facts, truth, and the liar

Imagine this:  You are lost, and trying to get home.  You don't know how long it's been.  Your feet hurt, your knees hurt, your back hurts, your head hurts.  You are exhausted.  You are physically, mentally, and emotionally drained.  There is nothing left.  It's just you and the fog.  You have no idea how long the fog has surrounded you.  It seems like it has always been there.  You don't really notice it anymore.  And then there are the voices.  They slither through the fog, insidious.  They whisper of fear and sadness, anger and despair.  There is no reason to go on.  There's nothing to go on for.  It's just you and that damn fog.  The fog is worse than the voices.  The voices speak helplessness, but the fog shows it.  Because if the fog would lift, you would see that you are almost home.  But it doesn't lift, you can't see where you are, and you give up.

That fog is what depression is like for me.  Luckily for me, through Grace and Mercy, it lifted long enough for me to hear a friendly voice and get treatment.  The fog doesn't lift for everyone, and not everyone has a friend who will take them by the shoulders and tell them to go to their doctor and get on Prozac or something.

It has taken me a long time to write about this.  It's hard, to find the right words and to get the courage to post.  It's especially hard to do both at the same time.  But today is World Suicide Prevention Day, and I needed to do something.  To be the friend who takes you by the shoulders.  To let someone, anyone, everyone know that is it okay to ask for help.  There is nothing to be ashamed of.  There are other people like you out there.  You have worth and are loved.  And it's hard.  I know.  It is still hard for me and it's been twenty years.  That damn fog still follows me around.  Most of the time, it's just a wisp of a reminder.  And sometimes, it's dense enough for the voices to start up again, telling me lies.  But I struggle and fight, because while the fog is dense, now I can see home and I know I can make it.

Facts, Truth, and the Liar

by Catherine M Braun

In this world, we know, there is Fact and there is Truth.

This is Fact: there is a serotonin deficiency in my brain.

But this is Truth: there is a Liar in my head.

And the Liar tells me, “Of course, the sky is blue.”

And, “Of course, the sun is shining.”

And, “Of course, your family loves you.”

But also, “Blue is really gray.”

And, “Sun is really rain.”

And, “Everyone would be better off if you and your moods were gone.”

This is not a piercing grief or a glancing blow.

This is a smothering, a sinking:

an avalanche of despair and all I see is snow.

I think, Maybe there is too much blood in my chest, and that is why it aches.

And the Liar says, “Yes, yes – if you open your veins the pressure will ease.”

And I think, Maybe.

In this world, Fact is not necessarily as important as Truth.

This is Fact: I'm treating my depression.

But this is Truth: I'm silencing the Liar with every breath I take.

sorrow

I have been wading through grief these past few weeks.  The anniversaries of the death of a family friend and 9-11, a dear family friend in the hospital in grave condition, and a few other private pains that are not mine to tell.  I haven't written anything in over a year, but it's times like these when putting pen to paper is cathartic.

This is for everyone, because we've all had our seasons of sorrow.  And if now is one of those seasons for you, time may not heal all wounds, but Love will bring you peace -- maybe even sooner than you think.

Sorrow

by Catherine M Braun

The sky was cloudless today,

a bright cheerful thing

when I would have wished for rain.

And my heart is heavy tonight,

weighed down with this grief –

engulfed in its echos and aches –

winding around and through my chest,

constricting my breath

and emptying my soul.

I feel the whisper of your ghost in my ear,

gnawing with sharp, poisonous teeth,

telling me what I want to hear.

But all there is,

is this demon of silence

mocking me.

giving thanks

So, many of my Facebook friends took the 30-day Thanksgiving Challenge.  I thought about participating but then realized two things.  The first is I would probably forget to post every day.  (You would think I had ten kids from the state of my short-term memory these days.)  The second is, how could I limit myself to only 30 days, not to mention one thing a day?  Not to brag, but I have the most wonderful family and friends and a pretty amazing life (even though I forget sometimes).  I decided a blog post would work better.  And then I realized time and space probably would not permit the entirety of my thankfulness.  So I had to be ruthless (ruthless!) in my giving thanks and limited it to the following:

I am thankful...
...for my Grandpa and my Granddaddy for teaching me Truth
...for my Grandma and my Mimi for teaching me Faith
...for my Mom and my Dad for teaching me Love
...for Rosie, Kefi, and Jac for teaching me Friendship
...for Jobie and Gare for teaching me Courage
...for Ginny and Timmy for teaching me Perseverance
...for Elijah, Erin, and Robby for teaching me Hope
...for Aida, Sophie, Robert Gordon, Michael, and Lucy for teaching me Selflessness

And I am thankful for all of you, for putting up with my craziness and loving me anyway.
Happy Thanksgiving!

memory eternal

I don't know what I can say that hasn't already been said (and much better than I ever could) by my sister and my cousin, so I decided to post this poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.  I've used parts of this poem in a previous post, but I felt today warrented the entire piece.  The last three stanzas hit me especially hard (italics are mine).


Christmas Bells
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said,
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep;
God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!


May their memory be eternal.

ocean breezes

Ocean Breezes

by Catherine M Braun

It could be opal

or mother-of-pearl

abalone shell.

Maybe a puddle on the road,

slick with oil.

A perfect glass surface

iridescent in the waning sunset.

The hazy horizon a dusky purple

as the sun slips down

behind islands that look like mountains.

Down here in the valley that is not

I ache; I’m awed by the beauty.

I taste salt on my lips.

This, this is what I miss

when I’m surrounded by rolling green hills

and mountains that smoke,

when I taste damp with every breath –

only this –

and blue mountains, golden foothills

that fall to the sea.

The salt finds its way.

Ocean breezes flow overland

two thousand miles to roll down my face.

happy birthday, rosie

Today is my sister's birthday.  A few years ago I wrote her a poem for her birthday, and I thought I'd post it here today.  Happy Birthday, Rosie!  I love you!

For Rosie, on her 20th birthday

by Catherine M Braun

A vision of pink

with peach voice,

music to the poet.

Sweet blossom –

delicate petal –

brilliant goddess –

Rose angel.

Soothe my heart;

hear my cry above the sound

of the sunshine.

I cannot myself.

Blood not water saves.

book lovers day

Today is Book Lovers Day. In my mind, that means I should get a paid day off to wallow in pretty much my favorite thing to do – read. I love to read. I love books. I mean, REALLY love. Of the four walls in my room, only one doesn't have a bookcase on it and that's because it's taken up by the closet and the door. I have five bookcases and they are stuffed full of books, stacked two deep in some places. And this is after I sold/gave away about 8 boxes of books when I moved last. (Six years ago, when I moved from Tennessee back to California I had 18 boxes of books. Eighteen. I only lived there seven years.) It's a family trait – my Granddaddy has so many books he had them cataloged. My Grandpa regularly gives my dad books he's already read because he doesn't have room to keep them anymore. (These are the men I pretty much give credit to and/or blame for my personality.) One of my aunts even read in the shower. Now, I haven't done that but I do admit to reading while taking a soaking bath.

I can get lost in a book, block everything else out. I can't count the number of times I got in trouble because I didn't hear my name being called. I may even have read through a fire alarm. I'll read anything that interests me -- Fiction, Nonfiction, Romance, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Mystery, Biography, History, Anthropology, Science -- you name it, I've probably read it.  And if I like a book I can read it over and over again. I have books I've read at least five times. (To be fair, I also have books I've never read. Apparently just buying them fulfilled the interest. I swear I'll read them eventually. Really!) I'm in awe of people who can create a universe and keep it alive for 200, 300, 700 pages, and still have me wishing for more. I have a hard enough time doing that over three verses (which is why I'm pretty sure I'll never write a poem longer than a page).

I just love books.  There's really nothing more to say so I'll leave you with a few quotes.  Happy Book Lovers Day!

A book is a garden, an orchard, a storehouse, a party, a company by the way, a counselor, a multitude of counselors. -- Charles Baudelaire

There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry. -- Emily Dickinson

Beware of the person of one book. -- Thomas Aquinas