WRITTEN WORD

Traveling Through Shadow, Coming into Light

By Emily Tedford

This set of poems is part of a collection I'm working on called Traveling Through Shadow, Coming into Light. The project is an exploration of transformation through the courage to travel through those shadowy places within our psyche, in order to find our unique gifts that give us the strength to love ourselves and accept ourselves and shine, lighting a path for other travelers on the healing journey and especially in sobriety.

Pressure

It's always there
under the surface waiting to swallow me
back down to the depths
of darkness.
I don’t know if
the initial descent
is more painful
or the burst of light
that shines
from my diamond
heart
upon return.

Integrating Parts

Invite back pieces
of myself
at times
I’d rather forget
to hold them
and be whole
perhaps
once again
to honor
their wisdom.
What did my liberated
and encaged
wise and naive
enraged
teenage
girl
self
know about the injustices
I embodied by blooming?

Getting Clean

Nothing left to destroy - just build.
So let me build myself up so strong
and fiercely
full of love
and forgiveness.
Let me find the light
and all my strength
all my shine
and never
forget
where I come from
what I have lived through
so I may be reminded that every day
is a blessing.

Coming Home

Let me come home to myself.
What is false
fall
to ashes.

Let me write,
feel paint,
create move,
breathe
this new story.
Let it be vibrant
beautiful
True.

Gathering Pieces

By Carey

A journey back to self.
I wrote this poem in pieces one evening through the night. It felt like downloads from deep within me. Stories that need to be released from my being.

gathering pieces
left behind
on bedroom floor, behind closed doors
from careless men, lip gloss stained lens
from fragile parents, lost at sea
wondering it it’s them or me
gathering pieces
left behind
in masculine spaces, expectant faces
boardrooms, slick palms, out of place here
lost voice, words stuck, fear rising
gathering pieces, back together
soft, untethered, light as feathers
feeling into deep, dark spaces
remembering all my parts, my faces
hands on heart, on womb, on hips
old secrets soak through porous lips
mouth explores forgotten creases
gathering all my long lost pieces.

The emptiness of psychedelia

By Yvan Gelbard

This piece touches on what it means to know "truth", but it started as simply a recollection of my first psychedelic trip. What I thought of as a profoundly transformative experience at the time turned out to be rather empty (but somehow still meaningful) in the grand scheme of things.

Take me back to the place
where I first saw the moon
& felt seen, too, hearing
the whole cosmic tune—
some glass on the ground
shone bright as the sun
a finger pointing at the sky
& at my self coming undone.

Coming down from that high
I dreamt of singing out loud
about the ineffable within
& that above the clouds.
I didn’t know then that
the truth cannot be told—
maybe one day I’ll know
when I’m wise and I’m old.

Anxious Eyes

By Lindy Phelps

Anxious Eyes is about looking past what you see at surface level and seeing the strong and beautiful soul within.

I wish you could see the strength inside.
I wish you could see the emotional exhaustion that is pushed through.
I wish you could see beyond the worry and panic.

Behind my anxious eyes, you would see…

The mighty strength within.
The courage it takes to work through fears, both seen and unseen.
The daily battle that is conquered.

Behind my anxious eyes is a soul that is strong, resilient, capable.

The Beast

By Monica Mangan

This poem is an edited version of an original poem that I wrote for my young adult kids after my first relapse last year. At the time, none of them were speaking to me. I understood why but also I knew they didn’t understand addiction. With a just over a year of sobriety behind me, I updated this poem with the experience and confidence, pride, and better understanding of myself and my disease as a sober mom, and sent this again to my kids.

There’s a beast that lives inside of me
Its name is My Addiction.
Domineering, dark and cruel
This foe is my affliction. 

My Addiction is the cunning sort,
Clever, quick and agile.
It’s impatient and it shows its might
When I’m negligent and fragile.

This beast was once a secret
I tried desperately to hide
Until the pain of fears and lies
Destroyed my walls inside.

The secret shame of addiction|
Became too much to bear.
It gained strength and left its bleeding wounds
On the ones I love most dear.

I couldn’t stay present
My life seemed surreal.
I needed sobriety,
To learn how to feel.

I am The Sober Warrior
I’ve fought to earn this name
I’ve surrendered, I’m relentless
The victor in this game.

This is a match of battles
Between warrior and beast.
Each day is mine to win or lose,
Both within my reach. 

The sober me is spirited
Creative, honest, smart.
To stay on track and win this fight
I have to do my part.

The warrior advances
Taking each step day by day
With gratitude and feeling feels
This is the only way.

I’d rather live my life with truth
And keep the beast at bay
Than pretend it’s not a part of me
And drink my life away.

My peace and my serenity
Bring joy and irony.
I didn’t need to drink to live.
I needed sobriety.

My Bad Romance

By Blair Sharp

I wrote this piece to describe my relationship with alcohol. I wanted to show that although it was not all bad, in the end it was best to separate from it. The relationship I had with alcohol was similar to one with someone you love, but know isn't good for you. It was hard to break up with alcohol but I realized that it was something I had to do to better myself. I've been alcohol-free since February 26, 2018.

Blair is an alcohol-free wife and mom from Minnesota. She works full-time outside of the home, and also does freelance writing. She is a staff writer and contributor for Rochester Mom, a parenting resource in her city. She is also a contributor for The Sober Curator. In her free time she likes to watch reality television, eat cheese, and do other introverted activities. You can find her creating content on Instagram @sobrietyactivist, and on her website www.blairsharp.com

I had a long and destructive relationship with Alcohol. 
At times, it was romantic.
It served its purpose.
It made me happy.
It worked.
In the beginning Alcohol treated me well.
It made me feel euphoric.
I felt like nothing could stop me.
I felt free. 
No matter what happened, I kept going back to it.
I was innocent back then. 
From the start I could tell that my relationship with Alcohol was different. 
From the start I drank to excess.
I couldn’t help it.
As I got older, the relationship flourished. 
I was the life of the party.
I can thank Alcohol for that.
Alcohol helped me socialize and make friends.
It helped me fit in. 
Alcohol helped me become the person who I thought I was.
It caused me to act in ways I would never act without it. 
Alcohol brought up emotions.
The codependent relationship consumed me at times.
I didn’t know who I was without it. 
Alcohol wasn’t always good to me.
There were many times that I was abused.
At the end of our relationship, the romance was in the planning. 
It was in the thoughts about how amazing our time together would be.
The reality was that things never turned out how I imagined them to.
I don’t regret the years I spent with Alcohol.
It was those moments that made me who I am today.
A time came that I had to say goodbye. 
I had to break up with this tortuous partner I’ve been with for so many years.
I had to leave the longest relationship I had ever been in. 
I found out quickly that this was not going to be easy. 
But I also realized it was going to be worth it.  

A Great Queer Love Story, The Fool, Lover

By Kay Todd

I have always been a writer and a lover of others. But my sobriety journey has provided me with the chance to become the lover to myself I always needed. These poems are a testament to the complex and beautiful process it is to learn to love oneself deeply.

A Great Queer Love Story (or the first time I get a tattoo alone)

I am all pink cellophane and leaking skin
And this, my leather burial

I lose you in the buzz of bullet hands
The orange haze of smoke

An exhale never finished
The wheeze of the ground beneath

The fluid body of the machine
The taste of sweat from your lips

A face I’d never see again
And one I recognize as mine

For the love of the trigger
The gunmetal symphony I screamed

Blood drips and I let it
The painting growing in my chest

I am all burnt letters and oracle cards
And crystallized fingertips

The afternoon bathes me yellow
I stand alone, inhale

The Fool

A breath and a half empty mattress
Arisen on tattered feet

The way skin crackles in the candle
Smells like orange in the aura of flame

The oil stain in the wax
Sweating out a life in flesh

Black tar fingertips
And smudged gray along the length

That remains no matter how hard I scrub
With soap that smells like how I used to drink

Tasting the smoke in my lungs
A rotting end I turn away from

And to the newest sacred burn:
I say yes

Lover

I pry the lead out
Graphite stained teeth
I have swallowed green all my life

The taste of paper smoking
A skin I feel pounding in my ears
Her light shines through pulsing

What are hands but waiting
And ghosts of the question of god
Hooves that stink with mildew

I have never loved you like I should
And in my freckles I have found the stars
The prickle of a light dimmed low red

I am a balloon

By Veronica Schmidt

This was written one month into sobriety. It is both about my struggle with alcohol and bipolar disorder. Letting something outside yourself take you over is so appealing to me but always leaves me feeling worse than before.

I am a balloon being filled with helium.
I long to go higher.
I cut the string and I am soaring in the sky amongst the clouds.
Eventually though, I pop.
The air is ripped out of me in a long and violent tumble back to earth.
The lifesource that allowed me to soar is gone.
I am deflated and empty, crumpled on the pavement.

Breaking Cycles

By Kate Henderson

I wrote this to my dad. He died by suicide and alcoholism in 2012. Even at a young age we were deeply energetically connected. I resisted it strongly. I struggle knowing that had I leaned in instead of pushing away we could have supported one another in a very significant way. So often what we criticize in others is the very thing we refuse to see in ourselves. I understand him now on a deeper level now that I'm sober. My life is a living amends. A way to honor him. Recovery will run in my family. 175 days today.

I didn’t like you
because I knew I was like you
We were the same. Like day and day
instead of leaning in, i ran far away
In hindsight, now that I’ve learned the hard way so much you could have shown
i wished I’d stayed instead of flown.
You’re gone now, and it all makes sense
sad that it’s impossible to make amends
in past tense
I know how hard it was for you
the war inside your brain
I’m a soldier, too
battling the thunder and the rain
I didn’t like you
Because I knew I was like you
But i promise to stay
So that one day my children will say
Mom, I like you. Because I know I am like you.

Fridge Light

By Katti Marie Henderson

I wrote this to highlight the moment I finally got angry at the substance. The trick that was played by Big Alcohol. When I actually saw it for what it was I could get off the fucking hamster wheel of shame. It was a freeing moment. The biggest, "It's not me...It's YOU! ever.

Morning checking in that dim fridge light
How much of that bottle did I drink last night?

One half? Three fourths? It was all the same
Again. Promises of “No More” hung hazy in the shame.

Dry Mouth.
Pounding Head.
Phone. Keys. Wallet.
Trying to remember what was said.

Thinking, “I was there, but that’s not me.”
These liquid fucking shackles. I just want to be free.

Mom. Daughter. Wife. Footloose and “a thinker” How did I fall so far

Hook. Line & Sinker

Fuck this. No more! The shame melts to rage.
I’m burning this whole book, not just turning the page.

1345 Williamson Street & Untitled

By Abigail Geurink

1345 Williamson Street: 3 years sober now, this was written when I was moving in to my first apartment by myself (one bedroom) after getting back on my feet.

Untitled: I wrote this while I was still drinking.

1345 Williamson Street
8-11-19 11:00 PM

No bed frame to hold my mattress, I am here, practically
on the ground in a tangle of clothing and whatnot.

I have not written in what feels like a lifetime,
and in some ways it has been a lifetime,
and I need to be turned as to not get bed sores.

I still do not like to cook my own food,
so I do not eat if no one is there to make me.

I can notice my reflection on my closet
door that slides, though, and not whisper fuck you,
so I suppose I can celebrate small things like that

or how my mother’s fabric shears no longer look so glorious
painted in cherry juice from my own body.

I know that laundry must be separated
by color and material, but it is so
much easier just to throw it all in at once.

There is a difference between a nap and a sleep cycle,
but I am still trying to learn the difference.

I went to the hospital in March of this year
for a kidney infection, and I could not believe
I was not there to get my stomach pumped.

Black holes do not exist outside of space,
but I could have sworn they did before today.

It is late on a Sunday night, and I am alone
in a three bedroom apartment, empty boxes
begging to be filled with everything that is mine

(which is not a lot). I will get around to it,
not tonight, but maybe tomorrow or the day after.

Risk taking has not left me, but instead of teetering
on street curbs in blackness, I just don’t wrap my coffee mugs
in tissue paper before throwing them in a moving box.

Untitled

If I stand close enough to the curb
Watch the lights whiz by
Would you hit me
Splatter my guts
Drink them up
Taste the alcohol
That I am made of

Pieces

By Kara Luedtke

I took myself apart so

wouldn't fall to pieces

now I'm trying to hold it

together when I'm

scattered

all

over

the

floor