fact, we developed a whole sideline story that Gavin’s uncle, a jazz pianist who in real life despised the Boner, was actually the president of the BM fan club. And there was more, in an endless stream of humor aimed at everything from corporate-speak to “clean” food, “unboxing” videos to our level of manliness, or lack therof.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, topped the amount of time we spent ragging on YETI, the manufacturer of the coolers you need a bank loan or a trust fund to afford. It all started one evening in LLBean, where I had gone to buy some fly fishing gear and Gavin had made another unsuccessful soiree to the pants rack. As we were leaving, we paused at the YETI display, where $300 coolers were there for the asking.

“Jesus,” I said. “I can’t believe anyone could be stupid enough to pay that much for a fucking cooler.”

And that’s when we realized an LLBean staffer was lurking behind us.

“That’s because they’re THE BEST,” he said, trying and failing to tamp down his irritation. Then he stalked away.

“THE BEST,” Gavin mused, and then we both started laughing. That was all it took. In text and in person, any time a product of any kind was mentioned, YETI and THE BEST came along for the ride. It might start innocently enough, with a text by Gavin asking if I knew where he could get THE BEST sandwich or something, and we would be off for a stream of bad jokes, worse puns, and general hilarity no one would care about but us. But here’s the thing: underneath it all, Gavin was hurting.

Occasionally, he would go off radar for a while, which corresponded with a relapse, and the deep anger and shame he felt about going back to that place again. Then I’d get a text, or see him in person, and he’d own all of it with complete honesty and start over. He never blamed anyone but himself, which he did without kid gloves. He’d go back to meetings, connect with a sponsor, and try again.

Just before he died, Gavin hit a year sober. I can’t remember him doing that long a stretch in the time I have known him, but it’s possible he did. While he was open in talking about his difficulty with sobriety, he pushed back on any effort to go too deep. Which was fine. I didn’t hang with him because I wanted to solve Gavin’s problems, I showed up because I loved him. He was smart, funny, cantankerous and skeptical, talented, humble, and cool, even if he didn’t believe it. I’m so sad that he made the choice to leave us. The world is now a lesser place.   

Feel free to share your memories of Gavin here. Thanks for reading. Gary

THE BEST

Once you start going to meetings, finding a sponsor, start working the steps, things will get better. You'll find a new sense of freedom, freedom from the restraining effect drugs and alcohol had on you. It won't be easy, but it'll be worth it. I can't tell you how to work your own program but take my advice, work it to the best of your ability. Reach out if you're struggling, people WILL pick up the phone. Get those numbers from people in meetings. Call me, fuck it. I don't care what time it is, 4pm or 4am. People have and I pick up the phone. Because I was there. I needed help. And people talked me through it. There will be days you wanna drink or use but you don't have to. You don't have to go back to the hell you were dragging yourself through. Just take it one day at a time. No matter what happens in your day, you get fired from your job, break your arm, your girlfriend leaves you, car breaks down, etc, as long as you don't pick up a drink or drug your day is a complete success. The program works if you work it. If you can stop drinking or drugging without the help of AA or NA, that's great, more power to you. But I'll guarantee you won't make the personal changes needed to be a completely different person. By working the program you open yourself up to a whole new way of living life. I can't tell you what will work for you but I can tell you what WON'T work. Just take my advice.

VISTA’s innovative texting platform, Messages for Me, aims to build individuals’ recovery resources, one day at a time. Since November of 2019, Messages for Me has provided over 100 individuals in recovery with scheduled text messages that build self-worth and provide support. Now revamped in response to COVID-19, the program sends five weekly messages about coping during COVID-19, nurturing recovery, and maintaining connections. It provides a constant sense of connection through isolation and cultivates recovery during a time when many people are vulnerable to relapse.

Recovery can be difficult, but signing up for Messages for me isn’t. To subscribe, text “START” to 802 548-1024. Enrollment is ongoing and new users are welcomed at any time.

Robyn Joy is a long-time WFR participant, and her work has appeared frequently on our blog. Here, she shares three recent poems. I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as I did. Thanks, Robyn!

HERE’S WHERE I’M AT RIGHT NOW

I’m listening – humbly.

            I’m sharing what I learn and what I know as I go

            in an attempt to be of service without getting it wrong.

There are so many abundant trees though

 and I don’t know which apple to choose 

How I am

What I am eating

What my cat is doing

How my family’s health is

  all of this is perhaps less significant

            but still continuing

            while moms are screaming for the loss of their babies

            to another act of violence 

            that I don’t even know how to talk about

And I am scared too

How much more can I absorb before I shut down?

How can I be a good student

            and a good ally

            and a good caretaker

            all at once?

Maybe it is just a matter of adaptability.

June 3, 2020

IT WASN'T MY FIRST CHOICE

It wasn't my first choice, 

to be so weird and awkward.

In fact, I tried to exorcise out the weird

 in a series of rites and passages -

  candles lit

  effigies burned.

But there I was

 every. single. time.

Silencing lively conversations,

with an odd observation,

 trying to like something that was normal

  but not really getting it.

In adolescence, I guess this didn't hold true.

"Weird" was a badge to be earned.

But the ones I was mirroring

had more clout than I could ever hope for,

which arguably made me 

the actual weirdo in this equation,

and the so called "weirdos" the normies,

depending on your perspective.

It's boring isn't it?

Placating to an idea 

rather than having our own.

Even as a real live adult,

I still fall into that dull hole sometimes.

So mundane I might just 

lay around in it for days 

before I realize where I am.

But the candles from the rituals still burn 

and if I squint, 

I can still see the effigy's flicker.

June 10, 2020

WHAT IF I’M WRONG

What if I’m wrong

   and what I just said makes the world explode?

   Or what if it implodes instead?

Which hurts more?

What if I make the wrong choice,

and then you stop loving me?

  Or you keep on loving me, 

because that’s the right thing to do,

but you secretly dislike me from now on?

What if I find out in five years

   that the very reasonable seeming decision I just made

    put my life on a trajectory far away

     from what I wanted, 

      and I can never get back

       to being comfortable and stable?

What if I am wrong about what comfort and stability are,

  and I have been wrong this whole time?

And what if finally making the RIGHT choice 

  would bring me to that place

   where everything releases 

    and I say with a big sigh

     “Oh! I get it now!”

      but because I have been 

      making a string of wrong decisions,

I will never really know what that is like?

Or what if..

  What if I DID know what it felt like

    but I wasn’t paying attention 

     and I missed it

     and now I don’t even have a chance?

Or what if it isn’t even up to me,

 and my choices are a lark,

  and it’s all going to unfold how it wants to anyway?

What if I let go of whether or not I am wrong,

  and let others be right?

June 10, 2020

All recovery begins with an honest acknowledgment that a problem exists. In The United States, systemic racism and police brutality have over the past 450 years resulted in the murder of, denigration of, and denial of justice for millions of African Americans, Indigenous People, and People of Color. The racist murders of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Ahmaud Arbery tragically illustrate how systemic racism in the United States destroys families and communities and condemns millions of Americans to lives of pain, fear, and suffering. Writers for Recovery stands in solidarity with people across America and around the world who condemn these racist murders and demand the immediate reform of our policing and justice systems to eliminate systemic racism and police brutality and deliver true justice for BIPOC. As an organization, we pledge to increase our outreach to people of color and provide more opportunities for them to participate in WFR. And we will rededicate ourselves to our work within communities and corrections facilities to amplify those voices that have too long been denied an audience. Black Lives Matter, and the time for change is now.