Volume 5

Published in August 2017

Website: http://www.creativetruth.co.ukTwitter: twitter.com/tctjournal

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this work, or portions thereof, in any form.

Copyright for individual works lies with the respective authors.Collection and editorial material copyright © Sam Rose 2017

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Contents

In a good way by Claire Sexton ................................................................................2

Gravitas by Gerard Sarnat ........................................................................................5

Cultivating Godly Fear by Cindy Carlson..................................................................7

The King of Rock 'n Soul by Alan Swyer .................................................................19

In the Beginning Was Music by Susan P. Blevins ...................................................28

Visitation by Susan P. Blevins.................................................................................30

Two Things by Susan P. Blevins ..............................................................................32

Trips to capitals by Eva Ferry .................................................................................34

Mom’s Fudge by Marlena Fiol................................................................................36

Days of Courage, Nights of Pain: The Story of My Time in a Mental Institution by Catherine Moscatt ..................................................................................................42

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In a good way by Claire Sexton

It was over and I would not be back. The room was purposely bare; as if the walls themselves were looking the other way in order to give us some privacy. My therapist and I had worked together in this room for two years and now this structure we had built for ourselves was being burnt to the ground, or carefully dismantled, to take a better view of it.

I had come to her frazzled and desperate for change. She was my secret project, my trip around the world. My mid-life adventure. Something I could have written a blog about if it wasn't so personal. And if I thought anyone would ever want to read it. I had been to see therapists before, but only for a few abrupt sessions as the NHS was disgracefully bad at providing talking therapies.

This was different though. Angela was different. She looked as if she cared. She worried for me. She looked straight at me without wavering and said I was important to her. Most of all, she looked like she felt something when I told her about my difficult childhood. Like 'that's terrible, how did you survive that?’ level of concern. She could see how I carried everything with me.

Her voice was like chocolate and her hair was honey-mustard on a peppery mixed salad. She and I both wore converse and we bonded over that. Hers were cherry red and mine electric blue. It was love at first shoelace. But less trite than that. She had children, I could tell, but it never caused a rift between us. She could care deeply for people who were very different to herself.

When I talked about my childlessness the first time she held my hand (metaphorically) and her forehead crinkled, mirroring my own. I felt her reaching out to me this way many, many times. I tried to censor my responses to her at first, out of fear of getting hurt, but soon learned to be more open and honest myself. To accept her concern on face value.

I always expected laughter before my experience with Angela. But she never laughed at me. When I was sick with depression the first time I was told people would laugh at me if they ever found out what I was like, but here she was, and she didn't. I told her more about my troubles than anyone before or since, and she never laughed. Not once. Her eyes would open wide like melons and she

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would say 'it makes me so sad to hear that’.

She told me not to expect laughter when I talked about serious things, and not to pre-empt it with my own. She pulled me up on that and I took it. It was like a nugget of black onyx, beautiful and polished. I started to take myself more seriously thanks to her. Not just figuratively but really. I became rooted in that fact. Feet and full torso thick. I didn't just dip my toes in it anymore.

The things that happened in that room were not like earthquakes or regime change to anyone but us two. 'Your tears are welcome here' she said. 'You can be your true self'. I told her I wanted to share my life with someone; wanted to be someone's emergency first contact; as I could be theirs. She said that sounded perfectly reasonable to her. ‘Why not?’

It progressed over the years, from just formal to pretty familiar, to intimate, to sacred trust. From daisies to daffodils to lilies and a pure white rose. The room we did our work in may have been blank, but we filled it with our sorrows and hope. The scars on my legs and arms began to heal, and my gaunt, carved-out body began to soften. She told me she thought I had 'a rich and full life’ and I believed her. I soaked it all in.

At parting, it was a case of the usual quiet exiting from a discreet door, at the side of an unpretentious brick house, onto an unremarkable residential street, close to the undulating centre of town. As I left this time she handed me a simple gift, but one she said she had 'given much thought.’ It was a brightly-coloured journal to keep me company on dark days. A muslin-cloth to wrap my undeveloped thoughts in.

As I walked down the street I wondered if the people who lived there knew how much drama had taken place so close to their front doors. How many bridges had been made and how many peace agreements signed between previously sworn enemies. I looked up at her window before I left; the one she always sat at whilst she waited for me to arrive; and I felt calm and hollow. In a good way.

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Bio: Claire Sexton is a Welsh poet and writer living in London. In 2016 she started having poems published during a time of great anxiety. It has been a profound blessing and gift.

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Gravitas by Gerard Sarnat

December 27, 2016

Dear John,

Okay, okay -- you deserve a reply. But could it wait until tomorrow? I’m weary. Been a hard day here in Bismarck, ND. Perhaps tell you one tidbit: to resist age, I've lifted a gazillion years. Dumbbells -- not just aerobic stuff – are essential to living longer.

Sad truth is that I have muscle – really – though there’s lots of ass and belly and boob fat which’s what I must lose. Chopping wood’s hopefully the ticket. I love a gym’s machines more than free weights. Weird how this here lightweight derives mucho energy from pushing, pumping iron. Started with 15 pound curls (simply the bar), 25 reps. Add 5 per side, do 15. Then another 5 on each side, 10 sets. Maybe up to 40- 45 lbs.

Ain't bad for us old guys. 3 days later, slowly increase toward 50-5. In a week gradually get up to 60. Soon, you’re curling 100.

That’s some effort even heavy-duty dudes might have trouble with. Blood cursing at an incredible speed through bi/ triceps.

Same with traps, lats, hamstrings. Greek baby bull kinda thing. Amazing how quickly a bod responds to anaerobic pressure.

Calves can take a ton of stress and strain but seems they’re way trickier too. I began various exercises at 15 lbs -- yesterday almost 400...carefully.

Always a slow motion -- no jerking/grunting -- like yoga breathing: breathe in like a mountain; breathe out like a flower (plus longer).

F..k you to becoming old. How sweet! Still the not eating bad stuff’s very very

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difficult -- it befuddles me why I don’t keep that discipline.

When we were in high school, I weighed 105 lbs -- about half of now. I know ‘cause I was wrestling and we had to weigh in exactly.

105 -- impossible to believe. Till recently I’ve been a skinny Minnie. Daily fights to avoid chocolate croissants, those coquille St Jacques.

Lobster bisque. Cheesecake a la Julie Child -- 2 lbs butter, frosting’s 12 eggs. My head’ll probably explode working out; I’m not worried.

Your amigo forever, hoping to leave North Dakota where it’s colder than a witch’s teat, and visit your family in Cambridge after the big holiday season gorge,

Ger.

Bio: Gerard Sarnat’s recently been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He’s authored four collections: HOMELESS CHRONICLES (2010), Disputes (2012), 17s (2014) and Melting The Ice King (2016) which included work published in Gargoyle, Lowestoft, American Journal of Poetry and Tishman Review plus was featured in New Verse News, Songs of Eretz, Avocet, LEVELER, tNY, StepAway, Bywords, Floor Plan. Dark Run, Scarlet Leaf, Good Men Project, Anti-Heroin Chic, Winamop and Tipton Review feature sets of new poems. Mount Analogue selected Sarnat’s sequence, KADDISH FOR THE COUNTRY, for distribution as a pamphlet in Seattle on Inauguration Day 2017 as well as the next morning as part of the Washington DC and nationwide Women’s Marches. For Huffington Post/other reviews, readings, publications, interviews; visit GerardSarnat.com. Harvard/Stanford educated, Gerry’s worked in jails, built/staffed clinics for the marginalized, been a CEO of healthcare organizations and Stanford Medical School professor. Married since 1969, he has three children, four grandkids.

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Cultivating Godly Fear by Cindy Carlson

It’s Sunday morning and so cold the air ices the inside of my nose when I

breathe in. I’m 12 years old. My family and I are piling into our Country Squire,

paneled side station wagon; Mark, Craig and I share the back seat, Rodney is in

the front seat between my mom and dad. Bundled up in boots, hats, coats,

mittens, we are going to a meeting at the Kingdom Hall. As often happens in

Upper Michigan in January, it’s well below zero.

The car ignition turns over slowly with consecutive, tired groans until it

sparks and catches. The tires crush the snow with a sound that echoes against the

tall fence of pine, maple and poplar trees that stand almost completely around

our house. We slowly pull out of the driveway onto our little road without a name

that leads to Highway 41, which can take you North all the way to Canada or

South all the way to Florida. We’re going South, but only to Menominee.

I stare at the slow blinking yellow light hanging by a wire over the highway.

Once you cross under the wire, you are out of the Wallace city limits. There is sign

next to the light, I read it quietly, Menoninee, 15 miles. On the other side of the

road, when you come back into town, there’s a sign that says Wallace population

207. I turn my head as far as I can to see it, but it’s covered with snow, I whisper

Wall pop 07. One more than our family, I think, and turn back around.

Our Kingdom Hall is on the highway, fifteen miles away. I know the route

well, since we also go every Thursday night for a meeting and sometimes

Saturday morning before going out in the preaching work. There’s a book study

too, but that’s at our house with a small gathering of brothers and sisters who live

in the area. I have to vacuum and dust every Tuesday after supper in preparation

for it.

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The first thing of interest is the gravel pit on my left. My dad and I went

there last summer to get a pickup truck full of gravel when he was building the

addition onto our trailer house. Now we have a basement, a laundry room, a

sunken living room which is three steps down from the dining room, Mark’s new

bedroom (because he’s the oldest), and my parents’ new bedroom; all newly

added on by my father’s own hands.

I squint to see beyond the gravel pit, quickly passing, to the low swamp

land: skinny pine trees, some dead and black, raising stiff arms to the sky. Next to

them, more poplar trees, all crowded so close together they look like prisoners in

a concentration camp in pictures I’ve seen.

Carbondale Road is next. My friend from school, Denise Paidl, lives a few

miles off

it on a winding back road lined with oak trees that hang low and turn orange in

the autumn.

Denise is not in “The Truth”, is not a Jehovah’s Witness, and normally we aren’t

allowed to associate with those not in The Truth. “Bad association spoils useful

habits,” is the scripture used to deflect requests for sleep overs and play days. But

once last summer I was allowed to go to her house for the day, to play on the tire

swing and sit on the front porch dangling our legs from the rail. Denise is from a

big family, bigger than ours, her mother is quiet and polite. Their house is an old,

white farm house, I can’t see it from the highway, but I always look.

As it starts to warm up in the station wagon, I pull my knit hat off and my

short brown hair stands on end with static. I lick my fingers and try to smooth it

down, at the same time pulling a compact mirror from my purse. I snap the mirror

shut and grimace knowing my fine hair will look flat and terrible for the rest of the

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day because of the stupid hat. Craig is next to me holding his bible and songbook

with his chopper mitts. His hands look cartoonishly large and he’s holding them

close to his face either smelling the leather or examining the stitching,

inadvertently putting the books in my face. I push them away.

Mark’s navy blue parka scratches against his polyester, brown leisure suit

as he turns and pinches Craig in the arm, “Nice pants, weirdo,” he says. Craig’s

pants are too short; he’s been growing so fast my mother’s budget can’t keep up.

“Thanks,” Craig mutters, trying to stay in his own world of mitten stitching

and smells.

Mark turns to me. “Your nose is looking especially big today, moose, did

you put special makeup on it?”

“Shut-up pimple face,” I glare at him clenching my jaw and turn more

toward the window.

“Just look out the window,” my father says, one hand on the steering wheel

while the other taps the dash casually.

“I am looking out the window. Why don’t you tell him to look out the dumb

window. He always gets away with everything,” I say loudly enough for Craig to

plug his ear closest to me.

“Just shut-up and don’t start in,” my mother says, “or I’ll give you

something to complain about.” She adjusts her coat closer to her neck, pulls

Rodney against her chest and says in an almost cartoonish sweet voice, “you’re

such a good boy, I wish all my kids could be like you.”

“It wasn’t me. It was Mark. He always starts everything and then I’m the

one who gets in trouble.”

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Mark gives me a smirk then turns toward his own window, scratching “81”

on it, the year he will graduate high school. It’s a thing everyone does in our

school. On notebooks and on the bus window, in frost or fog, we look ahead to

the year we’ll be free and write it everywhere to remind ourselves.

I blow breath on my window and watch it turn to fern leaves. The frost

grows fatter where I blow longer, curves upward and then down, following the

movement of my mouth. The ferns remind me of the place I go in the summer—

the birch clearing about a half mile from the house into the woods. You have to

walk through fallen down trees and soggy moss, but when you get there it’s

beautiful. And peaceful. The sun hits the top of the trees, flashing down in pure

white lines that spotlight ferns and trilliums. The yellow filtered light that fuzzes

the edges of everything makes such a magical place you’d expect to see fairies

flitting about, but I haven’t ever seen any. When my mother is in a especially bad

mood I go there to watch the sky go by in pieces and think if all the skin was

peeled off a birch tree and it was bare pink, could it still live? I’ve just stopped

blowing when Mark reaches over Craig and scratches the ice ferns off my window.

“Hey,” I yell. Craig puts his mitten over his ear again.

My mother turns and gives me a dirty look, her eyes flashing anger but not

alarm or surprise. I lean back against the seat defeated staring out the window

through the scratches at the flat gray sky, at clouds like cotton pulled too thin.

“Move over, weirdo, you’re on my side.” Mark is now poking Craig in the

leg with his index finger. His hand is pale and flakey from winter; he isn’t wearing

any gloves.

“I am not,” Craig says.

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As I watch Mark’s hand pushing Craig’s leg, my stomach tightens. His hand

pushes and pushes as if moving in slow motion; I can’t stop staring at it. Mark

cracks his knuckles and sniffs loudly. I snap out of my stare and pull my coat

around me tighter, folding my arms across the front of my body, staring at the

back of my mother’s head.

“Why don’t you quit being so stupid?” I say to Mark.

“Why don’t you shut-up, no one asked you. No one even likes you,” he

says, then reaches over and punches my leg.

“Quit it. Stay away from my side. Daaddyyy!”

“Quit being such a baby,” my mother says reflexively, not even turning from

wiping Rodney’s snotty nose, though I can see her side glance to see my father’s

reaction.

The car is silent but not a peaceful silence like the birch clearing, there’s a

static in it, like the next words spoken may explode. “Why don’t you all get out

your Watchtowers and review the questions you plan to answer this morning,”

my father says, always the peace-maker.

The static dissipates for a moment as each of us pulls a Watchtower from

between our bible and songbook and opens to the article we will study that day.

As I’m opening mine, I glance at Mark. He sniffs. My jaw clenches, but I don’t say

anything.

“Cultivating Godly Fear” is the article for this week, I trace my finger down

to paragraph four, then down to the bottom of the page where the question is. I

read it to myself. “Who will find salvation, and why?”

Mark sniffs loudly and I wince. “Quit sniffing, it’s gross!” I say and he

reaches over and hits me again.

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“Don’t touch me!” I scream. “Leave me alone!”

My father looks in the rear view mirror directly into my eyes, then at Mark,

my mother turns and glares at me. “What is your problem?” She places emphasis

with her tone on problem.

Mark recoils a little when I yell. I see this and relax a little, feeling a

moment of power.

“I just hate him. That’s all.” I whisper turning away,“I just hate him.”

I didn’t think anyone could hear me, but my mother says again, “well, get

over it.”

She turns her attention back to Rodney, smoothing his hair with her fingers.

I don’t say another word, though I am tense and crabby. I read paragraph

four of my Watchtower Article. Who will find salvation at that time? Those

delivered will be, not the ones consumed by fright, but all who have cultivated a

reverential fear of Jehovah. In humility, they feed their minds on what is good, so

that the bad is crowded out of their thinking. They cherish a wholesome respect

for the Sovereign Lord Jehovah, the “Judge of all the earth,” who is about to

execute everyone who cleaves to badness, just as he annihilated the depraved

Sodomites. (Genesis 18:25) Indeed, for God’s own people, “the fear of Jehovah is a

well of life, to turn away from the snares of death.”-Proverbs 14:27.

I read the question again. Who will find salvation, and why? Hmm. Not the

depraved Sodomites, whoever they are. Those who fear Jehovah, I guess. I’m

confused about the difference between loving Jehovah and fearing him. It seems

like they are connected in the scripture. I look at my mother twisting her finger

through Rodney’s hair making the curls more defined, then at Mark scraping away

the frost on the window again. I look at my father, staring into the distance,

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maybe trying to figure a way out of this mess. I don’t get it. I don’t get how you

can feel love and fear for the same person. Mine is so separate.

I underline, “all who have cultivated a reverential fear,” and close my

Watchtower. “Daddy, what does reverential fear mean?”

“It means someone you respect and want to please.”

“Then why does it say fear if it means please.”

“Fear for Jehovah is different than fear for others. It’s not fear because he

will harm you. It’s fear because he is so powerful, you respect or revere him.” He’s

talking to me while looking in the rear view mirror. He has the same color eyes as

me, brown with specks of green. Craig and I affectionately call it ‘rotten log

brown.’ My mom has steely blue eyes, which I think makes her look scarier when

she yells. My dad’s forehead is lined with what I call thinking lines, but really they

are always there, even when he is making a joke or laughing at Hee-Haw or

something cute Rodney has done.

“Oh.” I don’t get it still, but I nod my head like I do. It doesn’t make sense. I

respect my dad but I don’t fear him. “And salvation, what is that? Like getting

saved from something?”

“You’re stupid if you don’t know that.” Mark interrupts.

“Yes, it’s getting saved from this wicked world. It’s getting to live in the

paradise forever, together here on earth.”

I’d like to live forever with my Dad but I look at Mark and shudder at the

thought. “What if you don’t want to live forever?”

“Of course you do, we’ll all be perfect, there’ll be no sickness or dying. It

will be good.”

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“Will there be winter?” I wiggle my cold toes in my boots and look down at

my new maroon pumps in a plastic bread bag next to my feet.

“I suppose so.” And he trails off leaving me looking out the window

between my scratched off ferns for signs of Spring, but there aren’t any, only

white snow greyed with mud near the road where the plow went through.

We’re coming up on my favorite part of the drive, I completely forget the

cramped car, Mark and my mother as I look at the low gold brick house with a

paved drive and the pond in the yard, now completely frozen over. I wish myself

living in the house because it’s pretty close to perfect. I imagine girls with tassels

on their pink hats and white figure skates skating circles and figure eights. Inside

the house the mother is making hot chocolate and peanut butter cookies. When

they finish skating the girls will sit around the flower covered kitchen and giggle

about falling down on the ice while they sip cocoa from big ceramic mugs. They’ll

talk about the special party they’ll throw for all their friends on their birthdays. Of

course, we won’t be having birthday parties in the new perfect world because

birthdays are bad according to the bible, but we’ll have the pond, the house and

the mother who makes cookies.

I imagine summer then, with a brother. He has blonde hair and rosy cheeks

and he rows a raft around the pond while his sister, her long, curly hair the same

shade, leans over the edge looking for turtles and frogs on lily pads. They catch

the frogs and throw them back to the pond but they keep the more interesting

turtles for a while. They try to coax him out of his shell to look at his wrinkled,

dinosaur skin. “This is what dinosaurs looked like in the prehistoric days,” the girl

says.

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“There were no dinosaurs,” the boy says. “Don’t you remember what the

bible says about the flood and how Noah and his family gathered a pair of

everything. A dinosaur didn’t get off the ark so obviously one never got on.” The

boy is older and smarter but always kind in his answer.

“But what about what Mr. Olson says about scientists finding bones and

putting them together just how they were. Dinosaurs!”

“Scientists are only doing that, putting together bones from large animals in

ways that look like what they call dinosaurs, to support their theories.”

“Oh, I see. Thank you, brother.”

“You’re welcome, sister.”

Craig’s knee bumps mine as he shifts in his seat.

“Hey!” I punch his leg. “Quit hitting me.”

“I didn’t exactly hit you, I bumped you. Take it easy,” Craig slouches low in

the seat, both feet on the hump in the middle of the car floor. He has to sit by the

hump even if he protests because he is younger and smaller, and besides, he is

the barrier between Mark and me. I never sit by Mark anymore.

“What question are you raising your hand for?” I ask Craig, offering an olive

branch.

“Like you care,” he says, still pouting.

“Come on. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t care.”

“Ok. Well, first I’m going to raise my hand for question number 21, which is

about being stupid. Or maybe you should do that one.” He smiles smartly.

I punch him in the leg again.

“No, really, look.” He reads question 21. “How are the wise ones and the

stupid ones contrasted in the closing words of Proverbs chapter 3? Then I’ll say

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Cindy is the stupid one and I am the wise one, that’s how they are contrasted.” He

laughs again.

“Hardy har har. Very funny. That’s a weird question though. For real, what

does the paragraph say the answer is?”

“I don’t know. You read it yourself.” He hands me his Watchtower, but just

as he does Mark snatches it from me ripping one of the pages half out.

“Look what you did, idiot!” I yell.

“What in the world is going on!” my mother yells back, turning to see what

trouble I’m causing.

“He ripped Craig’s Watchtower!” I glare at Mark.

“Just be quiet, for heaven’s sake.” My mother reaches back and grabs part

of the Watchtower from my hand and the other part from Mark’s hand. She puts

it in her book bag. “Now just be quiet,” she says, “or I’ll give you something to

scream about.” She looks straight at me.

“That’s not fair.” I start. “He did it.”

Before I’ve finished, she reaches back and slaps me in the head. “I told you

to be quiet, didn’t I.”

Mark grins and sniffs loudly.

I mouth, “buck tooth,” at him and turn away. I hit my door hard with the

side of my fist and stomp my foot on the floor board. My mother turns her head

toward me and raises her hand again. I flinch and sink into my seat.

My jaw clenches and tears come to my eyes. I know I can’t say anything and

I know it won’t matter. I stare out the edge of the window which is clear of frost. I

count houses, a white one, a ugly one, a bright yellow one with white shutters. I

look at the sky and count clouds, I count trees as fast as I can before we pass

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them, I count dead deer lying in the gravel on the side of the road. I look to the

right side of the road at the railroad tracks running parallel with the highway.

Mark is looking at the railroad tracks too. I watch him looking out the window,

picking at a pimple on his cheek, his fingers rubbing his face, then scratching then

picking off the skin, rubbing then scratching then picking off the skin, rubbing

then...and everything freezes.

My dad is frozen in his driving position, holding the steering wheel loosely

with one hand, his other hand resting on the frame of the window, my mother is

frozen reading Rodney a story from one of his golden books collection. She’s

reading his favorite, “The Saggy Baggy Elephant.” She’s on the part where the

baby elephant is learning to dance; this always makes Rodney laugh. “One, two,

three kick, and he kicks over a tree.” My mother is frozen in mid-tickle and Rodney

is frozen in mid-giggle. Craig is frozen, listening to the story too, and smiling. The

only things moving are me, Mark and the sky. The sky is dark and starless. There

are clouds, navy blue and sliding, if they had legs they’d be running; they’re trying

to escape the sky.

Mark and I aren’t in the car anymore. We’re in the bedroom, my bedroom. I

am pretending to sleep and even though I can’t see him with my eyes closed tight,

I know it’s Mark, I can hear his short, raspy breaths, and I can smell him, the smell

of old sweat and wood smoke. He is standing over my bed unbuttoning my

pajamas. He is touching my chest, sliding his hand down until he finds my small

breasts and starts rubbing them. Rubbing and rubbing, one then the other like he

is trying to erase me. I am frozen here. I can’t talk and I can’t cry or scream or

even move because time doesn’t exist anymore. Only the black sky and my stiff

body waiting for someone to save me, but no one does.

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*

“Cindy. Cindy, did you figure out your answer,” my father says quietly,

looking at me in the rear view mirror, his forehead wrinkled with concern.

When I see my father’s deep-set, light brown eyes, the color of familiarity,

comfort, I take a deep breath and everything starts moving again. Mark is pulling

the staples out of the binding of his Watchtower, Craig is watching him, Rodney is

squirming and kicking as my mother tries to sit him straight on her lap and read at

the same time.

“Yes,” I say.

My father smiles slightly, still watching me. “Well, go on, go on and tell

me.”

Bio: Cindy Carlson is a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, living and teaching in Madison, WI. She has been published in Sentence, Bloom, Cream City Review among other fine literary magazines.

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The King of Rock 'n Soul by Alan Swyer

Dubbed by Jerry Wexler of Atlantic Records The greatest singer – and

hustler -- in the world, Solomon Burke had a story second to none. The godson of

the celebrated evangelist Daddy Grace, whose friendship with Solomon's

grandmother started in a village in the Cape Verde Islands, Solomon got his first

taste of attention as The Boy Preacher, taking the pulpit at the age of eight.

Because he turned to secular music at a time when record stores stocked titles by

category – with R&B, according to black clergy, the Devil's music – a new term had

to be coined to accommodate him. Hence, Soul Music.

Though he achieved a measure of success on the charts, it was, sadly,

mainly because of his antics – giving fire and brimstone sermons between songs,

then supplementing his income on buses that carried the headliners from gig to

gig by selling fried chicken (Buy some now, 'cause the farther South we go, the

more it'll cost you!) – that he became a legend among music insiders and

aficionados. That legend was enhanced over the years because, as I often teased

him, he took the Bible literally when it said "Be fruitful and multiply," siring

twenty-one kids. Little wonder friends called him The father of our country.

For the public – especially white audiences unaccustomed to preaching

from the stage or references to welfare checks – he was considered too black.

That euphemism for too scary was not an inhibitor in Britain, where Solomon was

venerated by a generation including Mick Jagger, Eric Burden, and Robert Plant.

Nor was it so in Jersey, where his records were revered by kids who grew up to be

Springsteen, Southside Johnny, and me.

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Despite hailing not from the Delta, but South Phillie, Solomon was

considered – like Joe Tex, James Carr, and Don Covay – a Southern act, unlike

crossover stars Otis Redding or Wilson Pickett.

And, while he was warm, thoughtful, and big-hearted with me and my

family, it did not help that Solomon had a reputation professionally for often

being irascible and difficult.

When the Chitlin' Circuit waned in the same way as the Negro Leagues and

Pullman cars, Solomon's source of income, other than occasional summer

festivals in Europe, was limited to appearances as a man of the cloth.

Times became tough not just financially, but also emotionally, for it seemed

that no week went by without the passing of someone with whom Solomon had a

shared history. It could be a household name – Ray Charles, Ike Turner, or James

Brown – or a niche artist like Charles Brown, Dorothy Norwood, or Ruth Brown.

For him the result was always the same: a sense of sinking into obscurity while

those he cared about disappeared.

My counter whenever he got despondent was: “Your time is coming.”

That became a running joke, with Solomon often responding, “When?”

But after several years, he lost hope.

“It'll never happen,” he said after one death too many.

“Want to bet?”

“You're crazy.”

“Then bet me $100. Or $500. Or $1,000.”

“What makes you so cocky?”

“You're turning 65.”

21

“So?”

“I thought you knew music biz lore.”

“What in the world are you saying?”

“That if you're talented and get a few breaks, you can make a pretty good

living until you're, say, 45. Right?”

Solomon nodded.

“But from 45 to 65, unless you're a superstar – Sinatra, Ray Charles, Ella,

Streisand – you're pretty much cooked.”

“Ain't that the truth!”

“But once you hit 65 –”

“If you hit 65 –”

“Suddenly you're a living legend.”

Somewhat placated, we made a bet for $500.

Though I'd love to take credit for the offer Solomon got as his 65th birthday

neared, I had nothing to do with it. A hipster label known for resuscitating the

careers of aging Blues artists had come up with the ploy of using songs written by

big names in the white music scene to introduce Solomon to a new audience.

That Solomon, aside from often feeling blue, had never been a Blues singer, was

irrelevant to those running the label. So was the fact that songs ostensibly

written for him were probably plucked from drawers of material that had long sat

unrecorded.

The opportunity brought much-needed hope into Solomon's world.

Until, that is, he learned the conditions.

22

In what was marketed as an aesthetic choice, but in truth was as much a

way of cutting costs, the album would be done Live In Studio. Translated, that

meant that instead of carefully laying down tracks, all recording would be done in

four days.

Solomon's elation gave way to panic. Faced with songs he neither

understood nor liked, and musicians he didn't know, plus the realization that time

pressure would be monumental, all the thorniness usually kept in check started

erupting.

Asked by his manager and two of his daughters to come to the rescue, I

calmed Solomon by providing a focus. Since his deal gave him the right to choose

one musician, we talked about which instrument would complement those

already selected. Settling on a Hammond B-3 organ, we agreed on our

enormously gifted friend Billy Preston.

When I reported that Billy was both available and excited, Solomon was

relieved.

That proved to be short-lived. As Day One of recording neared, Solomon

started calling me earlier and earlier each morning, upping the calls to three, four,

or five a day to voice concern and trepidation.

Having promised to be present for the first session, I made certain to arrive

early, which was fortuitous since Solomon was not in the best of spirits.

Accompanied by his daughter Victoria, he entered with a chip on his shoulder,

then glanced at the young white musicians setting up.

“This makes no sense!” he snarled.

23

“What's wrong?” asked an alarmed executive.

“They don't play my kind of music. Or even know who I am!”

Waving the company man away, I pulled Solomon aside.

“They worship you,” I whispered.

“Don't give me that.”

“To them you're a legend.”

Taking a deep breath, Solomon softened. “Really?”

“Absolutely.”

Solomon bit his lip as his blood pressure descended. “Where's Billy

Preston?” he asked.

“I'll go check,” his daughter said.

Solomon spoke first when he saw Victoria return with a pained expression.

“What now?”

“He's hospitalized with kidney problems.”

“This is jinxed!” Solomon announced, ready to leave.

“We'll get somebody else,” I countered.

“Who?”

“Rudy.”

“Rudy plays in church.”

“And plays his butt off.”

Solomon bit his lip. “Think he can pull it off?”

“To quote a great singer, Great players play.”

Solomon turned to his daughter.

“Who said that?” he asked.

“You, Daddy.”

24

Solomon gave a wry smile. “Baby, call Rudy,” he told her. “Tell him to drive

his butt here ASAP.”

“You're forgetting something,” I interjected.

“What?”

“Rudy's blind.”

Solomon groaned, shook his massive head, then faced Victoria. “Find his

wife.”

Hoping to keep Solomon upbeat, I was about to get him a coffee when a

guy with a neo-hipster goatee, hat, and geeked-out shirt, approached.

“Solomon!” bellowed the session's producer, proudly displaying a coffee

table book. “Check these photos of you.”

Solomon beamed at the sight of black-and-whites of him performing in the

fifties. “What is this?”

“Memphis Blues Again, by a photographer named Ernest C. Withers.”

Pleased, the producer flipped through the pages. “Here's James Brown. Slim

Harpo. Moms Mabley. Sam Cooke.”

Solomon nodded. “Where'd you get this?”

“At a bookstore.”

“Where?”

“In the Valley.”

“Where?”

“On Ventura near Laurel Canyon.”

With Victoria sensing where this was ahead, Solomon faced me.

“Know the place?”

25

“Sure.”

“We'll be back soon,” Solomon announced.

“W-where you g-going?”

“To get a copy in case they run out.”

“B-but –”

“Don't worry,” Solomon said, gesturing toward me. “Alan's a fast driver.”

“S-Solomon, you don't understand. We're r-ready to r-record –”

“And if we stop for a bite, it won't be a long one.”

Taking hold of Victoria, who was fighting back laughter, Solomon shot me a

wink. “Meet you at the car.”

Fearing that his budding producing career was going up in smoke, the

producer turned to me in desperation.

“What the fuck do I do?”

“Give him the fucking book.”

Though the producer never realized he'd been hustled, and Solomon, who

never bothered to learn the words had to read lyrics while singing, the four days

of recording hit no serious bumps or hurdles. Rudy brought an invigorating

churchiness to the sessions. The other musicians, who worshiped Solomon, rose

to the occasion. And the great man demonstrated that, even at 350 pounds and

rising, he still had the best pipes on earth.

But while the record company prepared to take Solomon places he'd never

been before – the Tonight Show, National Public Radio, even the cover of Rolling

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Stone – with royalties and summer festivals that would pay bills still far away, he

was still hurting financially.

Fortunately, a publicist whom, for purposes of discretion I'll call Rob

Everett, phoned me. “I'm repping an event,” he stated proudly, “the DVD Premier

Awards, and –”

“You want me to get Ray Charles.”

“Wouldn't it mean something to him?”

“When was the last time Ray said, Not tonight, baby, I'd rather watch a

DVD?”

“You gotta help!” he begged. “Can you get to Mary J. Blige? Will.I.Am?”

"If you're lucky I can get Solomon Burke.”

"Who?”

“The King of Rock 'n Soul. He's going to win a Grammy for an album with

songs written specially for him by Van Morrison, Tom Waits, Bob Dylan, Elvis

Costello, and other fans of his. Get him while you can, if you're paying.”

Everett promised to give it some thought, then called the next day. "Sure about

that Grammy?"

"Positive," I lied.

“I owe you!” Rob Everett gushed when Solomon was nominated for a

Grammy for Best Contemporary Blues Album. And he was jubilant when, a week

before the awards dinner, Solomon won. “In the eyes of my bosses," he proudly

told me, "I'm now a hero."

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At the age of sixty-five, which made him officially a Living Legend, the King

of Rock 'n Soul had suddenly become the Comeback Kid.

For what it's worth, he killed 'em at Rob's award ceremony.

Bio: Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, and boxing. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel 'The Beard' was recently published by Harvard Square Editions.

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In the Beginning Was Music by Susan P. Blevins

Not many people can map out their early beginnings with any degree of accuracy, but I can. WWII was raging in Europe, and both my parents were in the armed forces in different parts of England. My mother snuck out of her barracks in the south, and took a train up north to visit my father for a few hours to celebrate their second wedding anniversary. This one night of passion on 25th April, 1944, produced me, nine months later, on 24th January, 1945.

My mother quit the ATS when she was three months pregnant, and stayed home to nurture the new being growing in her body. Both my father and mother were passionate lovers of classical music, and they wanted their child to love music too. They also wanted their child to love cats, as they did, so to that end, each afternoon my mother sat in an easy chair, feet up on an ottoman, listening to classical music with their cat, Blackie, stretched out on her ever expanding belly.

They were not disappointed. My life has revolved around beautiful music since my earliest beginnings, and I have had cats for all of my seventy years. Beautiful music feeds the soul, cuts through all barriers of language, education, class, race. It is the universal language, from the heart of the composer to the heart of the listener, unsullied by negative emotions. And that’s the beauty of music, and the arts in general: if you’re feeling anger, sadness, indignation, write it out in music, play it out until your soul is comforted and calmed. Music transmutes the negative into the positive in the twinkling of an eye. As a child I always went to the piano when I felt the extremes of sorrow and pain, or joy and celebration. To this day I can sit down and play The Little Dance I learned as a nine-year old to express an inexpressible happiness.

In light of my own beginnings, doesn’t that show us how important it is to expose the fetus of a new baby to beautiful music while still in the womb? To exquisite words of love and poetry? To the calming sounds of nature? The birdsong at dawn, the music of the rustling brook or mighty river, or crashing waves? The sound of wind ruffling the leaves of mighty trees? The rhythms of raindrops falling on rooftops? These are all sounds to fire up the imagination of a child (and the child within each one of us), and imagination offers us a world of freedom.

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Music is all around us if we just listen. Perhaps hearing music instead of noise is a conscious choice we can all make, just like choosing to consider life from the perspective of a glass half-full rather than one that is half-empty. Sometimes I hear a car horn blasted in anger, and the note triggers a piece of music in my head which I start to hum.

Beautiful music is the antidote that we all yearn for to lift us out of the frequent ugliness of modern life, with its high tech achievements to the detriment of human communication, the often unpleasant rhetoric of politics, and the devastating effect that words can have when they express the negative rather than the positive.

The human voice is perhaps the most perfect instrument there is, so instead of vitriol and expressions of anger, I propose that we sing, in church, in a choir, or in the shower. It has been shown that singing has beneficial effects on the human body of the singer and those who listen (unless you are really tone deaf!).

I stand with Duke Orsini in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, when he declares,

“If music be the food of love, play on, give me excess of it.”

Give me music, lots of it, instrumental, vocal, from Nature, the birds and the bees, for these are the important things in life, the spiritual values that give meaning to all, that enrich our existence and feed our soul.

I’m working on compiling my playlist to be played as I lie dying, “Music to Die By” is what I call it. I want to shed this mortal body on the wings of music that has fed me ever since my conception, feeling my newly released soul soar ever higher into the realms of beauty and eternal truth.

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Visitation by Susan P. Blevins

David, and his wife, Margaret, were close friends of mine when my husband and I lived in Rome. We were all ex-pat Brits, attended the same church, and David and my husband both worked at the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, headquartered in Rome. David had also very recently been ordained as an Episcopal priest.

He and Margaret had an English-speaking general physician, but when he became seriously ill, and was told he needed to see a specialist to go over his lab results, they asked me to go with them as interpreter, since their Italian language skills were not as developed as mine.

We all sat in front of the specialist, who was seated behind his desk, and I was the first one to learn that David had advanced liver cancer. It was agonizingly hard for me to tell him the news, and to inform him that he probably had only about three months to live. That was definitely one of the more difficult tasks I have ever undertaken.

His illness progressed rapidly, and he ended up in the private hospital run by nuns which is much favored by the foreigners living in Rome. I was visiting him one day, together with Margaret, when he told us he had had a vision.

He told us that the previous night he had been lying sleepless in bed, when from the window to his left, an angel entered the room, came over to him, tied up his feet with a cord, and exited through the closed door (literally) to his right. He was thrilled to have had the vision but had no idea what it meant. David was a scientist, an oceanographer by training, so when he told us this, we knew it had to be a hard fact. Margaret and I were both in Jungian psychoanalysis at the time, so when he told us of his vision, we looked at each other in alarm, for we both knew immediately what it meant: that he was never going to walk out of the hospital, and would die shortly.

A few days later, he died, sadly without Margaret or me present, something for which Margaret cannot forgive herself even today, though he died several years ago. The hospital informed both of us the moment he died, which was late in the evening, so the hospital chaplain was not there. Margaret could not bear to go in

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to see him alone. She waited for me at the hospital so we could go in together. I read the Ministration at the Time of Death over him from the Book of Common Prayer, and some of the appropriate psalms, to bring hope and consolation to Margaret with the familiar and comforting liturgy. They had been married for many years, had no children, and were extremely close. This was devastating for Margaret, and for me too, since I had been privy to the whole progression of the disease, and an intimate friend and participant in everything involved in his decline. I spent several nights sleeping at Margaret’s house after his death, and helped her go through his things, which was a challenge, for he was a man of many interests.

He was laid out in the private hospital’s chapel wearing his priestly vestments, including the purple stole with gold fringe that I had made for him just recently as an ordination gift. Later he was cremated, and a funeral service was held for him in our own church. It was an honor and a privilege to have assisted them, and to have functioned at the end as priest.

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Two Things by Susan P. Blevins

I have just returned to the USA from England, after three weeks of intensive caring for my oldest friend. We grew up and went to school together in England, but I departed my native shores over fifty years ago, and Carol remained in the UK. Painful knee replacement surgery was followed by nasty complications that caused a rash, crimson, burning hot pustules, all over her body, eventually diagnosed as a streptococcus infection. Together 24/7, cooking, cleaning, guiding physiotherapy exercises, putting lotion on her body, doing crossword puzzles, making teas, coffees and hot water bottles (it was freezing cold the whole time I was there), and laughing uncontrollably like deranged old women on more than one occasion. I just hoped her infection was not contagious.

I found myself walking the fine line between gently encouraging her to exercise, and bullying her into doing her bending and stretching. If she did not break through the pain barrier, she would not be able to walk normally later, but she resisted me and the pain most of the time, and I had to simply bite my tongue and bow to her choice. She had already had two hip replacements, and that caused additional pain when she tried to exercise her knee. I went over ten years ago also, to help out when she had her second hip surgery, so we were used to the push-and-pull routine of our exercise ritual! She has not gone a day without pain from her osteoarthritis for the last forty years, so it was very difficult for me to push her into more pain, albeit “constructive” pain. Many tears were shed during my stay, by both of us. How could l not weep when my oldest and dearest friend was weeping and in pain? I wished I could have taken on some of her pain for her.

One day she asked me if I would mind going through a cupboard in her kitchen, untouched or cleaned for the ten years since it was installed, due to her difficulty bending. I went down on my hands and knees willingly, and brought out all the old flower pots and vases, rarely used pans, and rat poison. I scrubbed it, and I urged her to get rid of things. That earned me a, “Don’t tell me what to do with my things. They’re mine, not yours.” And those were the only cross words between us in sixty-three years of friendship. A good record I’d say. And I did apologize to her for being a wee bit pushy before I left her!

I became conscious finally after all these years that we are completely the opposite of one another: she is slow and I am quick; she doesn’t care about trying to be healthy, I care a lot; she is not interested in the goings-on in the world, I am

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fascinated by the world; she is decidedly negative, I am decidedly positive; she is melancholic, I am cheerful. And the list goes on.

But I discovered two things while I was there with her, in the small, cramped and cluttered flat she lives in: first, that we have always been different in nearly every way, our whole lives; and second, that it doesn’t matter a damn. When love is the base and foundation of a friendship, all differences can be absorbed and moved through because love is the glue that holds us together. We grew up side by side, sharing our dreams, fears, and of course our curiosity about boys.

My irritations and impatience faded into insignificance when I pondered the bonds of love which have united us more like blood sisters than friends since the age of nine. When I left for the airport at the end of our intensely intimate and entwined time together, we clung to one another, and I wept. I wept to leave her still in pain, and I wept because who knows if I shall ever see her again. I’d better not let another ten years elapse before I visit England again! They say that blood is thicker than water, but not in our case. We will always be there for each other as long as we draw breath, for we are soul sisters.

Bio: Susan P. Blevins was born in England, lived 26 years in Italy, and has now resided in the USA for the past 24 years, first in Taos, NM, and currently in Houston, TX. While living in Rome she had a weekly column in an international, English-language newspaper, writing about food and restaurant reviews primarily, though not exclusively. Since living in the USA she has written pieces on gardens and gardening for N. American and European publications, and she is now writing stories of her life and travels and gaining traction in various literary publications. She loves reading, writing, cats, classical music, and stimulating conversation.

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Trips to capitals by Eva Ferry

I grew up in the province of Lugo, of which the city of Lugo is the capital.

Once or twice a year, my parents drove me to Lugo, the city, and there we visited

specialist doctors who wouldn’t stand a chance of having the brilliant careers they

enjoyed had they settled in the province instead. We then went to the

department stores and bought a sweater, a coat or a scarf that never fitted

entirely with the rest of our clothes - salvaged from the shops in our village and

lacking the quiet furore of items acquired in the capital.

On those trips to the capital, you had to make sure that you wore a fresh

undershirt and clean socks. We, of course, did so every day, but when going to

the capital you had to make sure that this was absolutely the case. Every time

before we set out, my mother checked on me and my brother, the two of us

standing next to the chimney. It also helped if you disguised your accent. Failing

that, you should talk as little as possible.

I now live in Scotland, and Edinburgh is the capital. Trips to the capital are

now trips to Edinburgh, and my latest one took place last Sunday: my husband

and I went to a performance of Bach’s Matthew Passion. Before we caught the

train, I slithered into a fresh undershirt and rummaged through my drawer until I

found my cleanest socks. Next to me, my husband buttoned up his favourite

jacket, which is already wearing out at the elbows. I didn’t like this, because it was

the capital that we were going to, but didn’t say anything.

We took our seat in the theatre, which was really a converted Episcopalian

church, and a few minutes later the conductor walked into the stage. His gait was

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inelegant, a wrinkle criss-crossed through the back of his frock-coat and, when he

addressed the audience, he did so in a Northern accent. But appearances are

deceitful: it said in the program that he was not only a very accomplished

conductor but also a very accomplished scholar which has demolished very widely

held assumptions. After he started waving his arms, the orchestra trotting after

him sweetly, I had no reason to think the former was not true.

Halfway into the second part, after the choir sings about the flogging of

Christ, the conductor and scholar unexpectedly lowered his arms and folded his

hands on his rather prominent belly. He waited. The musicians put down their

instruments. They turned pegs and loosened mouthpieces. Then the illusion

started again.

In my seat, I dried my tears with my husband’s handkerchief. Deep down I

was thinking that only someone who is both a very accomplished conductor and a

very accomplished scholar and demolisher of assumptions would think of doing

something as clever and cruel as that: to stop a performance for a minute with

the excuse of tuning up the instruments, when what really wanted to do was to

tell us that Christ hasn’t really died for our sins after spending the best part of two

hours convincing us that he has. I was thinking too that only those of us visiting

from the province, no matter how fresh our undershirts and how clean our socks,

fall for illusions that people from the capital have long ago learned to sneer

educatedly at.

Bio: Originally from Galicia in Spain and a resident of Glasgow in Scotland, Eva Ferry’s fiction and non-fiction work has been published in the anthology Writers at the Hunterian and the literary journals Salome Lit, Dangerous Women and Corvus Review.

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Mom’s Fudge by Marlena Fiol

Clyde had blue eyes that sparkled, and his dimpled smile made me shiver.

The only problem was that Clyde was in love with Diana, a pretty petite blonde

who always wore perfectly matching skirts and blouses that were store bought

from the States, not home-made like my clothes. I knew Clyde didn’t care about

me, I knew I wasn’t pretty, and I didn’t have any beautiful matching skirts and

blouses. But I could still daydream about him.

Clyde was the child of missionaries in Paraguay, just like I. Except his

parents were Baptist missionaries, much more modern and hip than my

Mennonite parents. And he got to live at home in a big fancy house in Asunción,

the capital of Paraguay, because his dad was an important surgeon at the Baptist

Hospital. At 12, I lived on my own in a hostel in Asuncion, because there were no

schools at the leprosy compound my parents founded and managed eighty-one

kilometers out of town. I got to go home only on weekends.

Clyde and I were both part of a Christian youth group, made up mostly of

missionary kids living in Asunción. There were about twenty of us pre-teenagers

and teenagers, teeming with excess estrogen and testosterone. We had organized

a supper-basket auction for the following week to raise money for an outing to a

Baptist campground east of Asunción. The plan was to meet on Saturday

afternoon at a park in Itá Enramada, a barrio (neighborhood) of Asunción

bordering the Paraguay River. Each girl was to bring a basket filled with a meal. At

the auction the boys would bid on the meals, and the highest bidder got to eat

the supper with the girl who prepared his basket.

###

37

At home at the leprosy station for the weekend prior to the auction, I

worried about what to make for my supper basket. Since I had no access to a

kitchen in my hostel, it was impossible for me to prepare the basket in Asunción. I

had to make something at home almost a whole week before the auction.

“Mom, all the girls will have super delicious stuff in their baskets,” I wailed.

“What can I possibly make a whole week ahead that will be any good next

Saturday?” On and on, over and over, I moaned and complained. I couldn’t sleep

at night. I was obsessed with the auction and with not knowing what to make.

“I just won’t go to the stupid auction,” I finally yelled my last day at home

before returning to the city. I slammed the kitchen door and stomped to my room

at the other end of the veranda.

A few minutes later, Mom opened the door to my room. “I have an idea,

Marlena. We’ll make fudge for your basket. Fudge should last well for a week.”

Her smile seemed strained.

Fudge? Just fudge? I thought to myself. But then, Mom did make the best

fudge in the world. Every Easter and every Christmas, she would make big batches

of fudge to distribute to all of our leprosy patients. Mom’s fudge was great.

Everyone knew that.

That afternoon, Mom and I made fudge. Every time doubts about the

suitability of fudge floated through my head, I told myself, “Everyone loves

Mom’s fudge.” I needed to believe it.

Mom’s fudge recipe was pretty simple. We mixed together about 2/3 cup

milk, 2/3 cup cocoa, 2 cups sugar, 2 tablespoons corn syrup, and ¼ teaspoon salt

(Mom never measured anything out precisely). We couldn’t get corn syrup in

Paraguay, but we would order it every time someone visited us from the States.

38

Mom said it kept the fudge from getting too sugary. We cooked this mixture until

we got a soft ball when we dropped some of it in cold water. Mom added some

vanilla and butter and we waited for the mixture to cool a bit. The real trick was

to pinpoint the right moment to begin beating it. And then to know when to stop

beating it, just when the brown mass began to lose its sheen. I relied on Mom to

tell me when.

“OK, now!” Mom said as I pulled the pan off the stove and began beating

the fudge hard with a long wooden spoon, as hard as I could. At just the right

moment, we quickly spread it all out on a baking sheet, before the whole thing

turned into stiffened brown glob in our pot.

This would be the best fudge ever.

I had intended to pack my fudge in a beautifully adorned basket, just to up

the chances that someone would want to bid on it. But all we could find at home

was an old broken-down lidded wicker basket with holes in it.

“We can patch the holes with some yarn,” Mom said, undeterred. She

pulled a ball of blue yarn from her sewing basket.

I watched my mother expertly weave the yarn across the holes in the

basket. I was grateful, but I also had serious misgivings about this plan. I wished I

could talk with Mom about how uncomfortable I was around boys. How dowdy I

felt in my home-sewn, hand-me-down clothes. How I never knew the right things

to say.

Instead, I just watched her darning needle go in and out, in and out.

###

The Saturday of the auction was one of those bright, crisp, slightly breezy

winter August days. We all wore our nicest clothes for this exciting event. I had

39

tried to pull up my hair with a ribbon, but it kept falling out, so I left it hanging

loose. I noticed Diana’s perfectly coiffed short blond hair.

We had stacked all of our baskets on a wooden table underneath a tree

with long gnarly roots and heavy branches that hung low, almost to the ground.

We hadn’t labeled any of the baskets. There was a lot of nudging around, the boys

trying to discover, before the auction, which girl had made what basket. If the

bidder guessed wrong, he’d risk spending the evening sharing supper with a girl

he didn’t like, while the girl he had his eye on would spend the evening with

someone else.

As I watched the boys milling around the baskets on the table, I started to

wonder if it had been a big mistake to come. With the fudge. Many of the baskets

were brightly colored. Some of them had fancy clasps. I had caught the aroma of

fried chicken, chipa guazú (a rich cheesy Paraguayan cornbread), empanadas

(spicy meat-filled turnovers) and other fragrant dishes wafting up from some of

the baskets. And I had caught a glimpse of a huge slice of some kind of fruity pie.

I wanted to hide my basket under the table and run.

Somehow a rumor began that we girls had switched up the baskets and

packed our suppers in each other’s containers. So the boys who thought they had

figured it out became really confused about which ones to bid for. Our group

leader held up one of the baskets to begin the bidding. When the commotion

didn’t quiet down, he yelled loudly, “What do you bid for this basket?” He lifted

the lid and looked inside, making a show of smelling the delicious food. One of the

boys started the bid off at 100 Guaraní (just under $1 at that time). The leader

shook his head, saying he couldn’t think of letting the basket go for such a puny

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amount. He reminded the boys that this was a fund-raiser for our yearly outing

next month. The basket eventually went for 600 Guaraní.

One after another the baskets on the table were auctioned off. None of

them seemed to belong to the girl the bidder thought was the owner. When the

leader held my basket up, he again pretended to inhale the aroma of scrumptious

food.

I heard one of the boys behind me whisper, “I think that’s Diana’s basket.”

I stopped breathing when Clyde shouted, “2,000 Guaraní!”

“Sold!” the leader proclaimed, after a few moments of silence.

I felt suddenly giddy. Why had Clyde bid on my basket? Because he thought

it was Diana’s? Or possibly, just possibly, because he thought it was mine? But

then I thought about the fried chicken, the chipa guazú, the empanadas and the

pies in those other baskets, and the big hunk of fudge in mine, and hot blood

rushed up into my face.

When Clyde discovered that the basket was mine, he looked over toward

Diana with a scowl, like it was her fault. Slowly, he made his way toward me,

holding my tattered old basket away from him as though it held something

contagious.

My heart raced. “Hi Clyde,” I said too quickly, a little out of breath.

He opened the lid and his big blue eyes widened, fixed on the single big

glob of aging, slightly dried-out, week-old fudge. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he

said as he placed the basket on the ground and walked away.

The following month, Clyde left to go to school in the U.S.

###

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Thirty-five years later, sitting at my desk at the University of Colorado, an e-

mail pops up on my computer screen.

Hi Marlena. I recently read in your parents’ missionary newsletter that you

are a professor at CU and that you and your husband live up in the foothills west

of Denver. My wife and I live here in Denver as well. Would you like to get

together? Clyde McDowell.

I read and re-read the message, remembering the last time I saw Clyde,

walking away from me at the auction. I close my eyes and sit back in my chair,

trying to recall the sting of that rejection. But all I can remember is my mother’s

fudge, the best fudge in the world, and her darning needle weaving the blue yarn

in and out across the holes in my basket.

Bio: Marlena Fiol, PhD, is a freelance writer, certified tai chi instructor, and spiritual seeker whose work explores the depths of who we are and what’s possible in our lives. Her most recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in GFT Press, Crux Magazine, and The Manifest-Station. Marlena’s complete vita and a sampling of her significant body of published writing on identity and learning are available at marlenafiol.com.

42

Days of Courage, Nights of Pain: The Story of My Time in a Mental Institutionby Catherine Moscatt

Day One:

My first night in the mental institution was hell. I was in a double but I had

the room to myself for which I was grateful. I didn’t need to be sharing my space

with some nutcase on top of everything else (I was dimly aware that the term

nutcase could arguably encompass me as well). My bed was right beneath the

window, giving me a view of the courtyard. I kept imagining forcing open the

window, leaping out and running until my legs gave out. It scared me that even

though I had checked myself in I could not simply just walk out.

There was something known as the “72 hour notice” where you can let the

hospital know, in writing, you wish to leave and they have only 72 hours to hold

you before getting a court order. 72 hours! I didn’t think I could last an hour.

I also resented the severe lack of privacy. Nurses kept poking their heads

into my room throughout the night when they were doing rounds which made it

very hard to fall asleep much less cry like I wanted to do. Eventually, I fell asleep

in a fetal position, eyes squeezed shut but tears leaking out of them anyway.

The next morning began with breakfast where they gave me so much food I

couldn’t even finish it.

“You have to eat” one very thin woman at my table said “If you lose too

much weight they send you to another, more archaic floor. Besides if you are too

thin, the antidepressants won’t work”

I met several people at breakfast including one woman named Maggie who

I got to talking to on the med line. She is borderline personality disorder, like

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myself. I never met someone else who was diagnosed in person before and I

instantly felt a connection to her.

My first meeting with my treatment team was rather intimidating- it was

four people all asking me questions such as “why do you want to kill yourself?” I

don’t really know the answer to that. It’s the million dollar question right there.

I was told that because it was Thanksgiving break, the schedule would be all

wonky. “You might not see your doctor again until Monday” one of the nurses

informed me. That would mean missing at least a day of school. I kissed goodbye

to my 4.0.

There was a commotion down at one end of the hall. I turned to see several

nurses hurrying towards a woman who was screaming and kicking a door. My

heart instantly went out to her. I understood how frustrating it was to be a

patient. Like the fact that you were in an institution negated the validity of your

feelings.

My first day was lined with short bursts of panic. It feels like I’ll never get

out of here. How can I handle this? I alternated between feeling like I couldn’t

breathe and feeling like I was going to cry.

My salvation was Maggie. She was so friendly it made everything a little

less scary.

I also felt a bit better after a short trip to the courtyard (which we were

allowed once a day). The courtyard was small, barren and dingy but there was a

basketball court so I shot some hoops and pretended I was home.

All throughout the day I considered putting in my 72 hours’ notice. But

maybe I did need to be here. Maybe I needed to finally accept that. I’m here for

now and that’s okay. This is only temporary. This will all be okay.

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I also finally showered. They don’t watch you when you shower (which was a

relief) but you aren’t allowed razors.

I couldn’t help but think of Bryan. As of Monday night, he wanted to date

me. But who would want to date a girl in a mental institution?

Day Two: Thanksgiving

The next morning I ate breakfast with Maggie and her roommate Diane

who entertained me with stories about her work at the animal shelter.

“I’ve been trying not to cry” I confessed to them after breakfast “because I

want to show the staff I’m getting better”

“Crying is okay” Maggie reassured me “They won’t keep you here longer if

you cry occasionally. It’s only if you make a disturbance. Then, they will put you

“on-status” and you will be here even longer”

In the living room, the patients gathered to watch the Thanksgiving parade.

“Later we can watch all the Black Friday craziness and be glad we aren’t out

there” Maggie said settling down on the chair next to me.

Mom, Dad and Michael (my brosser) all came to visit me on Thanksgiving.

We played cards and Cranium and Password which was all fun but you know what

would have been even more fun? Not being in the institution at all.

Even though it was Thanksgiving I met with my treatment team anyway. I

had a hope Dr. Ross would look at me and say “You don’t need to be here” and I

could go. That didn’t happen but they did set a discharge date for Monday.

Monday! That was doable.

“We are also going to start you on Lamictal. It’s a mood stabilizer. We have

to increase it in very low doses so it’ll be a while before you see results” A third

45

medication. I once had dreams of living a med free life. Clearly that was not in the

cards right now.

Day Three:

My treatment team soon amended my discharge date to Tuesday. I wasn’t

quite sure how I was supposed to make it that long. It was the weekend so all

activities were suspended and the patients only had themselves and each other

for amusement.

Unsurprisingly, some found it hard to deal with the excess of spare time.

There were several code reds (which was when a patient causes a disturbance

usually by screaming or attempting to throw chairs).

“They might sedate her” Diane told me as we watched one of the girls

become absolutely hysterical. The alarm soon subsided but I heard her crying for

the next half hour.

That night I had gone to bed early (I mean there wasn’t much to do) when I

heard a knock at the door. It was Maggie.

“You have a phone call she told me” My heart leapt with excitement. My

parents had just left- they wouldn’t call.

Sure enough, it was Bryan. And we actually managed to have a “non-

awkward” conversation. Nothing romantic (no “I’ve been thinking about you”) but

I think we both knew this was not the time or place for it.

“How’s the hospital?” he asked

“It’s okay. At least we can go outside to shoot hoops”

“Oh, so you can practice your shitty basketball skills?” Aww, so sweet. But

hearing the teasing tone of his voice brought a big smile to my face.

46

Day Four:

On Day Four, I got a new roommate. Her name was Sasha and she was from

Ukraine with a beautiful accent. Although she was 32 she only looked 22 and was

married with two young children.

“How are you finding it here?” asked Diane over her morning cup of coffee

(patients are only allowed one cup but most of them find a way around this rule)

Sasha explained they had started her on Lithium.

“That’s pretty strong if you’ve never been on medication before” Maggie

commented.

“It’s strong even if you have been on medication before” added Diane.

“I don’t like it” Sasha said “This chills, shaking….I haven’t been able to sleep

at all” The way she described it made it sound like a nightmare.

I liked Sasha a lot. At one point, I made her laugh and she told me I had a

great sense of humor which made me pretty happy. One thing I try to retain in

these situations is a sense of humor.

After shooting hoop in the courtyard, I found myself all shaky which was

odd. I couldn’t tell if it was because I pushed myself or because of the Lamictal. I

really hoped it was not the meds. I could not have any adverse reactions if I

wanted to go back to school.

Day Five:

During my stay in the institution I began to read Jodi Picoult’s small great

things which is about racial inequalities in America. Jodi Picoult uses her words to

invoke change about causes close to her heart. We all have a cause that is close to

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us our hearts and for me that is the treatment of mentally ill patients. New York

Presbyterian was supposed to be one of the better places. But it still wasn’t great.

Like I said, everyone has a cause and this was mine. And I hoped to bring about

change through my greatest weapon: my words.

I especially liked the books title small great things based on the quote by

Martin Luther King: “If I cannot do great things I can do small things in a great

way”. That’s what I wanted to do: small things in a great way.

Later that evening they did room checks without knocking (again), just

abruptly opened the door to check we were there and then closed it. It was a very

minor thing but it is all about the little things.

“So rude,” Sasha said and this prompted what I considered to be a pretty

amazing discussion between Sasha and I about how mental health was a broken

system.

“It is” agreed Sasha “but you can’t change anything until you look in the

mirror and start changing yourself”. I have to agree.

Day Six:

On my sixth day in the mental institution I was discharged. Three things I

knew for sure. 1) I was never so happy to see my phone. 2) I would always be

grateful for Maggie and the other women who had taken me under their wing.

And 3) I was never going back.

Three Months and One Psychotic Break Later

Day One:

I was in the hospital. Again. I guess I had one psychotic episode too many.

48

My head was a mess with thoughts. Bryan wouldn’t want to date me.

Derrick and I would never be friends again. Oh and did I mention how much I

freakin hated those damn safety pens?

I spent most of the first morning sleeping because I didn’t go to bed until

past one. My family got back to New York around 10 and then there was the

intake. I remember the first time at the hospital waiting anxiously, unsure what to

expect. This time around I just fell asleep.

“Hope?” A nurse stood over me “We are going to admit you now” So they

escorted me back to Ward 5North, and did the body map. Unlike last time, I did

not cry myself to sleep. I was too tired. I fell asleep right away, exhausted, limp,

hoping desperately I would wake up in my dorm room.

In the morning, I met with Dr. Ross and Arabelle (my social worker). These

were the people I had worked with last time which was good because they both

knew me and would try to get me out as soon as possible.

“We are going to run a bunch of tests” said Dr. Ross, blinking excessively in

his customary way, “including an uriology exam. We are also going to run an fMRI

to make sure the cause of your psychosis is not physical”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, say, a bleed in your brain” Great, now I had that to worry about as

well.

Obviously, there was a whole new group of people here. So far I liked Eleanor the

best, a girl close to my own age who was here because she tried to OD on oxy.

She’d been there over a week. I shuddered to think of all the school work I would

have missed by then.

49

Being in the institution made it hard to keep my spirits up but at least the

voices were quiet(ish). Some part of me whispered This was what the voices

wanted all along but I squashed that thought. I would NOT give into my delusions.

I was also determined not to cry, trying to use skills like radical acceptance.

But accepting I was back was very hard for me. And I kept worrying about Bryan.

Who would want to date a girl in and out of an institution?

Mom and Dad came to visit, bringing along the same assortment of games,

chocolate and “surprises” (like fill -in -the blank journals) that they had given me

last time.

“When do you think I’ll get out of here?” I asked wistfully, “I’m going to

miss so much work”

“Hope, we want you to think big picture. Focus on getting better, not on

when you can go back to school,” my mom said gently, opening a Tupperware of

grapes and offering me on.e “Think long term.”

“I don’t see why things can’t work out short and long term.”

Mom looked at me sadly. “Sometimes they just don’t, Hope. That’s called

life”

That night I received a call from the McManus family. They called right before we

went to bed and I was so happy to hear from them. Especially Bryan. Talking on

the phone with Bryan comes naturally now.

“Do you think……if I can come back…..can we still go on our date?” I asked,

dreading the answer, absentmindedly playing with the phone cord.

“Of course we can.” Bryan’s reassurance kept a smile on my face for the

rest of the night.

50

Day Two:

“I’m going to miss so much school being here,” I said, wringing my hands.

Mom and Dad were visiting again. I saw them exchange a glance.

“Maybe we’ll rent second copies of your textbooks,” Dad said. “So you can

keep up”

I found this encouraging. Surely, they wouldn’t bother getting me textbooks if I

wasn’t even coming back.

Eleanor and I had been spending all our meals together. In some ways, she

reminded me of Mary. Sometimes I liked to pretend I was at a summer camp with

children my own age.

I met with Dr. Ross again.

“My parents are getting me copies of my textbooks so I won’t be too

behind when I go back to school,” I told him. Dr. Ross had a funny look on his face.

“They think going back would be good for you?” Fuck. Not another person

to convince.

“Yes,” I said. Well, at least they would think that once I had convinced

them.

“Hope,” Dr. Ross is rather brusque for a doctor. He doesn’t have much of a

bedside manner. But here he seemed to be making an effort. “We don’t know yet

if you will be able to go back to school”

The thought had not fully entered my head before. I wouldn’t let it. As I

mentioned once, I am the master of denial. The thought of not going back to

school was too painful to bear.

“There are several factors we must take into consideration,” Dr. Ross said,

speaking practically as though my entire life was not hanging thinly in the balance.

51

“Like if you can find a psychiatrist there, not two hours away here in New York.

We don’t even know if the school will take you back.”

I had never even thought about that. Not take me back? Was that even a

thing? Could they just decide they didn’t want me?

Radical acceptance, I reminded myself. But I couldn’t do it. Scranton was

my home. If I didn’t have Scranton what did I have?

That night a bunch of us got together to watch Zombieland. I was surprised

to find myself laughing and happy but apparently I could adapt pretty well.

Day Three:

My stay at the institution the second time around did not seem quite as

unbearable but the fact that I might not return to Scranton hung before me like a

big dark cloud. Part of me still had hope; the other part of me did not want to

have hope because it might just get crushed anyway.

The hospital increased my medication again. They also gave me a copy of

the MMPI-2 (Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory) which is 567 True or

False Questions about myself. I wasn’t quite sure of its relevance but I would do

anything to get out faster.

Day Four:

Every day it looked more and more like I would be returning to school. But

it was dependent on several factors, like finding a psychiatrist in the Scranton

area. I desperately wished I could see the future. I desperately wanted to go

home.

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It was Sunday so that meant no treatment and that everything was kind of

in limbo. It was very frustrating to just sit there, waiting, feeling like everything

was outside my control.

I tried to watch the Grammys but hearing all the familiar songs made me

miss “the outside world” even more. Soon, Hope I told myself, just hold on.

Day Five:

Monday morning I had several hours of testing, because the hospital sent a

psychologist to do a bunch of memory tests and brain exercises. I wasn’t sure how

well I did because the medication seemed to make my brain a bit fuzzy. I wasn’t

quite sure how it would help me either but if they told me to smash my head

against the wall so they could get a better look at my brain, well I’d do it in a

heartbeat.

My worst fear was the voices returning so I barely gave myself any time to

be alone with my thoughts. I guess I was afraid of them.

One of the highlights of the day was a call from Bryan. Swoon! We talked

about the four hour test they gave me and his Pathfinder game. We did not talk

about our date but it was one of the things keeping a smile on my face whenever I

felt like I was going to break down completely.

Day Six: Valentine’s Day

“At this point I have to recommend partial hospitalization. I do not think

returning to Scranton would be advisable,” Dr. Ross told me on day six of my stay

in the hospital.

53

What do you know? I wanted to ask. I am a mild person by nature but at

this point I wanted to flip over a table. If only they weren’t bolted to the floor.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen- any of it. How could I have let

this happen? I felt utterly heartbroken.

Every morning I woke up and was confronted by the realization that I was

in the hospital. And not my beloved Scranton. I missed my friends. I missed my

classes. I even missed my clothes (all of my clothes were back in my dorm room. I

was wearing two hospital gowns). So Happy Valentine’s Day to me.

It was also hard to accept that I would be in the hospital longer the second

time around. It made me feel as though I was going backwards.

` I made an attempt to look for some silver linings. Like playing HORSE with

Sam and Eleanor even though there was snow all over the courtyard (I won. Just

saying). Another bit of fun was watching Susannah and Eleanor play Super Mario

brossers on the Wii. If I didn’t compare it to “life outside”, then sometimes the

hospital seemed bearable.

Sam went home, as did a bunch of other people, which was disheartening

because some of them had come in after I did.

Day Seven:

Day Seven was notable, because I managed to snag three cups of coffee, so

I was actually awake for group therapy. During group therapy, we talked about

toxic relationships. More and more I was realizing my friendship with Derrick was

extremely unhealthy, namely because I was so codependent on him.

I met with Dr. Ross again. “We are going to have you meet with our

consultant, Dr. Kernberg,” Dr. Ross told me as though I knew who that was.

54

“Who?”

“Dr. Kernberg. He’s an international expert on borderline personality

disorder and he comes to this hospital once a week for a case consultation. That

means he will conduct an interview with you, probably in front of several nursing

students. Is that all right with you?”

“Why me?” As far as I knew there was nothing particularly special about

me.

“Your case is a bit confusing since you have borderline personality disorder

symptoms but you have now developed psychosis which is pretty inconsistent

with borderline personality disorder. We just want to get his opinion”

Later that day Dr. Sickles, a member of my “team”, asked me several

hundred questions.

“I am going to brief Dr. Kernberg on your responses before the meeting.

That way he won’t waste precious time asking basic questions,” she told me. I

didn’t ask What if I die from nerves first? I wasn’t feeling too well but I couldn’t

tell if it was the medication or nerves. I had also developed slight tremors, which

was probably explained by the increase in medication.

I tried not to think of Derrick or Bryan too much. I couldn’t believe I was so

close to having a date with Bryan and just like last time, I ended up here again.

Talk about history repeating itself.

Catherine called that evening and talking to her was very cathartic. I loved

ranting to Catherine because she never made me feel ashamed of my emotions. I

talked to Bryan as well. Talking on the phone with him came more naturally, the

more I did it.

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“Thank you for talking to me for so long” I told him and he replied “I mean,

it doesn’t feel like a long time.” I was so excited for this date. If our phone

conversations were any indication, we would always have something to talk

about. There were never any awkward silences, something I hoped he had

noticed.

But one of the most telling things is that Derrick hadn’t called. He hadn’t

even asked for the number from his parents even though he knew full well his

parents had it. That really hurt.

Day Eight:

I was in the hospital longer than it took for God to create the freakin

universe. Would I go back to Scranton with all my friends, date Bryan and finish

the semester? Or would I be stuck in New York? Would I be happy if I stayed in

New York? Would this be my last hospitalization? I had so many questions, my

stomach was in knots. And if I didn’t go back to Scranton, when would I get all my

clothes? It might seem trivial but I really did miss my clothes.

Please God (or whoever is out there), I prayed, just let me return to

Scranton. Don’t send me more trials. Don’t test how strong I am, please.

I was very nervous for the meeting with Dr. Kernberg. I wondered what

would happen if I just started crying in the middle of the meeting. I tried to

picture the McManus family and Moon Squad at the meeting supporting me.

I sat in one of the chairs waiting to be called in to the meeting, hearing

Ashley screaming at her mom on the phone. Ashley hadn’t been here as long as I

had but she wanted to get out that day. The hospital and her mom said no. Ashley

had one sweatshirt, one dress and one pair of underwear which she had been

56

washing in the sink every day. Not once had her mom been by. Not even to bring

her new clothes. I knew family dynamics were complicated especially where

mental illness was concerned but the whole situation was still sad.

“Hope?” It was one of the nurses. “They are ready for you”

The meeting was in a large room adjacent to Ward 5N. My entire team was

there as well as five or six nursing students and the famous Dr. Kernbeg.

“He doesn’t have much of a bedside manner” Dr. Ross warned me “You

also have to speak up because he is hard of hearing” Great. I would have to

practically shout about my problems to a room full of strangers.

Dr. Kernberg, a man just shy of 90, regarded me closely as I settled myself

into the chair opposite him. Then the questions began. We talked about the

voices, my paranoia, my past romantic relationships (many of them train wrecks),

and my relationships with Derrick and Bryan. I was surprised at all the questions

about Derrick and Bryan but I guess Dr. Kernberg was insightful enough to see

they were very important to me. He was very direct, sometimes had me feeling

like I was under interrogation. At the end of the interview, he dismissed me

without giving me any information. I left, knowing they would all discuss me once

I had gone.

It wasn’t until later that day that I learned the results of my meeting with

Kernberg. My parents and I were in the middle of a game of Rummy 500 when Dr.

Ross approached us.

“Mind if I speak with Hope?” he asked us. I leapt up from the chair and

followed him and Dr. Sickles to a private corner where we could talk.

“Hope, we don’t think it’s a good idea if you go back to Scranton.” He

continued talking but it was like I was underwater. I barely heard a word he said

57

as he spoke to me about Dr. Kernberg’s impressions of me. I knew he was talking

about important stuff but none of it registered. I waited until he was done talking,

mechanically walked right past my parents to my room, laid down on my bed and

positively screamed in my pillow. I didn’t care if the nurses heard. I didn’t care if

they put me on status. I didn’t care if they kept me longer. I had lost Scranton. I

had lost everything.

My mom came to the door of my room but she wasn’t allowed in per

hospital rules. “Hope, please,” she pleaded. “Come out and talk to us.” I refused. I

just kept crying.

Once I had finished crying I was numb, in denial. I had barely made it the

seven weeks through intercession. How was I going to last until September? What

if they didn’t let me room next year with my friends? For the first time in a very

long time, I wanted to hurt myself.

That night I had my brain scan at the local hospital (the real hospital, not

the loony bin hospital) to ensure my psychosis hadn’t been caused by anything

physical. People kept asking me if I was nervous and wishing me luck but after my

prior stay in el hospital, I wasn’t too concerned. I was escorted to the nearby

hospital by a nurse who refused to leave my side until I was in the actual machine.

Ordinarily, I might have resented that but this time I didn’t really care.

Despite my intense despair, I was still looking forward to the next day, to

getting out to getting my phone back, to finally be in contact with my friends. I

tried not to torture myself by thinking about what could have been if I hadn’t

gone crazy, if I hadn’t heard my voices. I tried not to let the ‘what if’s govern my

thoughts.

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Day Nine:

Cliché though it may sound, I spent the night dreaming I was in Scranton

and when I woke up a wave of disappointment crashed over me. Part of me was

still in denial, hoping Dr. Ross would change his mind, that someone would clap

me on the back with a hearty “Just kidding!”

But the other part of me was already looking to the future. What would I

do? Get a job? Volunteer? Where? Doing what? What if I returned to September

and floundered all over again? What if I couldn’t live with my friends? How would

I make it six months until September when I barely made it seven weeks? I tried

looking for the silver lining. I knew I could visit the McManus family. I knew I could

probably find a way to make friends. But in some ways, I couldn’t help but feel

that for the time being I had lost everything.

Three Months Later

J.K. Rowling once said “Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which

I rebuilt my life” That’s what I’m in the process of doing right now. Rebuilding my

life. Recovering and getting to know myself in the process. Healing. And part of

healing is sharing my story. That’s why I am here today.

Three things I know for sure: 1) I am lucky to have such great people to

stand by my side 2) If I returned to Scranton, I will be stronger than I was before

3) Everything was going to be okay.

Bio: Catherine Moscatt is a twenty year old student studying counseling and human services. She loves basketball, bad horror movies, writing poetry and rock music. Her work has been published several places including Sick Lit Magazine, Phree Write Magazine and Muse: An International Poetry Journal.