The Q word

My apartment is a disaster. What to take and what to leave? I really don't know. Seems strange to take things that I can buy where I'm going. Seems strange to be going some place I might like to buy things. When I left for Peace Corps, I sold all major possessions: car, furniture...er, that was it. I return to owning little of my former life. I did that for a reason.

In telling people that I'm terminating my service/leaving Bulgaria it's been rephrased back to me in terms of something involving quitting. "I didn't know it was so hard," some say. "It's not like you to quit," say others. Um, I'm not. Period. Perhaps it's semantics, but I've quickly grown tired of people implying that I've committed myself to something and am just ditching it. People who know me - REALLY know me - know it's not my style. However, committing to something, finding out it's not what it says it was and then telling it to fuck off certainly is. This move is more like the latter.

Peace Corps is a complex experience and I'm sure I'll be deciphering it long after I leave. There are 101 reasons to stay and just as many (I'd say more) to go. People stay and go for all sorts of reasons. I stayed this long because I was really getting something out of it and felt like I was giving, or beginning to. I used to joke that this was an abusive relationship - you stay under the promise that things will get better and that you just need to have faith and the goodness will appear even if all evidence is to the contrary. For me, that abuse never ended and I committed long ago to not being in any more abusive relationships. People say that the second year is much easier and that people are much more prepared. I suppose. What I see is this: deadened spirits and blank eyes. It makes things easier, that is true. It would make damn near anything easier. One of my 5 goals here was "affect and be affected" - to honor that meant no deadening. No deadening meant it didn't get easier, and in some ways got worse.

Following the lines of "quit" and "quitter" I worry what employers will say about my early departure. I have good reasons, I know, and I'm not afraid to voice them, but still... Peace Corps is this experience that sells people on smiling Americans helping poor but eager brown people. I never really liked that image. I never even believed in it. My reasons for joining we much less marketable. Walking away seems like it could be perceived as some prissy American not being about to hack the "hardships". You know, I grew up poor living in a 1-bedroom house with bad plumbing and questionable structure in a neighborhood often called "the war zone" - the square footage of that house was smaller than my current apartment and I shared it with my parents, sister and aunt. I lived on grilled government cheese sandwiches for about a year - so long that it took a decade for me to ever eat one again. This... really, is nothing.

I leave for many reasons, but one is this: I never grew out of asking "why?". Since a young age, if I didn't like something or thought it was stupid or a waste of time I simply didn't do it. As I grew older the depth of that conviction grew to include things that were offense or inefficient. Try to change the system, but if you can't then walk. It's not quitting it's something people have long since forgotten and have even grown to fear when it's done in a meaningful way: civil disobedience. For reasons I'll get into when this crap is packed and I'm enjoying wi-fi and a cafe mocha, I cannot service this operation any longer. It violates too many things I believe in and fails to do so many other things because it's an outdated program in desperate need of being revamped. There are reasons for volunteers to be out in the world helping people. What we do here isn't one of those reasons.

I sold my material things prepared to come back a different person - with new views and new tastes. I have some of those. I have a lot. What I have more of though is strength and clarity. A stronger belief in my own convictions and moral code. What I'm doing is right and done out of thoughtfulness... even if it does just look like I can't take one more gray meat stick.

There she goes

I'm no stranger to hardship or sacrifice in my life. I've worked since... since I don't know when. Since before it was legal for me to work. I babysat my weekends and summers away until I could work for a whopping $3.25/hr (yes, I'm that old). Worked through high school and early college, one summer having 3 nearly full-time jobs. (I don't know how that math worked either... but I assure you, it's true.) Eventually, even with working part-time I couldn't afford private university any longer and worked full-time. Well, NYC full-time - so more like 60+ hrs/wk. Eventually I professionally maneuvered to be able to work full-time while going to school part time. This lasted until the summer of 2004.

It took me 10 years to graduate college. Academics were not the problem - financing was. Still, I wanted the degree, so I worked until I got it. My friends had long since left and found careers and spouses and even advanced degrees. I sucked it up and reminded myself I was a stronger person for it all. Unfortunately, I'm a forgetful person and I forgot that whole character-building part and really just kind of hated the process of sitting in a room with trust fund brats who had never, and would never, read the material. I was after a degree and an education. Ten years later, I got both.

Chris Mathews said in an interview long ago that he felt like he was playing a game different than other people. He, like others, liked to win, but unlike others he wanted to do it right - the right morals, means and ends. He was playing by different rules and, while he felt like a better person for that, he also found that he often lost because of it. Like Chris, I want to do the right things for the right reasons. I too feel like it means I play a different game. I'd like to win, but mostly I want to look at myself in the mirror, look deeply into my own eyes and know the person there is someone I respect. I work everyday to make sure I can still do that. It's something I do every single morning.

I think of myself as a giving person. A rather selfless one. Still, I have my limits. I read an article a few weeks ago by a woman who said she never gave, in any way, that wasn't sustainable. If she couldn't always drop a dime in a cup, she just wouldn't. It saved her from giving and eventually feeling badly for it. If she couldn't repeat something, she didn't do it at all. I read this and was in awe of her dedication to defend and preserve herself. To not be depleted, but to still be giving. It's the kind of thing that seems harsh and rash from the outside. Unless, of course, you too are easily cornered into the gift-than-grief cycle and then it all makes sense.

Confucius said "Have no friends not equal to yourself." Again, a harsh way of thinking perhaps, but quite sensible to those who've found themselves the lesser of two, or even the daunting task of being the greater of two. Being carried is humiliating and carrying only breeds resentment.

All of these things: integrity, self-respect, a search for equals lead me to one of the biggest, most deliberate life changes I've ever made. The Peace Corps ads say "Life Is Calling. How Far Will You Go?" Ironically, life is calling. And I'm answering. I'm not only willing, but able to go... even further.

Once upon a time...

...in a land far, far away, there was a girl. This girl was quite particular, but thought it unfair to ask others to cater to this finicky nature so she was quite self-reliant. She had her own way of living and doing things. People found it 'quirky' but highly respectable.

She lived and worked and studied with great seriousness. Every room in the house had a half read book in it. Even the kitchen was lined with cookbooks. When she walked into the local independent video store, the clerks addressed her by name and pointed other customers to her for advice. She worked out, she cooked, she read, she relaxed. She was a good and loyal friend, especially to those close to her. Though often late to arrive at work, she was often late to leave as well. Hired to do one thing, she quickly found greater problems and challenges and soon found herself juggling multiple projects, advising her superiors and managing structural changes. Every moment of the day was a multi-tasking moment and this left her feeling like she'd had a full day's work and could go home in good conscience.

Then, a major decision, a pile of paperwork and an international flight later she found herself in another land. Few books were read. Few movies watched. Limited local ingredients restricted culinary experimentations. Gyms were small and with questionable equipment. The solid divide once separating work and life faded. Work was everywhere and nowhere. As was life. Suddenly there was no control over any major life factor. 'Accept' or 'do not' were the only choices.

The girl once known for making colleagues laugh at the drop of a hat, whipping people into shape and routinely thinking outside the proverbial box (rumor was that she actually couldn't think IN it) was no longer that girl. The light in her eyes diminished a bit, as did her humor and her spirit. Compromise after compromise - over values, integrity, professionalism, quality - meant she felt less and less whole. Less and less content. Less and less quirky. Less and less respectable. Less and less like herself.

'Accept' or 'do not'... those are indeed the choices.

Binding ties

We all do it. We set up rules in our lives. Things we see as good signs or bad signs. Things that make someone right or wrong. Deal-sealers and deal-breakers. One thing I've learned to be weary of is people who use the following phrase: I knew you'd understand. This is a phrase often used by Person A on Person B (someone who cares about Person A) signifying that Person A was given a choice between Person B and someone (or thing) less loving/understanding and chose the lesser of the two. It's a phrase that most often means: I shat upon you because I knew you'd take it.

Humans have this unfortunate way of hurting those they love and care about the most - dumping on the people they know will take it. They may appreciate their support system all the more for standing by in the "tough" times, but there's only so much shit a person can take before they start to resent it and slowly back away. People dole it out because they can, often not stopping to realize that it is because you can, that you shouldn't. Unfortunately, fan clubs aren't built and popularity contests aren't won by shitting on people who won't take it. Shit-giving is the anti-prize for love and loyalty.

Three women. Three crises. One day. One issue. Family. 'Family' is Latin for "those who love to shit upon one another." 'Relatives' being "those who are selfish or self-centered and who often do things with little regard for the impact upon others in the family." Mostly people just give what they are used to receiving - things marketed and sold to them under the brand of Love. Chalk the cycle up to brand loyalty. I know so many adults who, once you get to know them, have tons of insecurities and triggers in unlikely places all thanks to the TLC of their loving families. While it's true we would have far exceeded the baggage weight limit if we'd checked in our emotional baggage, we'd have also never passed the medical exam if our emotional scars were obvious. Cut veins, track marks, bruises, broken bones, torn muscles, swollen joints. All the things we've been put through are so obvious under the right light. All things done for people we love. All things we're so glad others rarely take the time to notice. 'Adults' is Latin for "those well schooled in the art of pain disguise."

I wonder if it's a commonality just among the people I befriend or if it is more general: that of feeling orphaned at some point in your life. As if your family had other, better things to do. The point where something thinks "I'm all alone now" even though they are surrounded by 'family.' It's usually brought on by a death - perhaps literal, perhaps more figurative. Death of will, of interest, of strength, of courage, of joy, of passion. The point where there is no more giving or comfort or security... and certainly no joy in it. It's gone. Gone for good. In the living, you can see it in their eyes - life becomes too much and a certain blankness takes over. A blankness that can suck the life out of everyone around the person, especially offspring. A parent's own need for more or less, their anger or fear or cowardice, their own limitations - these things can smother a child well past childhood and become a role reversal, one where the children are expected to nurture the parents. Parents who are often not enough are just as often, though in different ways, too much. Depletion and exhaustion have successfully recycled themselves.

Talking to others about their own families, especially their parental problems, has helped my own to resurface. Black and blue, bloody and sore I see my old wounds have not yet healed. I keep trying to be understanding, but I've been asked to do that for far too long.

Sunday, the adjective

Without a doubt, Sunday is my favorite day of the week.

When I was young it meant large homemade breakfasts and/or even bigger dinners with family and family friends. I could be busy with school or work and excuse myself from nearly anything I wanted, but absence from Sunday dinner would require a terminal, jaw-locking, immobilizing illness. Even then, I think Mom would have found a way to make it happen. Sunday was a family institution.

In New York, Sunday meant brunches and indie films and art museums and long walks. Well, it did when I was feeling social and left the house for more than the 30 min it took to grab a bagel, coffee and the NYT - at which point it involved said bagel, coffee and NYT; NPR, nap(s), and long phone conversations with distant friends and family. Sunday was my personal, temporary, sleepy nirvana.

Here, Sunday means any number of things. It's often gobbled by bus rides back from a weekend visiting a friend. It's one reason I've come to hate to travel (that and my new, shiny cheapness). Traveling means Sunday disappears. When I do it right, it still involves some version of my old habits - brunches (though not with friends and not with a bottomless coffee cup), NYT (though online, which isn't nearly as enjoyable or... corporeal), family and good friends (though online chats replace phone-based ones). There are no bagels, few - if any - phone calls, no art museums, no indie films. And, until today (when a friend simply emailed my lazy ass the webcast link) no NPR.

Sunday, while populated with quirky hobbies and semi-traditions, is so much more. It's a state of mind. Something that releases and replenishes. It's not just about food, but food that fills you in a way that means you aren't looking for something to eat again for most of the day. It's salty and sweet, spicy and bitter, crunchy and smooth, cold and hot, creamy and fruity. Sunday friends aren't just people to pass the time with or people who simply want to shoot the breeze or people who want you to join them in whatever mental state they are in. They're people who do pass the time with you and can shoot the breeze and who will share what mental state they are in, but not expect you to rush over to it. They most often find a calm point between you and them and settle there, even if only for the day. In person it's a drifting from independently reading the paper or a book to sharing thoughts about the reading material to sincerely connecting and reconnecting - in small and large things alike. It's a flow that is easy and easily achieved. It's calming.

Somehow I always felt like I left Sundays more intelligent, more interesting, more informed. I knew more about the people in my life, more about my world, more about art and expression. I felt bigger and newly centered. I felt revived.

Some people are the "let's go" Monday types, the "gotta work" Tuesdays, the "just getting started" Wednesdays, the "still truckin'" Thursday, the "done!" Fridays or the "freebird" Saturdays. I' m more of a "tea and sympathy" Sunday.

People. Thoughts. Thoughtfulness. Coziness. Pajamas. Coffee. Bloody Marys. "Prarie Home Companion." Dozing. Quiet and lazy. So very Sunday.

Saturday night

Home on a Saturday night. This doesn't bother me - in fact, given the local options and general social nature of other volunteers, it's rather nice.

What bothers me is that I have no water, my internet is being flaky and my electricity is flickering.

I suppose it's rustic and adventurous or something.

It just reminds me that I have a lot of control issues... problems being patient... anger issues.

As a friend says "abandonment called." I wouldn't know, I assume the phone is not working as well.

It ends not with a bang, but a whimper

Suddenly it went from 9am to 11pm. A to-do list barely tackled. A day I can barely account for. Piles of Christmas cards that need to be filled out. Over 200 messages in my inbox. Projects to write. Research to do. Calls to make. Connections to maintain. Where does time go?

While I am often good at beating the clock and getting things done (even if only barely under the wire), I still lack basic time management skills. In a fast-paced environment where I have no choice but to move, move, move I do. But given the choice to move or not and I almost always choose: not. It's not one of my most flattering traits and something I still struggle to overcome and decipher. Part is I am much more externally driven than I like to admit. Part is that I like structure and keep it well (until I get bored and break it all to hell... but that's another entry). Part is that... part is that I am a horrible, horrible daydreamer. Some is just classic, cliche procrastination and some is that I am... I'm... I'm a premature evaluator. It's true. I do a poor job of hiding it. There it is. Yesterday I spent an hour looking at personalized notecards. Why? Because I said that as soon as I found myself a "permanent" place (in my world meaning one that I didn't plan to leave before moving in) that I'd buy myself some. So, seeing how I'll be living in the States in, oh, 12 months, it's a fine time to start looking. Crane's has a nice site and good designs, fyi.

Work is busy and yet not. A pending large project proposal will likely eat my next two weeks. I am not happy about this - it's a good project and my organization can do it but... poor planning on their part has meant an emergency on mine. This pisses me off. At the same time my building receptionist/door person has decided that her son needs English help. They should teach a class on getting Bulgarians, especially Bulgarian women, to understand "no." I mean, I tried. I even made my Bulgarian worse than it really is (which is a SKILL, I tell you). It didn't work. Again, her poor planning = my time crunch. My other job depends on the verdict of a project proposal, but for now I just uncomfortably wait and worry what to do if it doesn't come through.

All of these happy events are added to me trying to finish a humor writing course. My life was fairly dead - and even fairly amusing - until I paid $400 to use free time and be amusing. Now, I can't seem to do either. Part is that whole time management thing. Part is that after dealing with projects and logistics all day, a girl can feel really uninteresting, uncreative and unfunny. In fact, I am feeling very "un" lately overall. Part is that when I'm supposed to do something, I suddenly don't want to. For example, I read Foreign Affairs for fun, until I took a class that made me read it - then I read everything and anything else but that. (How can one girl be externally driven AND not like authority so much that she stubbornly ignores it even when it asks her to do something she already likes? Now you're getting to understand me more... or not.) Part is that if someone tells me to think of something funny my brain immediately produces the saddest event I can recall. My brain is a real brat like that - only it's a clever brat and I've not quite learned how to trick it into producing specific things on command. I can write... just not with humor. This is an issue.

My day ends with me entering a restless night where I'll think about all the things I need to do, want to do, should do, could do, might do, won't do, will do... and what kind of sofa I'll buy for my new apartment next year. I'm thinking something bold and funky, though my notecards will be more classic.