Voices Recovered
by
Chris Norris, Christine Krug, Shane Oshetski, Jacklynn
Blanchard, Alex Lukin, Jade Edwards, Cindy Mendez,
Aaron Rodriguez, Rose Hunter, Melanie Gillman, Brian Dickson,
Claudia Mills, Annette Shope
Writer Lucia Berlin used to say that there are only seven stories in the world. Each
of us is stuck with one of them and we tell it over and over again until finally we get
it right. After reading so many writers’ tales of recovery, I started to wonder if they
had anything in common. I wanted to know if, despite circumstance, philosophy, and
genre there was, at the end of the issue, a recovery story. From what I could see,
here’s how it goes: Things suck, you figure out why, you get higher awareness, you
move on. The following is a collection of excerpted passages from this issue’s
writers stuck together in the hopes of reflecting the story of so many of our lives.
--Lois Kent
I was twenty-one, in the midst of what would later be called a
clinical manic episode, and fascinated with the prospect of
death, to go from burningly alive, to zero. I smile and bunch
my shoulders high, the way you squeeze into a car for the
Matterhorn at Seattle Center, scared but ready. I think of
all my loves and my mother and father and all the things
they did to me. I think about God and fate and love and
how maybe everyone had gotten it wrong all these years
because the original sin wasn't sex or disobedience, but
that we are forced to be born into other people's love
affairs. I’m not like any other kid. I had a kind of anxious
terror of everything, but especially people. I felt that people
could see my disintegrating mind. The couch velvet is
crushing my skin, somewhere between my jeans and Tshirt.
You promised me heartache You promised me end all, be all
Razors to wrists Antigone and Haemon Ovens to lungs Sid and
Nancy Kind of longing I'll dredge the past, I'll erase your name
Tickle me tender Where is the aching void?
Renamed to hide the stench Swallowed and
regurgitated
no matter how hard you press down on his tongue, it
won’t squeeze out what you want to hear
U can be as ill as u wanna Or as still as u wanna But the
world still turns I shrug my shoulders and I load my gun
Just to scream and fire at the stars. Arghhh! Ahhhhhhh!”
DON’T TRY TO SAVE MY LIFE. I’M NOT WORTH IT.
The reasons for this incident on my part were complex and not
anything I was planning, at that stage, to examine too much.
My, My, My
my, my, my
My thoughts
my thoughts
As a rope, as a ladder,
an escape from a tower,
In my broken Spanish, I struggled to relate the situation. I am
the carbon footprint of the Dalai Lama
It was a spiritual kick-in-the-seat-of-the-pants. The best I
could do was to go into a full retreat from feelings of being
alive. I was alive, but it was alive in the way I imagined a
zombie to feel. A little like a hospital - but not a regular
hospital - a hospital where people go whose bodies are
fine. But they can’t live at home anymore or take care of
their kids, because their minds are broken. But I know
what they don’t: ANYBODY SICK GETS BETTER. Hell
we burns marijuana for da saga. What was that bitch singin
bout The son will come out tomorrow It's been a long day
and I can't wait on mañana.
“Okay,” I say looking into her eyes and trying to make my
face say forgive me. For a moment, I think she says I do,
but then she looks away and it's clear she has never spoken.
U wanna fly away, do u that's fine. I'll be relaxed with sweet
thoughts of purple drink on my mind. She’s untwisting the
white lid on the nail polish, and the smell is stiff and clean.
Her silence was waiting for my voice. Remember since
words are contrived, the feelings correlated with them
can be dismantled. I know I'm supposed to say something
about why things went the way they did. But, really, I think
it was just luck that I recovered so well… Which is to say, it
happens sometimes. My recovery is certainly far less amazing
than, for instance, winning the Lotto. And no one -- well, not
many -- attributes winning the Lotto to prayer. So this tale is
nothing like that of a miracle. I look at the cake and am
certain there is a reason. You promised me heartache. But I
persevere.
I pulled back and stared, awash with clarity,
yes, I can lose weight, yes, I can meet
someone,
yes, my son will find a job,
yes, it will all be different now,
improbably and radiantly different
My, my, my