We Feel Fine

Check this out, people.

Presenting “exploration of humans through the artifacts they leave behind on the Web.”

The idea of having an online database of every human emotion is truly mind-blowing.

Apparently this thing has been “harvesting human feelings from a large number of weblogs. Every few minutes, the system searches the world's newly posted blog entries for occurrences of the phrases "I feel" and "I am feeling". When it finds such a phrase, it records the full sentence, up to the period, and identifies the "feeling" expressed in that sentence (e.g. sad, happy, depressed, etc.).” Just imagine how many “I feels” it would extract just from this one blog only!

Interesting that it targets “I feels”. I wish I could get my hands on the Dorris Lessing passage from the Golden Notebook explaining how when writing about a particular feeling and emotion, we tend to make objective a very subjective emotion by phrasing it with an “I feel…” The passage goes on to describe the difference between “I am sad” vs. “I feel sad.” And I have to agree that there’s a pretty tangible difference between these two. I hope I can find that passage in the next couple of days, but for now the link will have to suffice, since I have laundry that needs to be done, a couple of runs that need to be ran, a room that needs to be cleaned and several hours of doing absolutely nothing to be enjoyed. However, comments on the aforementioned “I feel” vs. “I am sad” will be greatly appreciated and even rewarded.

Untitled thoughts are better than whimpering

I was going to write a whiny and whimpering post affected by the overall hazed stupor that proceeded the trip to Boston, mixed with feeling of sadness and ambivalence split between “I need to get out or Richmond” and “I wish I didn’t have to leave” (ambivalence indeed is a complete bitch, I have to say). However, after Tamara’s comment (and I greatly thank you for it) and receiving yet another small grant/award from my fellow Armenians who labeled me as “promising”, I am going to hold the whimpering and simply let myself be excited for having such an opportunity to experience something that I will never experience elsewhere in life – that of graduate school. I am, after all, a sucker for experience, if for nothing else, at least for the sheer sake of the experience itself.

So, no whimpering for now. Instead here’s miscellaneous “to-do” list for the next few weeks, until August and everything after comes.

• Blog a little more, sulk a little less…

• Try to eat better, and by saying this I do not imply eating more or eating less, or even healthier than I do now (ok, maybe, just a little bit). Despite the fact that I’m relatively more or less healthy eater, my diet of late has been so mundane and monotonous that the idea of food is staring to become tediously boring, while my attitude towards it is nothing but apathetic. Once a favorite activity, grocery shopping has become a chore, my past enthusiasm for cooking has sizzled down to almost non-existent, interesting dishes have been replaced with what- takes- little- to- no- time- to-cook meals consisting largely of pre-made and frozen i-wonder-if-its-even-food meals. For the past four months, I’ve been eating nothing but frozen waffles with peanut butter for breakfast, my fruit consumption has been reduced to a random apple or a banana every once in a while, and yes, I’m not eating enough of the “green stuff.” And if you let me, I will simply live off of Panera Bread, but that’s only because it’s within a couple of blocks from my house. Although I love the fact that I no longer have to do the extensive list making, planning, careful portioning and balancing my meals, and can intuitively choose what to eat and when, I do feel that a little variety in my overly repetitive “menu” would cheer me up, to say the least.

• Try to run more consistently, which given the heat and humidity of Virginia summer is much harder than it sounds. The only time I can run these days is very early in the mornings, and yes, I’ve been neglecting on sleep lately as well. The planned “I’ll run a 10k distance by the end of June” has to be delayed until a later date – either when Richmond magically cools down before August, or I move to much “cooler” but less pretty area.

• Try to find a water body body of water of some kind during this summer and see if I can remember how to swim – the irony being that I once was a long distance swimmer covering up to 6km a day, but honestly it’s been a very long time since I’ve done a full lap in a 50m pool.

• Find a new Dave Matthews song to fall in love with – something similar to Oh and Captain. As much as I like these two songs, I find most of Dave Matthews stuff a little too busy for me, but there’s got to be another song somewhere out there that is close to the sound and is just as melodic and summery as these other two.

• Find shoes for the wedding dress dress for the wedding, cause despite the ridiculous number of shoes sitting in my closet, none of them will do – ideas and suggestions are more than welcome.

• Upload pictures to a flikr, since lately I’m very dissatisfied with how The Tale of the Cities looks. It is getting way too crowded by pictures that make drastically different cities look almost alike and deviates from the original concept, which was simply to show snapshots with certain elements of urban living.

• Speaking of cities – start the city project and gather up the courage to ask the fellow bloggers if they’d like to contribute.

• Read less celebrity gossip (I’ve sunken this low – since when did I start to care?) and read the Economist! Yes, the Economist and read it as if my entire life depends on it. Because I cannot stress enough how important, vital and urgent reading this magazine is.

• Make a list of everything that makes me happy and everything that I am grateful for and hold on to the feeling of gratitude instead of whimpering. Cause seriously, it is very unsightly.

A very brief brief on Boston and a couple of other noteworthy thoughts…

May I just say that I simply loved Boston? Although the fact that the previous statement is a gross understatement, I should stop myself from further elaboration, since everything that I could possibly say would be based on first-glance impression and would not be anything new or anything better than good old wikipedia and a few of many other sources do not already say.

On the contrary, Waltham, a town about 10 miles from Boston, where Brandeis is located, did not look as appealing to me, neither at first, not at second or even third glance – although it did resemble Charlottesville a bit, but its shabbier, more working class version – a beat up, almost dying industrial town, kind of gloomy and depressing, especially on a cloudy day that casts that eerie feeling over the city and it starts making a complete sense why witches once inhabited the place back in the day (ok, I know, Salem is the place, but close enough, close enough indeed).

I did, however, like the university campus. I also love, loved, loved my new landlady, with who I immediately clicked, as we got engaged in an hour long conversation that made it clear that I liked her beyond our shared political beliefs and overall niceness. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m really starved for genuine female companionship, but there was something warm, open and motherly about her that was so comforting right from the beginning. The best to describe her would be something between the Wise Witch and Mother Sugar, so from now on, for future references I will call her Mother Sugar. By the end of our conversation we both admitted our liking of each other, a nine month lease was signed, deposit paid, move in date established, and I got a nice, furnished bedroom in a house full of books on feminism and Jewish history, all kinds of artsy and new-agey knick-knacks, and a baby grand piano sitting in the living room.

The proximity of Waltham to Boston with a less than twenty minute commuter train ride makes the thought of living in a small town a lot more bearable, although I cringe when thinking about coming winter and prepare myself for the worst, regardless the fact that most of my life was spent in harsh mountainous climate of the Caucasus, four years of which without electricity, heat or running water.

The three day trip went wonderfully well, birthday boy was pleased and enjoyed himself and Boston as much as I did, some awesome and not so awesome pictures were shot and the whole idea of the move started to look a lot more real and tangible.

And yet, like it has happened every time I’ve been away from Richmond, it felt so good to come back, good like you'd feel coming back home and once again I realized how much I really truly love Richmond and just how sad I’m going to be when it’s time for me to leave… A long, drawn-out lament that’s been looming for the past few days will be coming soon, so bear with me…

Washington, D.C.

As much as I like Richmond and as much as I feel at home here and can actually see myself living here a perpetuity, there are moments when I feel like I let myself get too engrossed with this place and forget or rather miss out on the world that’s outside the city limits. But then, I get restless like that in any place that I spend enough time to feel settled in, hence the constant urge to go, see, explore whatever it is that’s outside of my immediate surroundings.

The trip to DC was really refreshing. The train ride itself was short, rather pleasant, scenic farmlands and greeneries briefly interrupted by suburban fakeness of Northern Virginia close to the end, until the train hit D.C. with Washington Monument and the top of Jefferson Memorial showing up right there, in the train window.

Other than a short encounter with someone I used to know in the past, I was mostly on my own. With nothing but a camera and a map, which I didn’t even look at, until it was time for me to find my way back to the train station. Alone, on my own, and I have to tell you that there is something very “liberating” about setting foot in a place you’ve never been before, free to wander wherever you want, with no destination in mind and no one to stop you on your way, to draw attention to this or that or the other.

I really liked DC. The supposedly awe inspiring monuments, government buildings and monstrous museums apart, I did like the little snipped that I saw during my few hour visit. I have noticed that when in a new and unfamiliar place, I am not really all that interested in seeing the sights and experiencing whatever is it the place has to offer its visitors. After all, having been a tour guide in my own country myself, full of its own magnificent sights and historic monuments, I’ve come to realize that the sightseeing itself tells little to nothing about the place and the life of people who live there. In hopes of getting the “feel” of any city, I try to blend in with people who live there, wander around neighborhoods, try to sneak a peek at what the ordinary, everyday life is like… And for some reason, that little activity, the observation of the outsider seems more fulfilling than wasting my time posing in front of one phallic figure or another…

This may sound nothing, but ignorant, but I really, truly had no interest in the touristy stuff that people visiting D.C., the capital of the United States, usually end up doing. I figured I’d always have a chance to do that part, if not sooner, at least later, when I’m taking my own kids to D.C. on a field trip. Besides, I really did not care one way or another where the government resides and where all the important executive decisions are made (the same about the government of my own country, if this is of any excuse). At the same time, despite the fact that I would have enjoyed visiting some of the museums, I had way too little time to see even a single exhibit properly, and I could either get lost in the galleries of Smithsonian and see none of the city at all, or try to see more of the city and leave the museums for later. And I chose the latter, figuring that the museums could wait , together with postcard worthy snapshots. And because I still was able to get a glimpse of the “stuff” on my way from the train station to wherever it was that I ended up, and so that I can say that I’ve been there, seen that, I got a few, not very successful shots that you can see here.

So I steered away from the crowds of screaming kids in matching t-shirt and started walking towards what eventually brought me to Dupont Circle. Stopped, got lunch, sat outside of a coffee shop (not Starbucks – the outside patios of the four Starbuckes that I passed on my way were packed), and watched the crowd. And the weekend crowd of the Dupont Circle is… um, lets say, rather colorful. So I sat, and watched, and daydreamed about some day in the future that I’ll get to live here. I would, in fact, really like to experience the everyday life of D.C., if not for long, at least long enough to get that “insider feeling” of this place that I came to really truly like. Maybe soon, say next summer, if I’m lucky enough to get a summer internship here. Or maybe shortly after I get out of school, to joint the army of freshly starched and graduated, still clueless and pushy “young professionals.”

For now, all I can say about my day trip is that I went to D.C. and all I got was a few lousy snapshots of the Dupont Circle. I really wish I had a better camera. Or knew how to take pictures that can capture not only visual snapshots, but the vibe and the mood, and the sounds and smells of a place, any place, cause the pictures I got hardly show what a busy and colorful experience I had in D.C.

Wrapping it all up

to lighten it up a bit - it was hot like hell here in Richmond today, the first one of many many days like this to come. Mek, yerkus and yerek (what we call squirrels in my neighborhood - which is calling them by Armenian numerals) went literally nuts - and the ones in my neighborhood are a little way too crazy thanks to a neighbor who has nothing else to do but talk to them for hours at a time and feed them peanuts. Hence the nutty squirrels who are almost always about to jump on you in expectation to be fed or when deranged by extreme heat.

I survived yet another week, won the first one of the scholarships i applied to (a modest sum, but hey, winning it is a reward in itself regardless the amount), finally got to figure out the accounting for a trust fund and am headed to DC first thing tomorrow morning for a day trip i'm taking on my own, in hopes to return safe and soundly in one piece with lots and lots of new pictures and hopefully not as many adventures. I have to admit that i am just as excited about discovering the US railroad as the trip itself.

And to throw in a non sequitur in here just because i can - a few grains of wisdom learned for today - a carrot is as close as the rabbit gets to a diamond - how's that for the end?

Practice makes master

or my measly attempt to comment back to Chi.

I have to admit, this is a hard one to comment back on, mostly because, even if I can see a lot of truth in what Chi has got to say, I find it hard to completely agree with it, so I am somewhat split in trying to figure out what to say, and how to say what I want to say without having to sound either overly wishy-washy on one hand, and dry and cynical on the other.

It makes complete sense that it’s much easier to choose not to get angry, to consciously avoid anger, or reject it completely in the first place, which is what I try to do, otherwise I would not have survived at the jobs I’ve had for as long as I did. However, for some reason, it’s harder to do it with people that you love and as negative a feeling as anger is, it actually indicates to nothing more or less than the fact that you care. People who you love most, hurt you most and the only explanation I have been able to come up with both in the past and right now is because you care. Because you love them. Because they’re important. Because you in that relationship are important. Because the relationship itself is important, and because the other one is not merely just another guy who you met at a bar and took home with you for a night, to part ways the next morning without having a second thought or a single sigh of regret.

“Real love is love with no strings attached. When there is attachment, there are expectations. And when there are expectations, there are disappointments, pain and anger…”

Love in itself is unattached, free, unconditional, without contingencies, without any logical explanations, it’s there, just because. However, love is not the only thing that’s important in a relationship. It takes a whole lot more than love to build a relationship, to make it work and last. Attachment. Attachment is important. To build a relationship is to grow attachments. You grow into someone, into the relationship and let them grow into you. You’re still you, you’re not a second half of something, but you’re attached. And perhaps that’s one of the most important things that makes a relationship so much worth it. This fearless, open, unrestrained attachment that I have come to really and truly appreciate.

I used to think that nothing good would ever come out of attachment. That attachment created dependency and I dreaded my own dependency to others in any shape and form as much as I dreaded others’ dependency on me. Most of my conscious and adult life I’ve been striving to be free and independent with an almost compulsive, sickly obsessive urge. Being independent in every possible meaning of the world was perhaps the most important thing for me. And yet, not all that long ago, after I had proved to myself and everyone else around me over and over again that I was, in fact, a free and independent human being, I suddenly realized that this almost delirious obsession with being independent was nothing but a cover-up for a very deep and well hidden fear – the fear of rejection. I used to think that if I put myself under someone else’s care, if I as much as let myself become even a bit dependent on someone other than myself, I would make myself vulnerable and inevitably end up being hurt, disappointed and rejected. Likewise, if I got attached to someone, and if that someone ended up leaving, the amount of pain inflicted upon me would be impossible to bear. That I’d rather choose distanced, calculated “exchanges” with people around me, rather than opening up and letting myself get attached. IN A WORLD AS TERRIBLE AS THIS LIMIT EMOTIONS. Which would result in this and this and subsequent bitterness and quasi-real, unemotional existence. Emotions are there for a reason. They are to be felt through fully and ambiguously, because the only other alternative to it is death. Because emotions are what make you alive and human…

This obsession with being free, independent, unattached has never let me be completely open in the past and learn what I perhaps value most at this point – trust. Trust is unconditional and free. It’s an absolute. It’s either there or not, you either trust someone (yourself included) or you don’t. However, there is always a risk that you will be let down, rejected, disappointed and hurt when you choose to trust. But you do it anyway, unconsciously or consciously, because what you gain in return is so much better compared to the only other alternative that you have – this shielded, guarded, detached and calculated exchange with everything and everyone around you.

A relationship is your conscious decision to trust someone. When you get into a relationship, there is always that risk that you will end up getting hurt. Not necessarily because the other person is out there to screw you over, use you or hurt you, but because there’s always that risk when you choose to be open. Without attachment there is no relationship, it’s merely a thing, a fling, which does, in fact, have it’s certain advantages, but is uninvolved, uncomplicated, fun and most of the time lets you get out of it emotionally unaffected. Relationship, on the other hand, is about attachment. When you get into a relationship, you inevitably, consciously or unconsciously get attached, or like the fox said to the Little Prince, you let them “tame” you and you “tame” them in return. “To tame someone means to establish ties”. And because of these ties the other person becomes someone “special” or “unique”, instead of being “one of the million of little boys…” You do, in fact, put your own, subjective meaning into that person and the relationship. It, in itself, becomes “special” and “unique” even if it is like millions of other relationships. That’s how even the most trivial, smallest things in a relationship suddenly become important, meaningful. Because you care. That’s why you get hurt. And pain, together with anger, is there for a reason – to show that you care.

And lastly – expectations. As much as I say that I don’t believe in expectations, that they are a doom for disappointments and hurt, when in a relationship, you always have certain expectations. Some are unreasonable – like expecting the other to be able to read your mind, or expecting certain behavior, some are quite reasonable – such as expecting certain amount of trust, respect, consideration. You don’t ask for them, don’t take them as givens, and never take them for granted, and always, always show appreciation, but you do expect such things in a relationship, otherwise we’re back to the guy you met at a bar and went home with for the night, and even in this case there’s got to be certain amount of respect, trust and consideration (at least for the time being you trust the guy/or your own judgment, so that you don’t end up cut up in little pieces and scattered all over the place – morbid, I know). You expect to be treated the way you want to be treated. The way you think you deserve to be treated. And that’s because you love yourself enough not to want to settle for anything less. And if you don’t, it’s either time to reconsider your expectations or the relationship itself and if nothing else, at least communicate it with the other, because, really, the guy is not a mind-reader and you cannot clearly expect him to behave the way you’d like him to. Practice makes the master, for now to master the skills of communication.

Stumbled upon this in Opinionista, a recent find, which is starting to become a very favorite blog (and a very popular one, it seems). This old, almost two year old post (I have to admit, I do like going back and reading archieves of favorite blogs) caught my attention and since the topic at hand was only very recently touched upon, thought I'd throw it in here. The thought that eating disorders are more prevalent than you would like to think is sort of starting to get scary. I do, however, remember that for the most part of my own E/D history, I was scared that I'm one of a very few freaks of nature... not that the knowledge of a "collective problem" would have made it easier or any less personal.

I like the way she puts it:

"I want to gather all the brilliant, driven, powerhouse women I know and sequester them in the desert for a three-day festival celebrating our boundless failures, imperfections and inadequacies."

and the way she ends it:

"I want to convince [...] all the frail skeletal remains of powerful women around me, that no matter how much we monitor, control, obsess and sacrifice, all to condense our physical presence and diminish ourselves to fit an impossible mold of supposed perfection, we will still be hopelessly, hideously, beautifully flawed."

On hurt and anger

As mentioned earlier, lately I have been having some reoccurring bouts of hurt and anger, issues that I’ve never been well equipped to properly deal with, hence my almost decade long history of eating disorders and other self-destructive behaviors often accompanied with long periods of depression and apathy. They say that eating disorders are not just about food and weight and body image, but much greater underlying issues. The behavior itself is merely a coping mechanism to deal with these issues. When treating eating disorders, therapy is almost always recommended, so that these underlying issues are revealed, addressed and either eliminated or offered healthier coping mechanisms to deal with. Sometimes together with antidepressants and anxiety medication. Sometimes without.

I recovered from my eating disorder without therapy. In fact, I did it on my own, without any medical intervention. Whether I did it the right way or the wrong way, whether I would get the same, if not better and faster results had I received proper treatment, remains subject for speculations. The fact is I am recovered. As far as eating disorder is concerned, I no longer have it, i.e. I no longer turn to food when trying to deal with whatever it is that’s bothering me, and food, although being an essential part of my life, is no more or less than what it should be - a means to meet my bodily needs so that I can further function. Some of the accompanying issues, such as weight, looks, body image and certain insecurities disappeared as I recovered. And yet, other issues remain, those that are no longer classified under “eating disorder” and are more from the department of personality fucked-upness.

The truth is, I addressed the eating disorder and the recovery from the other end. Therapy aims to eliminate the issues, so that there is nothing to cope with, hence no need for disordered behavior. I eliminated the behavior itself. Just like that. One day, already sort of half- heartedly in recovery, after a very unfortunate incident and having realized just how fucked up exactly I was, I simply decided that all I wanted was to be normal. And by saying normal I first and foremost wanted to me a normally functioning human being. One that does not see food as a source of comfort, or fear or loathing or a way to release frustration and pain and anger, but only as basic, most primitive means to survival. Normal in a way that food is perceived not as pleasure or a means to soothe pain, but as essential nutrients that the body relies on to have its organs work and processes carried out. Normal in terms of not having to pass out sporadically every now and then because of low blood sugar and slow heart rate. Normal in terms of perceiving hunger signals as the body’s way of saying that it’s time to refuel instead of panicking and freaking out. Normal in terms of being able to menstruate regularly. Normal to be able to have children one day, even if that day appears far far away.

So I got that part straightened out. Rewired the whole food perception thing and hunger/satiety impulses. Recovered the chemical balance of hormones and whatever else it is that keeps the body running. Relearned to eat all over again, as if I were a toddler, newly introduced to solid food. It wasn’t easy. By no means I want to imply that it was easy. But I did try to make it as easy as I possibly could, and one way of doing it was to separate the physical and physiological aspect of recovery from emotional part. In fact, I had to completely shut out the latter, so that I had to deal only with one thing at a time. Actually I was so successful in separating these two aspects, that for a while, nothing mattered more than just getting into a habit of eating. No emotion would get in the way of my having to have my breakfast on time. No emotion actually mattered, except for the feeling of satisfaction, the happy feeling of satiety, the fact that I survived yet another carefully planned, proportioned and balanced meal. I can’t say exactly how long it took to come to that point, but I did come to a point where “normal eating” became a habit and food no longer had to do with anything emotional.

I remember though, at some point in recovery, when I was doing relatively well and was already well into this habit of “eating” I had to stop myself and ask myself: what exactly is it that I was trying to recover from? Is it merely an eating disorder? Is it my insecurities, low self-esteem and the notion that I’m never good enough? Is this eating disorder merely a coping mechanism, and if it is, what exactly am I trying to cope with? And if so, what happens after I no longer have the familiar, at times comforting habit of relying on eating disorder when dealing with all these issues that got me sick in the first place?

Really, what happens when you no longer have the familiar ways of dealing with some of the emotional, more challenging issues?

The disordered behavior stopped a while ago, the issues, or at least some of them, are still out there. In fact, they’re so out there, that they seem to be all over the place these days. When I had an eating disorder, I could tuck them away, keep them out of everybody’s sight, and hide them so well that even I couldn’t see them. And now that I no longer have the habitual mechanism, I do not know what to do with myself, and how to keep some of these unpleasant issues at bay. And lately, despite my seemingly good mood and overall cheerfulness, some of these issues have been really all over the place.

So here’s the issue at hand - I do not know how to deal with anger. There, I said it. It’s out there, staring at my face. For a very long time I would repress it for as long as I possibly could and would try to cope with it the only way I knew how to – starving, overeating, purging. It worked. For a very long time it worked. Back then I had control over my eating disorder. I had something I could hold on to. As I got sicker, I started losing control over the decease, and instead, it started controlling me. I also lost control over my anger, which still unaddressed and unvoiced, managed to escape in spurts of most graceless and unbecoming rage – violent rage that on several occasions resulted in screaming (I am otherwise a very quiet and soft-spoken person), slamming doors, breaking dishes and either locking myself or wandering away for hours. I have seen in the past how destructive I can get when I am enraged, how completely annihilating, spiteful, cruel and merciless I can be, and since most of the time this anger was caused by someone who loved me, I was most cruel and merciless towards him. In a way I am afraid of that part of me and can only pray that it never, ever comes up to the surface and shows its ugly face again. But at the same time, it’s been a while since I have experienced anything as powerful as these episodes of rage. Not in the last couple of years, at least. I could only assume that such violent bouts of rage were caused by some kind of chemical imbalance and the situation itself called for it; whereas right now I’m more stable “chemically” and in a situation that excludes anything as extreme as rage…

I do get angry still. And even if I don’t scream and shout, it still comes out to the surface. In a different form, but it does. The problem is, I don't know how to get angry. Visibly angry. The old habit is to either completely repress the anger or readdress is, so that instead of being angry at whoever it is I should be angry at, I end up being angry at myself. It is a very deeply engraved habit – this redirecting of anger inward, instead of outward. And it has very, very debilitation consequences. Hurt and anger make me feel helpless and vulnerable. My first reaction to both is to distance myself, shut completely off and disappear, so that nobody sees just how hurt I am, so that nobody notices that I am actually angry. I am very sensitive, and despite the ability to pull of that “I’m tough enough to be that bad ass bitch who would stab you from behind”, I get hurt easily. Without really showing it. Anger and hurt also make me spiteful. Ridiculously spiteful. In a calm, calculating, deliberate way. In a way that I am well aware that I’m being spiteful. And want to continue being spiteful.

So lately I have been feeling hurt and angry and spiteful on more than one occasion. Won’t go into boring details, suffice to say that whatever it was that got me upset was big enough to make me angry. And once again, because I still do not seem to be able to simply say “Don’t do that”, “Stop”, “I’m angry”, “You’re hurting me”, I remained silent and had to deal with these emotions alone. And here’s what I discovered - apart from the feeling of helplessness and vulnerability on one hand, and consequent spite on the other hand, anger, repressed anger that is, affects me directly, in a distinct physical way – pain, shooting pain in the abdomen, that goes away as soon as I’ve calmed down and the incident has somehow resolved itself. Although I’m way too preoccupied these days to further research this, I remember reading about something similar to this, not in a medial study or scientific journal, but in one of the most brilliantly written pieces of fiction by Doris Lessing, “The Golden Notebook.” She does not speak of anger directly, but she writes about pain, emotional pain, that expresses itself through physical pain that is felt in a tight and throbbing spot right below the diaphragm, where the muscles intersect. The way the stomach muscles clench and contract in the feeling of apprehension when encountered by unpleasant situations and emotions. I remember how this sunk in, when I first read it. I remember thinking how hurt exactly one has to be to have emotional discomfort express itself through physical pain. Maybe right now I’m taking it way too literally, and maybe it’s just a trick of imagination, but I did notice that I become physically ill when angry, hurt and spiteful. And that it the last thing I rather deal with in my otherwise unclouded everydayness.

To address the issue at hand, I should simply ask myself why exactly it is that I cannot voice anger. Why is it so hard to admit that I am hurt? Why can I not let someone other than myself know that they’re hurting me, especially when they have no clue that that’s what they’re doing?

I think I’m still operating under a false belief that showing emotion, showing pain is a sign of weakness, makes me vulnerable. Being hurt and angry makes me feel helpless, and makes me want to distance myself, shut myself off and disappear. Spite that comes in response to this anger is merely a defense mechanism. A way to protect myself and shield my vulnerability.

Another false belief – most of the time I don’t voice anger because somehow I believe that whatever it is that’s bothering me is not important enough, is irrelevant, petty, petty enough to be ignored, and yet strong enough to give me ulcerous pains. So for the sake of keeping certain appearances I remain quiet. Cool and understanding. As long as I’m not seen as “that girl with those issues.” And in return I get… stomach ache.

And lastly, the source of my recent anger was someone I am very close with. Relationship, which, like any other, however wonderful and idyllic, has its challenging moments. And despite the fact that I do not want to discuss the relationship here (not in this post at least), I have to admit that there is an awful lot of fear, and uncertainty and insecurity involved in it, being the relationship “idiot” that I am. Maybe I am merely avoiding confrontation, or perhaps I’m secretly trying to protect him from my own anger. Maybe I am just plain afraid that if I voice each and every frustration that I have, instead of letting things slide, I will create further complications and simply drive him away. That if I keep wanting to have my things too much my way, I will end up losing everything entirely. That if I show just how much this “seemingly petty stuff” affects me, I will alienate him and end up being rejected.

Reread the last paragraph. Pretty pathetic, I have to admit. But then, upset digestion is no less pathetic. The fact that I can’t deal with anger is no less pathetic. I do, for the most part, let a lot of things slide. There are a lot more things that leave me unaffected than those that don't. But some stuff, however petty, I simply can’t let slide. And I can’t sit with anger, hoping that it goes away. Does it mean that I have to rewire myself, gather up the courage and simply say that “You know, there must be a more creative way to spend a weekend.” Petty? Maybe. But since my greatest source of joy and happiness these days comes from everyday little things, lost weekends provide enough ground for me to get upset. And angry. For days. Whereas it might just as well have been successfully avoided or at least properly addressed. I'm yet to find out. For now, I am still to learn that if it is something that got me upset, then it must not be all that petty after all.

What does a girl do when she has extra money burning a hole in her pocket?

She buys shoes! But of course. What else is there to do but buy a pair of neat little white peep toes that look so good with almost everything in summer? When complemented on this particular pair, I mentioned that I hadn’t had a pair of white shoes since I was thirteen. To which I got:

“I was about to say ‘and you remember this?’ But then I forgot that I was talking to you. About shoes. And your ability to remember crazy stuff like this. I wouldn’t be surprised if you remember each and every pair of shoe that you owned…”

“I actually do. Especially when every shoe out there is designed to kill my feet. It’s kind of hard to forget them then, you know.”

“Maybe that’s God’s way of saying that you shouldn’t have so many pairs of shoes.”

“Like I’m going to listen to God. He has no sense of fashion!”

Not that I have much of a sense of fashion either. I do, however, have a great love and a habit for footwear. Ok, maybe not as expensive as Carrie Bradshaw’s with a threat of becoming that old lady who lived in her shoes… But I happen to have a particular taste for shoes that I have inherited from my grandmother, who even at the age of 70 always wore heels. I am very picky when it comes to shoes. I have a liking of certain brands and a complete theory of how shoes are a philosophy of their own and that it’s all about clean, graceful lines, quality leather and minimum but tasteful details. Nevermind comfort. I did, after all, grow up in Yerevan, and like every Armenian woman, know how to spend an entire day on heels, while running around from one end of the city to another. I have several pairs of shoes that I haven’t had a chance to wear yet. I have also been known to match the outfit to my shoes, and not the other way around. I don’t particularly follow fashion trends. I won’t be able to give fashion advice to anyone but myself. All shopping, except for groceries and shoes seems an unbearable torture to me. I do however love shoe shopping. Especially now that Zappos gives me access to almost every shoe manufacturer right in my own home. If you buy me this or this or this or this or this, I would love you for the rest of your life (or my life, whichever one outlives the other). Whereas this and this and especially this would be tagged as ugly, or ridiculous, or both.

Those who know me well know about my love for shoes. They do tend, from time to time, comment in a very endearing way about the number of shoes in my closet And if it makes me, the otherwise low-maintenance and more or less indifferent to fashion person a complete girl, then so be it. And don’t try and argue my rights to shoes. Those who’d like to back me up, feel free to comment. Otherwise, don’t even try to figure out what it is about women and the thing they have for shoes. It’s our thing. We love it. Let it go. And if you’re looking for a challenge, email me and try to explain what justifies the existence of this and what woman, in sane mind and sound judgment would ever buy them under any circumstances, including having a gun pointed at her head.