Be That Girl

May 13

Be That Girl

I have tried to protect the investment I made in the past by selling the soul of my future.  I arrived self-possessed, a winning girl, but I slid the self from the scene leaving me simply possessed.  I gained everything then lost it a piece at a time starting with the parts nearest my heart.  I must draw the shards together once more and mend this lovely crystal. The art of living is insured by my action not by grasping at slivers in terror of what slips from my fingers.  I am what I have inviolate and all else comes to fruition when I am pleased; when I am myself.

Be aware which pens are poison



I diligently work to remove the soot.

The residue from the last time I tried to hot wire my brain

When I attempted the short circuit of my safety-thinking

I caught my life on fire and flames, though brief, were spectacular.

Electric fires are very jarring

The burning insulation toxic

It leaves bare, stuttering lines crossing and recrossing

My stable base, the methods I once used to keep sane, is shot

All because I wanted to go joyriding in my thoughts

Suspended reality sounds so good but always bursts into flame

Leaving me with soot removal as a hobby

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

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May 2


When in my sarcasm I suggested that you ‘guess again’, I realized that you were in fact guessing, guessing about everything, guessing in order to create a process of elimination, a tool on which I now recognize you entirely depend.  Guessing as a way of life is a tragedy.  I’m not saying that trying to know every last thing in the world is an acceptable alternate goal, but to reach an adult age and not even be able to work your way up to a possible hunch is scary, scarier than even my sarcasm, which at this moment seems interminable, but I’m sure you guessed that.

Make a list of your favorite fingers



Anticipation of the approaching traffic consumes.

The tiny spec grows and develops into the arriving vehicle

50 miles per and the rapid succession of the coming

And those leaving eats quickly at my heart.

The pain seers me

Why are these who travel from the direction of my destination

Passing me by?

For miles and miles they appear to be greeters

The breeze created by their passing chaps my face

And questions my goals

How can so many abandon my objective?

But flee they do.

My hunger does not diminish

And I press on

Of course if we all went this way, we might tip the globe

Maybe that’s what they fear.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

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Would you rather a lamp?

April 29

Would You Rather a Lamp?

I am a girl filled with expectations.  Like a ginger jar filled, stuffed caulker block full, though the filling is the part which is unpredictable; it could be match books, or seashells, acorns or all those pretty capsules.  This makes me erratic and sometimes volatile.  Are you strong enough or far too sane to stay and help me sort the contents?  It’s lonely work without a witness or a spotter.  I rather be alone than with you reluctantly, so please try to shuck that husk and remain.  Yes, I am sometimes capricious, but I try never to be cruel.  I know sometimes you convince yourself that leaving me to my own devices is the wisest of courses, but don’t be fooled; you disappear due to your weakness not strength and the worst part about the price of abandonment is that everyone has to pay it.

Design a window that looks out on your dreams



The starling stands with the candy wrapper in its beak

The cellophane flexes in the breeze

Here is my life

I have the shiny thing in my possession , What do I do?

Do I give up my intended tasks to attempt dominance

Or control of the shiny thing?

Do I release this thing of intrigue and beauty

I am drawn to the shimerance and sparkle

But shutter at the price

The world is filled with shiny things

I can enjoy them

But leave them where they lay.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

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April 28


Being actually alive does not feel as good as I imagined the relief of being dead would feel and therefore I have anxiety and dread, or is it disappointment.  I feel like a failure when I am in the process of trying and I want to throw the pieces in the air and run.  Does this mean I’m weak or does it mean I am frightened?  Or is there some heavenly host of other reasons why my crêpe paper soul twists and turns in the breeze of the marketplace?  Some part of me was auctioned off and its removal left a psychic scar that even equanimity can not ease.  I am all things wonderful and yet there is this flaw, this toe tied thread which holds me back, holds me down with painful accurate precision.  I look for the knife with which to cut it all the while wondering if this will turn it into a toe tag or a price tag.

Police your self destruction



I do not believe in a universe that makes complete sense

I often find myself trapped

Because the things I pull into no longer feel firm.

I attempt K-turns in alleys far too narrow for the maneuver

I can’t back myself through the passages I plunged into willingly

My faith doesn’t compute in reverse and I find this disconcerting

I may walk into the face of fire

But find it impossible to turn my back on the flame

Today a one-way faith is fine

As long as I am moving forward.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

Posted in 12 step recovery, auction, Courage, Hope, K-turns, Perkiomenville | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment


April 27


Alcoholism hits me like a kind of blindness.  I stagger through the living room cursing anyone who changes familiar placement or published timetables. Just like every aspect of this disease, shocked sightlessness, is mine to deal with.  I must pick up the white cane, procure the Seeing Eye pup, learn to read clustered braille.  When my vision clears in these well worked spaces I am relieved, but I must accept that when I walk into a new room more often then not I will be blind again and must pick up my walking stick once more.

Apply a timeframe to misery



Hanging out on the corner of Disillusion Boulevard and Grief Road

Then returning to that special spot on Despair Avenue

Was my daily routine.

I made the circle and never looked far afield

Widening my circuit

Allowed me to find Anticipation Place and Hopeful Terrace

I pushed my search and found roads

Whose existence I never fathomed intersected

Creating areas of intrigue

Optimism Court interfacing with Realization Way

Is the fairest of my finds

But many a fine street corner has me lurking

Catching stray sunshine and encouragement

I make my home wherever the hospitality is available

And return less often to the dark and stifling places of the past

Happiness is where you find it

Just make sure to read the signs.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

Posted in 12 step recovery, acceptance, addiction, Adjustment, attitude, Blessings, Choice, closeness | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment


April 26


Perfectionism is a cover, a blanket of lead; hard to move and rich with poison.  What it tries to hide is my unwillingness to struggle and strive.  It’s not a fear of failure, but the horror of success after a long hot pursuit.  If I can stall on the intricacies of the first move there is no further movement.  If I can fail before I begin there is no sweat, no stain, no stink.  Catastrophe is no bother, but skinned knees are my undoing.  Winning is not so important to me; my unfortunate goal is to look untroubled.

Snap a picture of your beliefs



During the months of winter

The trees stand tall and leafless

Static in their appearance, frozen in direction

The insurgence of spring brings to life the truth

The buds and flowers show the draw of the their owners

The pull of life from the earth and sky.

Other trees have begun to restore the gifts so graciously given

These leafless giants open themselves

As home and sustenance to the surrounding community

Returning favors and flavors, coming to terms with wholeness

Celebrations of all I have, call for me to give back

Even during the time when we all look the same.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

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Who to Ask

April 14

Who to Ask

“You ask good questions and you ask the right people,” said my sponsor.

“I ask questions because I need answers,” my reply.

“Do you know how many people need answers and never ask?” she quipped.

“I ask my friends, no stroke of genius there,” I continue.

“You ask your playmates, you ask the people you trust enough to have fun with.  You don’t realize how clever that is.  You know lots of folks who work hard and you could ask your questions of these, but instead you save them for those diligent ones who still know how to play and that, Sweetie Pie is proof that you are no dummy.”

You may mute your horn, but don’t soap your bow



I can’t bring back the bloom

Cohesion, lost ripeness

Is left only to memory

I carry home the parts

Folded, petite, fragrant bedding

For my wistful desires

I put these colored remnants into a jar of salt

I make an aromatic rub

For the sweetest wounds

Transforming the parts to useful duty

Doesn’t restore the flower

It doesn’t pay tribute to the past, it is survival

I have a mind filled with roses but I must make hay

Today I live, today the rose is dead

Its pieces in my pocket

I don’t die with the blossom

Though my head blows in the wind

The rose runs its course, I run mine.

You are reading selections from More Sober on the Way to Sane and Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault

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