Category Archives: recovery

Roseate

…………………………..I count the days,
……………each night keeping track of the remainder,
…….like a child subtracting each sleep, awaiting
..the thrill of waking on Christmas day,
and yet…
and yet her arrival
 .is like the delivery of an unlikely gift,
..  .one that I expected to be a lipstick in an excruciating shade of pink,
……   .sent by a dotty aunt; or a vase that has been shattered in transit,
…………   .but turns out to be the book that I was longing for,
……………….even though, until I held it in my hand,
…………………I hadn’t known of its existence..As I unwrap the packaging
…………………..I sense…
………………….I sense that it holds a key —
……………….or more than that, it is a key —
………….]which will unlock a lifetime of doors,
…………each one containing a new secret to happiness.
………..This book has a life of its own,
………..and it does not renage on its promise.

…………….She arrives, delivered
…………….. ….by her rugged protector. As I hold my risen girl, her smile
………………………reminds me: the dotty aunt has been banished.
………………………..Her shocking jokes of cosmetic horror and broken glass
………………………..lie buried beneath my daughter’s safe castle.
…………………. …Each visit…
…………………each visit is like a revelation;
……………she is well. She speaks flowers, and when she goes
…………my words sit upon the petals of happiness that she has scattered.
………..I gradually gather them up, until I have enough
…………to describe my gratitude and love.

……………..I write…
…………………I write of her rehabilitation.
…………………..My roseate words and phrases
………………….fall fragrantly upon the page,
…………….echoing feminine grace.

..rose-stem

The Daily Post #Revelation

©Jane Paterson Basil

……….

…………

When you reach the apex

coast-731410__480

I used to watch you clucking your skewed way toward routine danger –
two brutal daily stabs if the cash could be accrued —
felt like crying, yet ate up the sight of you,
hungry for a clue that something had changed.

I waited for a glance, maybe a wave —
but, blind to these stale-lemonade eyes that filtered rainbows from my life,
you strode toward a spiral destiny, as if hell-bent,
your sagging clothes a locomotion of holes,
displaying scraped parchment, stretched thin over sharp bones.

Was that really you, and was it so recent?
Seems no more than a bad dream
that left me weeping,
long, long ago.

The streets hold no echo of your desperate trips.
Shamed alleys contain no ghost of your guilty visits;
so brief and so frequent, with whispered exchange…
and though I hanker to see your face,
I am glad you are safe, and far out of range.

Each moment spent with you feeds  into my memory;
I soak up your words, to keep ’til I see you again.
They murmer as I go to sleep, raise me as I wake,
speak to me in the silence of work, and aid sweet meditation.

Your very being gleams as you speak of where you have been,
what you have seen, done, will do, and will become,
days became weeks, soon to be months, each one noble and clean.
My heart rises as you share your love of life,
and meets yours when you say you love me.

You have burnt the empty coffin of an abandoned destiny,
kicked away the ashes, that they may nourish healthy seed,
thrown away all you don’t need, embraced wise selectivity,
and set your spirit free.

May the hills you climb rise gently to welcome each brave step,
and when you reach the apex, may you gaze upon a calm sea.

xxx

©Jane Paterson Basil

My Reprieve

flowers_two

Lost in a mire
for half their lives and more,
two children, their maturity halted by addiction…

…and I could point my finger at causes,
or take the blame upon myself.
I could break down in shame and remorse,
but the past would remain the same.

I could try to turn back time
and change the way their lives became;
as if I may find relief in the madness
of that aspect of grief.

I could do all these things and more;
these sad practices I acted out a thousand times before,
but they relieved me of my feeble susceptibility,
when they exchanged lies and deceit for honest fight.
Each day they draw clean swords, and slash at their demons,
and with each clash the demons get weaker.

They are retrieving their lives,
thereby returning mine to me,
and so I say, with gratitude and pride,
Thank you for all you have achieved.
Thank you for the reprieve.

A tribute to my two younger children, Laura and Paul.

The Daily Post #Reprieve

©Jane Paterson Basil

New Horizons

ship unmoored.jpg

Built well,
but not yet strong enough
to take the heartless weight of dark cargo
dumped deep in her unready  hold,
the beautiful boat became unmoored
from the harbour of her home.

Her anchor slipped through shifting sands
as the ship’s sails were buffeted
by each errant gust of wind.

The rudder broke, the bowsprit split,
the fo’c’sle ghosts awoke and moaned
whilst helplessly she floated to and fro,
sometimes so close that her landlocked crew
had high hopes that they may reach her —
but each time the wild waves beat them back,
leaving them treading water, and her bobbing on the sea,
growing smaller as the winds ripped her sails
and whipped her away.

Gails attacked her lonely deck.
Sea brine ate her failing timbers,
cracked her weakened keel, and seeped into her hull.

At the stroke of doom, a miracle occurred;
drawing her to safer waters.
The tainted cargo began melting away,
and her anchor finally held sway.

When the big ship sailed her way,
its kindly captain saw this brave, but ailing boat.
Throwing her a lifeline, he led her to a safer shore,
where he forged a golden anchor,
replaced her broken parts, reinforced her base,
and painted her in brightest shades,
that she may proudly sail again.

Dedicated to David. You rock!

PS Love to Laura. I see you sail and I’m proud of you. xxx

The Daily Post #Unmoored

©Jane Paterson Basil

Nectar

fruitsmoothie.jpg

Gone are those bitter years
of crunching pain and shame.
Those twisted years, I was crushed
by every heavy trouble.

Hunched up on hesitant legs
I hunted for shadows to hide in,
or stayed in my cold, lonely room,
that none may see the imagined disgrace
scribbled on my face,
and signed by my children in drug-tinted blood.

The horror of discovery is a spiked,
multi-gloved punch, slamming in from all sides,
attacking every organ, every limb and nerve ending.

It hurts so much everywhere
that you don’t know which bit feels the worst.

If you risk confrontation, you will be unprepared
when they claim it is only play.
You will not be ready
for the fear and impotent rage that may seethe,
clawing at all the places that still ache from shock.
You may say you have seen the needles,
and needles only point one way; to distance and decay.

Still they deny all question, or risk, of addiction.
Indignant, they walk away,
their pace quickened by a need for the next fix.

You scrabble to hatch amateur plans that never reach fruition.

You think nothing will ever hit you as hard as the moment
you first heard the news,
but you soon learn the truth.
It was just the beginning, an introduction…

Addiction is unstinting, unrelenting, indifferent to your suffering.
Addiction never stops giving until it is overcome by will.
Robbery, prostitution, and any way
to find the funds to satisfy the keening need,
fill the addict’s hours and minutes until they cease breathing,
or get so sick of the chilling temptress’s allure
that they are ready to heal.

These days,
these reborn days and weeks,
as he eats, clean food nourishes my healing frame,
as she drinks, fresh fruit sweetens my parched palate.
Overlaid by nectar, the bitter taste fades from memory.

.

My daughter has replaced drugs with fresh fruit smoothies. My son has switched to a vegan diet, and become obsessed with healthy food. He may also be in recovery.

The Daily Post #Bitter

©Jane Paterson Basil

Love an Addict

I’ve been meaning to write this post for a few days. I made plans to start a new blog on Monday 3rd April – today – but my life is so complicated that I have to put it on hold for the moment. The name of the blog is to be Love an Addict. I chose a theme, wrote my About page and worked out some of the details, but then my life became more  complicated than usual .

It was designed to be a blog to support addicts everywhere through the love of the families of addicts everywhere. I’d need to give this blog my attention on a daily basis. I’d have to be reliable, and owing to current circumstances, I’m not in a position to be reliable at the moment. I have to focus on my family. My two youngest children are in the early stages of recovery. Paul doesn’t require as much attention as Laura. I’m her main caregiver, whereas Paul has someone else to fulfil that role – but there’s no knowing when he may need me.

Maybe in the coming weeks things will settle down enough for me to start my new blog, hopefully  giving other addicts the opportunity to receive the kind of love from good people all over the globe which has helped Laura, in particular, to reach this point.

The time in the UK is 02.15am on Monday, 3rd April. I can’t make up for my failure to begin my blog, but I can go some way towards doing so, by sending out love.

If you’re an addict who wants to go into recovery, there’s someone here – sitting on a living room floor in a flat in Barnstaple, in a county called Devon, tucked away in the South West of England – writing a blog post. She’s called Jane. She’s thinking of you, believing that you can make it, and sending you love.

I will think of you daily, and daily I will send you my love and my support. Some of my readers will be inspired by this, and they will do the same for you. Some will do it through prayer, others through meditation. Whatever their method; whatever their faith or understanding of life, they will send you their support. If I had a larger readership, more people would do this for you. There is plenty of love which may become accessible to you. Don’t let the drug tell you that you are not worthy or not able; you are.

xxx ~ Jane

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©Jane Paterson Basil