Home Sweet Home

What's that you say, darling? Weren't you just escaping your 'prison' for the last two weeks? Yes, yes I was.

My dear readers, followers, friends, and stalkers I thank you for hanging tight during my times of tribulation. I must admit, I have deleted the post which describes in detail my melt down approximately two weeks ago. I thought it was wise to do so for two reasons. One, my country director sort of asked me to and two, well... it was really just one I guess. At first I edited some parts out, and then I thought "shiiiiiiiit, delete". I could see his point, reiterated by others that it would bring shame to my community and could be misinterpreted. One of the things I reflected on heavily while taking my little mental health vacation was what did I come here to do? Certainly, it was not to bring negative attention to the people I live and work with.

I thought long and hard about this, spoke for probably a total of 20 hours with different friends about the topic. Why am I here? What was I seeking? It's so easy to get lost in the romance of living abroad, meeting new friends, etc. I lost my way, I lost sight of my intentions and it's been a great relief to be back in my original mindset. I have always viewed service, or self imposed hardships as an opportunity for self cleansing. Through altruism, we can see the bigger picture and better understand our own purpose in life. I have been wrestling with the idea that one of my larger expectations from before coming has been a huge disappointment. I had it made up, that where ever I ended up serving, I would become enlightened or have some huge epiphany that while different and unorthodox, this new community's way of operating in this world had merit. This doesn't mean I hate Armenian culture. There are many things that I enjoy. I feel guilty even admitting this is the way I feel.

But yesterday, as I walked up the steps toward the train station which leads me to my village's bus I realized I was going home. In that moment I knew, the dread that had resided in the bottom of my belly was gone. Let's rewind a few days backward. I was sitting in Chris's bathtub -in the dark- seeking answers or meditating. Last April, I participated in a women's retreat in Pennsylvania recommended to me by my therapist at the time. For a while, I was really good about utilizing some of the tools we'd been given to cope / heal. It's been a long time since I returned to any of that stuff. I decided in Chris's bathroom to start with the very first guided meditation.

Now, I don't think I can properly describe what it is or what I saw, but what I realized and concluded was that my sense of well being or 'happiness' was shattered months ago. It was in the start of my actual service (after training) that the idea I'd been clinging to as my thread of hope and love became obsolete. He was the bandage I'd been using to protect a very old wound, and it got ripped off. I was unhappy. I have been unhappy, deeply sad and lonely for the last six months. Can you imagine? REALIZING that you are unhappy? It sounds so odd, but it's the truth. With that, it became clear that my reaction to uncomfortable situations in the host family, with the director and my counterpart and other PCVs is deeply tied to this other thing that I've been ignoring. It was then I understood that a house with painted walls and wood floors and a nice bathroom is not going to make me happy. If anything, these things that I have with the host family have kept me lulled into happiness. I like the blue walls, I love their shower, I like being taken care of even more. But ultimately, a couple layers below the surface this discontent remains. And so maybe praying that whatever gods may be give me a nice house was short sighted. In a way I think I need to take the unfinished house. It is shelter. I can cook there and entertain there and sleep there. There are walls, a roof, a bed and a kitchen. So, I will continue to rely on my host family for showers. SO WHAT. It could be worse, this could be my actual life.  As my brother Andrew pointed out, there are poor families in America who spend their whole lives relying on others for something so much as a shower.

If there's something I'm extremely good at, it's pretending that everything is okay when it is not. My moment of reckoning came two weeks ago on the phone with an older volunteer. She powerfully blew away the smoke and smashed the mirrors, revealing my unhappiness. Only, I couldn't tell where it was coming from. It took two weeks away, cooking nice meals for loved ones and new friends, a cry outside the bar with a new friend, an international conversation with an old friend, 3 hour long baths, and a ridiculous amount of coffee and writing to get back to good.

I am on my two feet again, eyes and heart wide open.


Song Of The Week: Ben Howard - Keep Your Head Up
Quote Of The Week: "Wait, isn't that the place with the serial killings?"
                                   "What can I say? It's a convenient place to bury people."
                                    "Oh my god, Carolyn."
                                   "Whatever, it's a great beach is all I'm saying."

Purging

For the last couple of months I have been living back home with my parents in Babylon, NY. This week the roof was being entirely re-done, so last week we had to get the attic prepared for the 'demolition' (as the contractor and my mother were so very fond of saying). Most people accumulate a lot of objects that over time pile up in their attics. I often feel like we have a excessive amount of 'things'. I love her dearly and mean no harm when I say this, but my mother has trouble getting rid of objects with sentimental value and she could give a penny sentimental value. A good amount of the boxes were from my brother's and my childhood. I took the opportunity to go through all the keepsakes that have been collecting dust and purge a great majority of them.

It took some time getting through everything I had, because (and I hate to admit this) I too, have some trouble letting go of things. This is partly because I fascinate myself. I have written in journals for as long as I could put sentences together and hate to part with them. When I was packing for college, I brought with me journals from the last couple years. I say some pretty profound shit, if you hadn't realized that yet. I will often read old entries and can find humor in my omniscient attitude or downright absurd notions about life. Journal writing is such a constant, that I have at least one notebook and several pens on my person at all times. 

Saying that I am introspective is an understatement, obsessive is probably closer to the truth. I have been reflective my entire life, examining my feelings and trying to understand or 'figure out' those I'm surrounded by. This annoys most, especially if I hit the nail on the head. Over the weekend a close friend of mine, that is friends with not only myself but my brothers as well (and has been dating one of my very good friends for the last 8 or 9 years),  told me that I did this to him once. I (apparently) pointed out that he was depressed, or unsatisfied, with his current day to day. I don't recall this particular conversation, but it was significant enough to him that it's become a sort of emotional landmark. When recalling it, he explained that at the time it had seriously pissed him off. Who was I to make such a judgment? Now, he views it as the verbal wake up slap that was the beginning of a purposeful change. As you might imagine, I was ego-tripping on this piece of information for a solid 24 hrs. 

It is so easy to unconsciously slip into a routine that is seemingly not, but still unsatisfying. Even though depression is no longer the taboo that it once was, it's still not entirely acceptable or understood. Sometimes, you need to be told you are depressed before you consider it a possibility. Men in particular have trouble admitting or owning depression, as it's seen as being weak willed. Also, many people think being depressed means staying in bed all day, not spending time with friends, moping around twenty four seven and in general being a Debbie Downer. This is not always the case. My friend wasn't having this expected experience of depression. He was still spending time with friends, his girlfriend, doing the same old. Yet, he wasn't being challenged intellectually, and as an intelligent man, it was a necessary part of the equation. There was something missing and it kept him from feeling like his most complete self. His experience was not that everything seemed dull or that life wasn't worth living, but that there was a vacancy. This is often how I see or experience depression, which is probably why I recognized it in him.  

Case in point, the last year of my life. So much happened and changed in the course of one week last April, that the very overwhelming nature of it caused parts of myself to hibernate. My introspective self, the knowing voice that makes good decisions and is most authentic, was so deeply hurt that I simply ignored it. I went on auto-pilot, I wasn't sad, I didn't cry, I laughed with friends and went about my life. But I had nightmares, gained weight that I'd dutifully kept off for several years and developed pain in my body. It wasn't until I came home that there was no escaping the truth of how I was affected. At first, all that meant was stepping on the scale and looking in the mirror. The first step was seeing and then admitting it. I become so absorbed by the discomfort within my body, the pain was getting worse and I wasn't working out regularly. I had stomach pains for a month straight until I decided it was time to address these issues. It is only in the last two months that I've had the courage and strength to feel anything besides physical pain.

I started therapy again, started seeing a chiropractor with a holistic approach and getting acupuncture. Five weeks later and I am feeling so much lighter, seeing more clearly and crying like a baby regularly. 

But hey, how else am I supposed to purge? 

Back to the attic for a moment: While going through my boxes I found a notebook from 5th or 6th grade. As part of an exploration unit, we were asked to name people we thought would make good explorers and a reason why. Of course, I put myself on that list because, "No matter how far away from home, I will never be homesick". Oh Peace Corps, my love, my destiny! I await you eagerly!! 

The Weight

     These next 5 to 8 business days, while I await my assignment,  are going to be some of the longest of my life. It's been a long road thus far with lots of emotional ups and downs. With this blog, I'm not exactly sure (yet) how personal I want to get. My close friends know that there are few things which constitute as personal or 'private' information. My life experiences have taught me that (in most situations) honesty and openness bring only understanding and sympathy. Oddly, in American culture, many of us have been taught to deny sympathy - that having a person's sympathy deems you weak. My fascination with American culture, on an emotional level, is partly why I was drawn to serve in the Peace Corps.
     I grew up on the south shore of Long Island, New York in a town with a strong community. Proud Babylonians, we are. I was lucky enough to have two older brothers ahead of me in school, making me proud to be a Rodgers. "You know my big brothers, right? Yea, they play football, they're corner backs- ya know - the most athletic position on the team?". I excelled in my own areas as well, but I bragged about my big brothers to what I imagine was an annoying extent. Whatever. My close girlfriends and I have always agreed that above all else, growing up in Babylon gave us a real sense of identity. I realize now that our experience was not the same for everyone. That we came from stable homes and our greatest worries were about our clothes or what parties to go to. That if we did screw up, or get caught, the punishment would not be as harsh because we weren't 'problematic' for teachers and administration alike. Teachers liked, respected and favored us, and because of this we had a leg up when it came to getting into colleges. Teacher recommendations? No problem. Community Service hours? Duh.
     This bubble was burst pretty quickly upon arriving at Providence College. For the first time I was faced with actual conflict. The people I had once put so much trust and value in were beginning to feel foreign to me. My sense of identity was lost. I made friends with people who would distract me from the awful things I thought about myself. Even though I am not too far removed from my four years at Providence College, about 2.5 years, I couldn't be further from there. Sometimes I look back and am amazed at the fact that I managed to graduate on time, with a 3.2 considering what I was going through at the time. College was not a party for me, to say the least. I probably would have been in the Peace Corps earlier, but at the time I needed to focus on more pressing issues. I won't be so cliche as to say 'everything happens for a reason', but things certainly unfolded in a way that allowed me to be fully prepared for my upcoming challenge.
     As mentioned in my last post, it took quite a while to become medically cleared due to my own idiocy. That's partly true but more than anything else it was procrastination. Early in the application process it's asked whether or not you have sought mental health counseling. I answered yes. I could have answered no, because it never went through insurance (meaning it was not on my medical record). When my medical packet arrived it included a 6 page form to be filled out by my last counsellor. At this point it had been about a year and a half since I had last seen her. And as I said, I was already in a very different place emotionally.  Due to Providence College policy, on campus counselors are restricted from seeing non-students, even alumni. (A poor practice in my opinion). Essentially, she was unable to speak on behalf of my current status.
     The moment I saw her review my heart sank, I thought it was over. When I spoke to my medical assistant she informed me that this wasn't the end; that they would most likely ask that I get an updated review so that I may be fully cleared. I jumped on it and made an appointment through my PPO. For anyone who has been in counseling or tried it out (more so you folks), you know full well that some doctors just don't work for you. Their approach and practice is not one that helps. My original experience with counseling was not so, which is why it greatly benefitted me. The next time around, in the dead of winter (and we all remember how awful the snow was in New England) when all I wanted was to be at home soaking in a bath tub, I sat in a cold awkward disheveled  office of a woman whose first language wasn't English ( all that I am implying is there was a communication issue) and was made to feel that there was no hope. That my future was bleak because I would never be able "to cope with such trauma without professional help". It was a devastatingly huge set back for me. I wanted to cry but I punched a snow bank that ended up being a sheet of ice and not powder, instead.
     Thankfully, my family was fully aware of my past and was horrified, like me, of the language this particular counselor choose. My father decided he would take matters into his own hands ( yes, I am 'daddy's little girl'). We tried to get doctor recommendations from close friends and family hoping that whomever I saw would be more sensitive to my individual needs. Also, someone that would take all things into consideration - particularly, how badly I wanted this opportunity. Unfortunately, nothing worked out and by April I decided I needed to go back to the PPO and try again. Along came Dr. Silverstein (for anyone seeking counseling in the Boston/ Cambridge area I HIGHLY recommend her) and my hopes were reignited. After three sessions she gave me an amazing review and I felt a little closer to the finish line.


    I fought so hard to make it through this part. It forced me to readdress some lingering issues that I admit were things I wanted to put behind me in joining the Peace Corps. A lot of folks will assume that someone who willingly leaves their family and friends for two years, to a place that's not easily accessible, is trying to run away from something. Those folks are the same ones whom also share a dark history. And you know what? They're right, I did want to be removed from certain people and places that I feel will only keep me stuck in old, unhealthy habits. There is no shame in trying to move forward and beyond a painful experience. But there is a right and a wrong way to do so; and at first I was walking a path that was somewhere in between. What I realized is that the experiences which are so painful we'd rather forget them, are the ones that characterize who we are as people. More importantly, this same fact implies nothing about your character. It does not mean you are broken, damaged, unlovable or that you have something to hide. All that it means is you were altered by that experience and if you do deal with it appropriately- you will begin to heal. The healing process is a life long one and there will be set backs. I leave you with a quote from the novel Bitter In The Mouth by Monique Truong that spoke to me while I fought to get cleared:

Disappoint. When I saw the word written, I thought of it first and foremost as the combining or the collapsing together of the words 'disappear' and 'point', as in how something in us ceased to exist the moment someone let us down. Small children understood this better than adults, this irreparable diminution of the self that occurred at each instance. Large and small, of someone forgetting a promise, arriving late, losing interest, leaving too soon, and otherwise making us feel like a fool. That was why children, in the face of disappointments, large and small, were so quick to cry and scream, often throwing their bodies to the ground as if their tiny limbs were on fire. That was a good instinct. We, the adults or the survivors of our youth, traded in instinct for a societal norm. We stayed calm. We swallowed hurt. We forgave the infraction. We ignored that our skin was on fire. We became our own fools. Sometimes, when we were very successful, we forgot entirely the memory of the disappointment. The loss that resulted, of course, could not be undone. What was done was done. We just could no longer remember how we ended up with so much less of our selves. Why we expected nothing, why we deserved so little, and why we brought strangers into our lives to fill the void.