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.

As a sidenote - people in Boston talk funny, and i can't help myself but grin and quietly giggle when i am talking to someone from the area. For now, only on the phone. i seriously need to learn to keep a straight face when i am dealing with someone from Boston in person. unless i want to get a punch on the face, which will certainly NOT be a sign of affection, oh no. (One of my friends, who knew about the fact that i do not take signs of affection well had offered to punch me in the face instead of giving me hugs... I'm glad he never got too affectionate.)

Also a note for the future for those of you who communicate with me either in person or over the phone - you are now fully authorized to make fun of me if/when i start sounding Bostonian. Damn, i was just starting to get the Southern drawl! I am going to end up with a really confused mess of regional accents on top of the one that indicates to my foreignness. Maybe, one of these days i will be just the right case for some linguistic study that specializes in regional accents and dialects. We'll see.

On summer and plans...

For the past few weeks all my free time and creative energy have been dedicated to planning trips, looking for apartments and dealing with hurt/anger issues. The latter, given my history, has not been a very pleasant experience, but at least I’ve come out of it having learned one important lesson, which I will slightly touch upon a few paragraphs later. The former has surprisingly been a rather pleasant and entertaining activity, especially the part that involves my almost wistful obsession about going places and seeing/doing things. In the past, despite the fact that a lot of my work responsibilities often required a great amount of planning, scheduling and event coordinating, when it came to personal matters, I was probably the world’s worst planner ever. I would describe myself as the opposite of a control freak, and rather than obsessing over every single detail to make sure that I had everything under control, I’d get easily discouraged by even the smallest thing going wrong and would simply stand aside watching all the tentative plans unravel and fall apart, all the while feeling most inadequate and helpless to try and do anything about it. Since then, either thanks to my two major moves in the past two years or having been in situations that required urgent decision making and quick actions, I have become more “seasoned” or “better conditioned” in dealing with the aforementioned shortcomings.

Trip planning can be fun at times – especially when you realize that your desired destination may only be a mouse click away, when making hotel reservations is no longer seen as a “core-shaking” experience and when I’ve so far learned about the benefit of asking, firmly expressing preferences and being open and flexible enough to compromise. It’s just a fucking trip, for god’s sake, and not a lobotomy, you would think.

So this new and “better conditioned” or “more resourceful” self (whichever way you’d like to look at it) has been having a lot of fun in one of the most dreaded activities of the past – planning. And that, in fact, has opened a whole lot of options that I never even considered before. It’s great to know that DC is only a train ride away, that flying to Boston is not like crossing the Atlantic (which I have, quite a few times in the past), that sometimes all it takes is to nicely ask “can we please, please go back to Charlottesville one more time,” to be able to get that much desired day trip. And that the thought of attending a wedding where I hardly know anybody does not necessarily have to be pictured as medieval torture. And perhaps with further careful planning and budgeting I may even be able to actualize the much longed for visit to Charleston this summer. Maybe, still tentative, I’m keeping my fingers crossed, till then, there are other trips to look forward to and make my summer eventful.

As for apartments, I started looking way too early, or as they’d say in the parlance of the region – too wicked early. Am I slowly becoming a control freak, I wonder? Last year, a big part of my not being able to go to school was because I was too unprepared and too freaked out to even see it happening. This year, I rather have everything done sooner, than later, especially when at this point I can finally see it happening. I have a few places lined up to go and see during my short visit at the end of June (yup, the trip to Boston!), one place in particular that I am so interested in, that I’m willing to pay a deposit without even having seen the place. I will have a lot more peace of mind and one less thing to worry about when I know that the living arrangements have been taken care of.

As for hurt and anger – although in itself it is too big of an issue to try and get into at the moment, one lesson that I learned is that going to bed angry gives you bad dreams and is bad for digestion afterwards, and I rather avoid conflict if for nothing else, at least to not have to deal with shooting pains in the abdomen. But more on this later…

For now, I am really, truly enjoying what is left of my stay in Richmond. Although I know that I will be sad leaving, I am actually looking forward to the move, to the change, to a different pace and a completely different feeling of freedom that being a student entails. I also know that I will be coming back to Richmond quite often, which makes it much easier to deal with emotions. And I can get, very, VERY, almost unbecomingly emotional at certain instances. Yet, I am happy, and hopeful, and excited… It’s summer, time for painted toenails and flimsy dresses and blended iced coffees and lots and lots of strawberries… Back to listening to Counting Crows for hours at a time, dreaming of that holiday in Spain and drawing butterflies and wings and other pretty things. August is not here yet. There still are quite a few days left. A whole new summer still to be lived. And of course, some impossible blockbuster movies to be suffered through, I'm sure.

Grains of wisdom for today

or at least something to ponder upon:

"It's not that people act a certain way around you, but that you attract certain types of people based upon your thoughts, beliefs and expectations."

So could i conclude that if, at the moment, i'm surrounded by wonderful people, i may actually be wonderful myself?

Today...

Mom told me that she sat and cried through your most favorite movie, the old war movie that they always show on this day - the victory day - and the day when you left...

It’s that day, of all days…

And I miss you now more than ever.

They say that time heals, but for me it’s merely a distraction. Time has simply driven me away, further than I ever thought I’d be; further than even you could have imagined. I’m separated from the event not merely by an interval of thirteen years, but everything else that happened during this time, everything that you never got to see and everything that you missed.

Sometimes, in my dreams, it still feels that you’re here, somewhere, and sometimes you come back knocking on the door, as if you never left… At times I can see you standing in front of me, silent, but smiling… If only I could see you once again, if only I could ask you that one question that will always be on my mind, wherever I go, whatever I do – whether you approve of what’s become of me…

At times i wonder how different things would be if you were alive...

There really is no way of reconciling with it. It gets harder, instead of getting better. Blind acceptance only numbs the pain. Time is but a distraction. Grieving only brings temporary relief… There’s always the pain, the question, the knowledge that it could have not happened…

The only consolation that I find is when I’m reminded, time and again, how much both me and him are like you… especially him, the replica of you. At times I can hear you speaking to me, and at times it is as if you are speaking through me. You are a part of me. Every day I’m becoming more like you… and every day I’m more and more grateful for everything that you gave me and are giving me still even after you’re gone.

Baltimore

Baltimore struck me as a bitter city, bitter, yet pleasing, just like cigarette smoke. See here and here for more...

How long does it take to get to know a city?

How many cities can you conquer in a lifetime, and by conquest I do not mean the list of must-sees and must-dos that every city has to offer to its visitors.

How long does it take to get to know a city?

To get to know it so well, that you can walk its streets with your eyes closed, when you know its neighborhoods like the back of your hand, when even a slight change, like a relocation of a shop or a demolition of a building gives you that painful pang, and feels like a tooth missing? How long does it take – a matter of months? A year? Two years? A lifetime? Do you have to be born there to claim a certain ownership, to have that insider’s feel? Or by merely living there long enough have your life intervene with that of the city? How many cities can you get to know in a lifetime? How many can you claim as home? How many homes can you have scattered all over the world?

Two days is certainly not enough to get to know a city. And I can’t even vaguely picture myself living in Baltimore. But two days is more than enough for me to know that I’ll be going back… if for nothing else, at least for a stay at the bed and breakfast place, to hear the stories of the sweet old man, the husband of the woman who runs the place, who has, by far, been the highlight of my short visit to Baltimore.

The Future of Foreign Aid (or rather, my own future)

"Is foreign aid the solution to poverty?"

Solving poverty, a concept in itself noble and inspiring, is, by its nature, a utopian idea. Like every utopia, it is somewhat removed from reality and has an element of delusion. It is an equal delusion to assume that foreign aid alone is the solution. Whereas it pursues abstract and at times intangible goals, the mistakes of aid are costly and shortcomings tangible. Foreign aid cannot solve poverty not only because it tries to find a “fix” that does not exist. Foreign aid fails because it is poorly managed, blind and incompetent, and does not reach those who it is aimed for. Poverty – a complex and multilayered phenomenon, has no magic fix – a belief that foreign aid has been deluding itself for decades. Instead, there are ideas – humble, small, creative ideas that can be used to help the poor. The poor are not passive recipients, waiting for aid to relieve their burden. The poor are a resource, a major and determining factor, often overlooked and underestimated. Foreign aid, unsuccessful for decades in its pursuit to find external solutions on global scale, needs to shift its attention to those it is trying to help. Foreign aid can help the poor. It can help them effectively and significantly. To be able to do that, it needs to stop its Quixotian quest, admit its mistakes, learn from the past and seek precise ways to achieve effectiveness.

I finished writing my paper. It’s done. Submitted. Over. Now I don’t have to think about it anymore. The results won’t be in until this coming fall. By then I will be in a completely different place with a completely different mindset. And the results most likely won’t matter. Not that they matter now. Although this was a scholarship paper, the monetary reward was hardly big enough to get me motivated to such extent. I did, in fact, put a lot of time and effort into writing it. I tried to read everything I could on the subject and do my best to say everything I wanted to say. And I did write this paper first and foremost for myself. The rewards are already in – I wrote a paper, one that I actually really like – and hell, in fact, froze over.

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything close to this in its length and depth. Hell, I don’t remember writing a decent paper even when I was in school. Despite the fact that I went to the best school in the field in the whole country, its “excellence” hardly amounted to anything – academically it proved to be way too unchallenging and close-minded, still suffering from deeply rooted Soviet notions of discipline and bureaucracy, combined with corruption flourishing all over the country. My straight A record does not mean a thing (except for looking good on paper), since getting anything less than an A would indicate a complete failure under given circumstances. Before I altogether gave up on going to classes, thanks to my good grades and whoever it was that invented “individual schedule”, I took the liberty in choosing my own little projects that were often frowned upon and gained me a reputation of undisciplined waywardness. I learned early enough for my own good that I was not going to get anything out of that institution and chose to learn whatever I needed directly from work experience. Hence my resume dating way back to 1997, when I landed my first teaching translating jobs at the age of seventeen. In fact, it was thanks to this work experience that I came to choose the field I’m about to get into - the same field that less than a week ago I claimed as inefficient, incompetent and ignorant in the aforementioned paper.

I did read a lot for this project. I learned quite a few details, discovered names, the history, the existing “schools of thought.” However, when it comes to the effectiveness of foreign aid, I didn’t find out much that I didn’t know already - by merely growing up in a developing country and watching aid officials, their projects and lives of ordinary citizens (or “locals” in foreign aid language). In the past I have, in fact, been indirectly involved with both UN and USAID, working on a number of contract-based, short term projects in a passive role of a translator. You actually don’t need to be a wiz to see how wasteful, short sighted and incompetent these agencies are. You only need to take a glance at an arbitrary project budget to learn more than you need to know – and this is only the part that I had access to. It’s enough to meet a consultant to realize that the guy has no clue whatsoever either about the country he’s stationed in, or about the job he is doing there. The ones that are actually bright (and I’ve been lucky enough to come across a few) speak bitterly about both the present and the future of this huge industry that is first and foremost a business – one that finds ways to transfer money of the poor from rich countries to the rich in the poor countries. As one of the harshest critics of aid said, “foreign aid has subsidized political irresponsibility and pernicious policies …it has been an opiate of the Third World governments to rely on handouts instead of on themselves for development” (see Bovard for the full article, if you’re further intrigued – a lot of insightful details and examples). I’m not even going to get into the whole Noam Chomsky conspiracy thing (and I do, very much so, believe in conspiracies). So why in the world am I getting into this?

I have to admit that there is an element of vanity in my choice – it’s cool to be in the network of international agencies with big names, such as World Bank, United Nations, International Monetary Fund, the USAID. It’s cool to be able to travel all over the world. Excellent career opportunities, attractive pay, noble and prestigious field. But then I have to stop and ask myself: how long will it take until I get completely bored with the nobleness and prestige and disgusted with bureaucracy, incompetence and outright hypocrisy? At least I know beforehand what I am getting into, if I choose to shoot for the big names, and won’t be stepping fresh out of grad school with rosy visions of saving the world, to get disappointed before my first contract is up.

Perhaps the biggest importance of this project for me was that despite the fact that foreign aid has gained such a deplorable reputation of being useless, wasteful, incompetent and corrupt within its own system, I still see hope, if not for the whole industry, at least in small projects and my place in it. I always believed, and have already spoken about seeing the role of foreign aid in creating opportunities and hope for those who don’t have it. I do believe in humanity and compassion. I do think that foreign aid can help the poor significantly, even if it alone is not the solution of poverty. In my paper I argued about the importance of understanding the nature of poverty, and how, despite its global scale, it is a local and even more so, a personal matter. I argued the importance of cultural sensitivity instead of acting upon assumptions that policies of the West are universally applicable. I argued, based on what I knew, and having my newfound and beloved Mr. Easterly to back me up, that the only hope for poverty is the poor themselves. And I argued the importance of establishing an accountability system in any project implementation and getting feedback from the “locals” to see if aid is working.

What do I see in my future in the field of foreign aid other than my passionate beliefs and a potentially good topic for thesis that I’d like to explore? Small NGOs? Microlending? A job of a consultant residing in luxury suits in five star hotels and business travel class? The Heller School of Social Policy and Management (hosting the program of Sustainable International Development at Brandeis) claims that it trains the next generation of development planners and policy maker for whom a global society free of poverty, preventable disease and environmental degradation is achievable. I can’t quite see myself as one of these “planners.” I’d rather be one of the “searchers,” as Easterly sees them, working in a godforsaken corner of the world, making sure that kids get vaccines, access to clean water, and chance to get proper education. Or continue my interrupted microlending career and give out loans to farmers and small business owners. One of the founders of the most famous microlending institutions did, in fact, receive the Nobel Peace Prize for his efforts to create economic and social development from below. Whatever it is, I do pray to God that I don’t become one of those well paid, meddling bureaucrats, sitting in an office buried in paperwork, without having a clue what poverty is like.

I feel like I’ve been through a war. I’m very, extremely tired. It’s been very bad few days – days that felt like weeks. Days that dragged on like a nightmare that was never going to end. I’m glad it’s over now. I still feel weak and tired, partly due to lack of sleep, partly because improper nutrition. That I’ve gone on schedules like this for weeks and months at a time in the past amazes me. That I managed to get out of it alive, without any serious damage is just as astounding. The last few days only proved how much I really do not want unnecessary stress in my life – job related or otherwise. It’s just not fucking worth it. Whatever it is.

It has quieted down now. In a few more months I can completely forget everything I have learned about real estate and not have to deal with it for the rest of my life – or at least until I decide to buy my own house. Thinking about it now – it would actually be very very nice to have a house in Richmond, on Strawberry Street. Wishful thinking… but then, it’s my dream - I can dream about whatever I want. So a cute little Victorian in the heart of the Fan can be added to my dream list.

It’s almost weekend. I’m going to Baltimore, to take pictures of the slums and check out the Inner Harbor. There’s a baseball game that I’ll have to suffer through though, an activity that sounds pointless, if not plain ridiculous. It might be fun though, watching crowds of people screaming and going absolutely nuts about something as uninteresting as a bat and a ball. But then, i'm easily amused - so who knows, i might even like it.

Summer’s almost here. No particular plans except to try and get the most of my stay in Richmond. Take a trip to Brandeis, check out the place before I move, look at apartments. And then August, and everything after… and I am actually really looking forward to it. One thing I know better than anything else is that I really really want to go to school , and Brandeis sounds just the place for me.

I will be sad leaving Richmond. But that's a long and drawn out lament that i dont want to get into now. The plan though, is to come down here as often as I can and no one knows better what it feels being split. The distance between Richmond and Boston is nothing compared to the other side of the world. It might even work out well in the end…

This time next year I’ll be looking for internships – DC area for summer, overseas for fall. Then research. Thesis. Graduation. And a complete blank beyond that point. I have no clue where I will end up – but then again there’s always that house on Strawberry Street and the dream to make Richmond a home…

Maybe one day – too soon to tell. It’s not time yet.

Mark the day before you forget...

I'm beyond all acceptable limits of exhaustion. But before i collapse into a dreamless sleep, hoping that tomorrow will be a little better than it was today and for the past week, i need to stop here and mark this day - it's been exactly a year since i came to Richmond. This time last year, equally exhausted from a twenty hour trip, overwhelmed by flights, layovers, luggage and customs, i set foot in Richmond - without a clue of what to expect, and yet hopeful, optimistic. Looking back i can only smile at the clueless self that i was then and say to her - "you did well."

I wish i could celebrate this day with a cupcake. Instead, all i have is peanut butter sandwiches and leftover dinner from yesterday, since i've been to frazzled to care about buying groceries. If i outlive the next few days, i may give myself a moment to look back, once again, and sum this whole year up, as i have a habit to celebrate beginnings and their anniversaries. Weird that the start of a calendar year has never held a symbolic meaning to me. However the beginning and end of every consecutive stage that i have undergone throughout my life have been important, if for nothing else, at least as punctuation marks that one finds scattered around in any given tale. Life as a tale- i very much like the idea of it...

For now, all i can say to myself is this - happy one year of living in Richmond.

Street Art

Rebound

I have to admit that this is a totally rebound post, since for the last two hours (and the past ten day) I have been writing away like a fiend what is slowly coming to resemble a paper – that is in academic sense. And the writing of the following post is driven by pure inertia, since I’m unable to stop, and will be happy to write about anything that does not involve words poverty, foreign aid and aid donors (which I unconsciously or consciously misplaced with the word bastards on more than one occasion). I’m done with the fun part - the rewarding in itself scavenger hunt for information, the reading and scribbling notes part (by far is my most favorite), then the outline, then the part where I actually sit down and write the damn thing and even come up with a conclusion that actually looks and sounds good (that is in my biased opinion). There is still the not so fun part left, which entails citing the sources, making sure that I did not accidentally steal someone else’s quote without giving proper credit, and four days of reading the thing million times over to make sure that there are no awkward typos (and I am very VERY prone to those) and that I did not forget to replace one of the aforementioned profanities. Not that I would be distorting the truth. But I don’t think it will leave the best possible impression – not in this case, anyway.

Other than that, I have somehow miraculously passed the credit review for student loan application with my non-existent credit history and will be able to borrow the difference that even the full amount of Federal Stafford loan cannot cover. Talk about expensive. I also found out that I will get much better rates if I have the loan (Graduate PLUS Loan) processed through school and can borrow up to the full amount of attendance cost, as opposed to tuition cost, which means that even if I get no “free” scholarship money and decide that an honest, white collar, administrative job is too lame for me, I will still be able to pay rent and have a place to live (and it gets coooold up in Boston) and be covered by health insurace. It’s not the best case scenario by far, since we’re talking about a huge black hole of student loan debt on my otherwise debtless record, but at the same time it’s not the end of the world. It’s actually rather encouraging, which in its turn means that for now it’s one less thing to worry about – and instead I can direct all my obsessive energy towards speculating on other stuff, like how I’m going to move my ten thousand pairs of shoes and whether or not my new roommates will be nice.

Speaking of roommates - the roommate situation is getting a little monumental. It was monumental to begin with, since I’m sharing a house with a Korean guy, an Indian guy and a guy who was born in Afganistan but moved to the States when he was little. Add an odd Armenian female to this and you have the most unique international boarding house ever possible to imagine. I think one of the reasons I decided to rent this room (apart from cheap rent and nice neighborhood – since a certain someone had sent me off to this side of the world with a blessing and a prediction that I was bound to inevitably end up in a crack house in downtown Richmond) - one of the reasons that I got this room was the ridiculousness of the idea. You would not be able to come up with such combination of different cultures even if you tried to. And I thought it might get interesting at dinner time. Which, apart from odd Korean food, has been relatively tame. The part that these are all guys actually works as an advantage, cause I seriously have very low female tolerance and who- stole- my- lipstick and who- ate- my- fat-free- yogurt, who-stole-my- boyfriend and who- you’re- sleeping-with situations would get old very fast and start getting on my nerves. I get along with guys well. We live in peace - no political, ethnic, religious, gender or other conflicts. We work as a team. I don’t bitch, they leave me alone – everything’s cool. Except for one thing - dirty dishes. Yup the dishes and food living in the sink, which, you have to admit, is gross – and this is coming from someone who is not the cleanest person in the world. Apart from that the rest of my tenancy has been relatively uneventful... or wait, there was that time when the electricity was cut off for the most part of the evening and it brought back old memories of dark and cold Armenia. And that one other time when the water was cut off for like two days – Armenia repeated. And then that other time, or three or four times, when the downstairs bathtub was not draining at all… and that other time when the heater was broken and there was no heat or hot water… Never mind all that, I’ve been through worse shit, and I can deal with it –with more than necessary bitching, of course, but that’s just part of the fun. But dishes! My god it’s gross. And it bugs me so much that endless notes on the message board are starting to change from “Please wash your dishes. It's unsightly” to “Wash your fucking dishes already!” On these guys the f word has been known to have some effect. If not, I’m moving out. To live in the Fan. Who cares that it’s expensive. I’m getting a forty thousand student loan anyway. And no, this is not an ultimatum.

There it is, the coolest one of the notes that the Universe has sent me so far and it, in fact, knows how to read my mind.

I do believe it should comfort you to know, Nika, that whenever you face a fork in the road of life, no matter which path you choose, I'll be there in all my glory.

(Probably moon walking, with a long, feather boa trailing in the breeze...)

You can't go wrong -
The Universe

Wrapping it up

in two short paragraphs -

my recent whining two posts ago has so far landed me two complicated cases that we otherwise call snakebiten ones - with title defects, missing heirs and three party deeds, two subdivision plat recordations and another case with real estate complications due to a long and messy divorce. On top of that i got two new bankruptcies for Northern District of Florida and i dont know how bad they are since haven't had time to take a look at them yet. So far, i'm doing a badass job - i'm happy and very pleased with myself and have to admit that i am a nerd (for the lack of a better term, since lawyer groupie doesn't quite do it) when it comes to these little legal details.

In other news - it was bright and sunny in Richmond today, Phillip Morris stock dropped by 0.03 points due to my drastic reduction of cigarette consumption, Tamara posted really great vacation pictures in Mexico, dooce finally moved to her new house and i discovered William Easterly.What else can you ask for at the end of any given Friday?

Nowhere

- where the time goes...

If I may contradict myself one more time – I always do that anyway. At least I know it’s safe enough to do that, since these contradictions never go further than wistful speculations at moments of distress. Talk about mood swings – only a few days ago I was talking about how happy I am in Richmond and how I wish I didn’t have to leave…

But a part of me, knowing that I’m going to leave anyways, wants to simple get up and go now, right this instant – for the sake of saving myself the trouble of having to do that in August, for the sake of avoiding the next three or four months – and I can already feel that they’re going to be difficult, it’s already hard as it is right now, emotionally straining, and I’m really not that well equipped to deal with this kind of strain in any given moment. So what the hell. Why not get it over with now instead of dragging it for another summer. Why not save myself months of heartache and uncertainty? Why not get it over with now instead of spending all that time in complete unproductive boredom while watching the level of my anxiety gradually peak…

I’m running ahead of myself. Trying to picture what it will be like when it’s time to leave. Browsing craigslist to see if there’s a place available for August, still so ridiculously early and so premature – both my seemingly needless anxiety and the emotional strain. I was talking to a lady at ACORN in Boston today, to see if I could get a part time, even a volunteer job up there, figuring that if I have to get a job, I rather work for a non-profit. Something I could have done here in Richmond as well, had I had enough patience to wait. But I never have patience. None whatsoever.

It sounds tempting. So tempting. To simply get up and go. Somewhere, anywhere.

A few weeks ago, for the millionth time, I was offered to move back to Florida and work in my old office there until it's time to start school. A job that was one thing I couldn’t leave behind when I left, a job that I am still doing it from home, thus my location being a point of little relevance. A job that i don't think I’ll ever be able to quit, even if I’m in a mine shaft, somewhere in Siberia, hundreds of yards under ground. At least I know I’m so good at doing what comes so close to resemble welfare. Those five Kleenex box bankruptcy cases – four for the client, one for me that I manage to straighten out with so much proficiency and getting so much positive energy back as reward...

It sounded attractive, the offer, for reasons other than a much better pay, a place to stay without having to pay rent, in a town that I more or less know and almost like… a boss who has come to accept me as almost a family - his little sister that he never wanted, but family nevertheless. It sounded tempting. Touching. Humbling. And for the millionth time I had to turn it down, for reasons other than seeing the move to Florida under these circumstance just as pointless as moving anywhere else. Not time yet. Too soon. And yet, never soon enough. Never fucking soon enough.

What’s holding me here?

A relationship - a relationship that at moments leaves me just as lost and at my wit’s ends as moving to a completely new and unfamiliar place. You know, those few months after a move, when you still don’t know the place well, and haven’t gotten used to all the boundaries yet, and can still nurse the illusion that you’re free within these unseen boundaries for a little while longer. Until you get to see and recognize not only these visible bounds, but your own limitations as well. I’m exactly at that very point in this relationship. And I’m not sure I’m taking it well.

Maybe I’m just not cut out for this stuff. Or maybe it’s one of these days of overcast skies and everything falling tumbling on me. A bad day, living situation that is starting to get on my nerves, unchallenging job, equally unchallenging people and feeling of loneliness that is so much stronger in moments like this. Maybe it’s just a fucking moment. A mood swing. And if I sit through it patiently enough, it will simply go away once it’s all nice outside again.

It’s supposed to be beautiful this weekend. Maybe I’ll take a trip downtown, go to the river or stay in Cary town and tell myself all the reasons why I love Richmond so much… and try to convince myself that I still have quite a few good days left here, that I could still seize a few of those photographic snapshot moments that stay forever frozen in the eye of your mind.

Or maybe I’m just not cut out for all this stuff. And I simply want to disappear.

prolific

Such a funny word, not just cause it sounds funny, but because it pairs up with flying foxes (pteropus scapulatus)and pear trees (pyrus communus), and can be used to describe both the crop year (prolific year for tomatoes, that is) and a particular writer (i.e. prolific writer with fecund imagination) all at the same time.

At times i wonder if i will ever get to fully know and understand the English language in all its depth and glory, but one thing is certain - i love it like i love only very few things in this life...

To Whom It May Concern: It's another Friday of Mountain Dew and Complete Boredom at Work

The urge to smoke stronger than ever. And I'm whining. Rather loudly. It's unsightly.

Damnit. I guess i'm more addicted to cigarettes than i thought i was.
The patch is not working - of course it isn't, since every time i put it on, i have to take it off twenty minutes later, if i want to stay alive. It makes me dizzy. Not fuzzy, euphoric, pot high kind of dizzy - but "I'm about to pass out" kind of dizzy, with splitting headaches, 80/40 blood pressure, nausea and vomiting. Sorry for graphic details. It was bad. Really bad. Didn't help that first time i tried it on, it was late in the afternoon and I had not had dinner yet. I thought that maybe the full patch was too strong for me - but nope, half has the exact same effect. The other day i had to turn around and walk back home so that i don’t faint in the street, in the middle of all that traffic. How pathetic would it be to die from an attempt to quit smoking? Or nicotine overdose. But that's exactly what this whole quitting business is doing to me. I've been irritable, bitchy, headachy and plain depressed for the last several days. Why am i doing this again? Oh yeah, so that i can run happily ever after for forty five minutes a day, three days a week. That's right. When's my next marathon again?

I need to devise a new plan for quitting. The patch's not working.

i guess i was looking for an easy way out, hoping that it would make me not want to smoke. Of course it isn't going to work. What did i expect? Did i innocently and naively believe that tobacco companies would actually allow an easy and effective way of quitting to be roaming freely out there in the open market?

Well, maybe there is no easy way out and it's going to take more time and commitment than i'm willing to dedicate to at this point. But perhaps, if i keep working on it, one less smoked cigarette at a time, i will, eventually, wean myself off of this habit. Just like it was with the recovery from eating disorder - it took time. A long time. And headaches. and stomachaches, and weight gain, and dizziness. And relapses. Many many relapses - but it worked in the long run, didn't it?

Need to write a blog on overcoming eating disorder, because the way i make it sound here appears way too easy-breezy. I also need to start writing that damn paper on effectiveness of foreign aid, or the lack of it thereof. Got a World Bank report of nothing but two hundred pages of bullshitting on the effectiveness of development assistance, without providing any statistical or other evidence. The whole point of the report summing up to yeah, aid works, it's efficient but there is no way to prove it. Of course. Sure the World Bank is being effective fighting poverty. The amount of funds it spends on organizing seminars, and conferences and trainings and shipping one confused consultant from one corner of the world to another. Business class travel. VIP reception and nothing less. As J. Maarten Troost said in "The Sex Lives of Cannibals", the World Bank is very concerned about alleviating poverty, one consultant at a time. Or something along those lines. The only reason for the whole organization to exist is to keep airliners and five star hotels in business. And that, we have to agree, is a significant contribution to global economy. Transfer of funds from one wealthy pocket into another. Plus you appear concerned and nobel and oh-so-altruistic in the process. Nice. Funds are disbursed as shown on paper. Where they go is a matter of little importance. We have the numbers. They're satisfactory. We've got something to brag about at the next UN or whatever other summit that may cost an annual budget of an entire Pacific island to organise . And write another two hundred page BS report.

So here i am, aspiring to be one of those consultants who will fall under big guy's mercy of big paychecks and tax exemption - that's what thirty thousand worth of hoity-toity education from an elitist school is there for, right? At least that's what their career service web-page claims to do. It better does. But wait, i have to start school first. And finish it, for that matter. But before i do that, i need to write this paper that's due the end of the month. And quit smoking. Oh yeah, that's what this whole blog started as. Went off on a tangent.

So smoking. So far, i haven't gone too far. In the last five days i've smoked a total of twelve cigarettes. That's not quitting. But at least a lot better than what it was a week ago. So patch is no longer an option. Cold turkey is not something i can do with my non-existent will power. What's left? Therapy? Right. Acupuncture? No way. Nicotine free cigarettes? I might consider that at some point. For now, it's Marlboro Ultra Lights (they taste like shit, by the way), proscribed at a limited doze of no more than four a day. That's the only plan i could stick with for now. That's all. Done bitching.

Poshla kurit&.

I’m twenty six years old. As someone gently reminded me not that long ago, it’s still ridiculously young. And yet old enough to be able to drive, vote, buy cigarettes and alcohol, get married and divorced, have children… It’s an undistinguished age, untelling, neither an indicative of maturity nor an excuse for irresponsibility. Maybe an age of quarter life existential crisis of some sort, but then, isn’t life in its entirety some kind of existential riddle in itself?

I’m twenty six years old. Still young, and yet at times I feel like I’ve lived several different lives and have aged without actually getting old. And now I’m starting to notice the first signs of actual aging. Like the first gray hair. Very fine lines around my eyes that are hardly visible, but there nevertheless for me to know where the first wrinkles are going to appear. I no longer seem to have adequate amount of energy to rush through the day juggling a million of tasks without any sign of tiredness and exhaustion. I can no longer survive getting only four hours of sleep during the night. I cannot go longer than four or five hours without having sufficient amount of food. But apart from those physical signs, other things have changed as well. I have mellowed. Significantly. Fast paced environments that used to give me highs make me dizzy and disoriented now. Schedules and deadlines that I once lived on make me now cringe. I am no longer willing or able to handle stress and intensity in any aspect of my life. I’m burnt out on drama. It all appears to be unnecessary fret, meaningless noise and ado. I’m tired. And I know I’m getting old, not older, not only because I seem to have gotten used to the slower, quieter pace, but because it seems like I will no longer be able to go through what I have already been through, and that I can no longer afford to make the mistakes I already made once, in the past. These things are starting to have a toll on me. I’ve grown protective towards myself and my well-being. It seems that all I want these days is peace of mind and sense of normality – the very concept I am having a hard time finding definitions for. Maybe what I’m trying to describe by this normality may appear as plain indolence for someone else, or mundaneness for another. But given my past, where nothing but the early years of childhood came even close to resembling “normal” no matter how lose you set these boundaries for defining normal; where everything was complicated, burdened, disturbed, fucked-up, stressful and strenuous, it is only natural to want that one thing that I have been deprived of, right?

My otherwise happy and unclouded childhood was interrupted by troubled political, social and economic events that my country underwent after the collapse of the Soviet “Empire.” My early adolescence was spent in loneliness and fear and hiding the feeling of loss and grief for my father. My college years were all about growing bitterness and apathy. It was one big disillusionment, years in school, because I was old enough to openly see the reality as it was, to openly reject and criticize it, and yet not old enough to be able to deal with it with the knowledge and maturity of an adult, and more importantly with less destructive, and healthier ways. Granted I was a product of overly idealistic parents, raised on the only religion they believed in, that of ultimate human goodness and universal values of morality, it was easy not to get disillusioned. I tried to find some kind of salvation in my marriage. I grabbed on to it like a drowning at a straw, as a desperate attempt to save myself from dreaded cynicism and apathy, without having the foresight to see that my very salvation would grow into source of depression and even greater destruction. There was nothing normal about that marriage, and I am equally guilty for contributing a considerable share to its insanity.

Troubled and interrupted childhood, painful adolescence, disillusioned youth, broken marriage, broken faith, bitterness, callousness and subsequent apathy –I’m not listing all of this to evoke some kind of pity or compassion - in fact, my life hasn’t been worse than that of millions and millions of people that once lived and are living now. I know that I am far better off than many others. I am merely trying to make a point, first and foremost to myself that it is understandable to want to have things that are normal. To want to be normal. To want rest, and peace and quietness for at least a little while longer.

I can not afford another broken marriage. I do not want to go through life from one failed and disastrous relationship to another. I do not want to live in the humiliation of poverty and deprivation if not in economic sense, at least in moral sense of pride and dignity. I no longer want to feel disabled by another mental or physical disorder. And i no longer want to try and build yet another life from scratch... These things are starting to have a toll on me. They are. And I’m tired. And somewhat lost.

Part of me wants to simply give in to this current state of indolence and serenity. It’s probably the first time in many years that I have felt so peaceful, to undisturbed, so quieted and humbled. Part of me knows that I could be happy like this, living like this, taking care of my humble little needs, taking it day at a time, a moment at a time. I could be happy in Richmond. I could make Richmond feel like home, even if I were to end up living here on my own. But then, the other part of me knows that it’s not really an option. Giving in is not an option. Not at this point at least. Not until I’ve tried to be happy at another place, in another mindset…And only after having experienced something other than this, something different than this, but still normal nonetheless, only then I can make a legitimate choice and a conscious decision to come back to the quietness that Richmond is for me now.

I say I’m happy now. Perhaps I’m confusing the concept of happiness with a glass of orange juice in the morning and a back rub at night, and perhaps all there is to them is joy and pleasure and comfort of ordinariness. I don’t seem to mind it at all. In facts that’s one of the few things that seems to make me happy these days. And what is wrong with the idea of wanting an ordinary life anyway?

I’m not sure where I’m trying to get with this… I still catch myself having to hold back the urge to simply spill it all out and let the daylight see what really is on my mind. Or maybe I let myself get lost in these overly long sentences with overlapping clauses so that I don’t have to say what otherwise could be said in one simple sentence, without even a single subordinate clause.

A Picture of Time

by Lynne Tillman

You say there’s no time like the present. But what is the present here? I’ve watched TV for ages and seen movies since I was three. TV’s daily life and movies are a communal fantasy. Today is in color, yesterday’s in black and white, and there’s no agreement about tomorrow.

I hear music everywhere, and then there are voices. Everyone’s speaking in a flow and rush of language, the words are like water. There are echoes, too. And I know the whispering won’t stop. It’s the past. Time passes on and fools us by living underneath the surface.

You say there’s a reality we all exist in, and I say I won’t agree to it. You become red, enraged, and I make something from that. Red becomes an opening, surprising you. But I put it in the corners, where its brilliance is held in suspension. I keep explosive red, like time, to myself. I keep it, like dreams and wishes, for myself.

I suppose it’s obvious. I’m always fighting time. It’s relentless in its mission, and I’m nothing to it. But there’s no time in dreams, which is why I need them. There’s protracted suspense, the ragged drama of discontent and tempestuous wishes. And morose blue may suddenly pop up, disguised as threat, to announce the predatory present. I may be able to appease it, the blues, if I can find a place to put it. Even in dreams I want to control sadness and danger. I surround and contain them, and later everything catches up with me.

You say take hold of yourself. I hold on to dear, difficult life and keep track of success and failure—and loss, the holes and emptinesses where I could fall off and forget the world. Oases and shelters beckon, tempting illusions wrapped in bars and stripes. I reach them and take the time to think about what to do next.

Time moves on without my consent. I should have known better. My schemes might be planted next to startling green thoughts and in earthy, black fields. If I’m lucky, the dark is rich and compassionate and will let me rest for a while. Something good might come along.

Is it judgment I’m awaiting or mercy? I don’t know. I draw a broad line around myself and make a fortress against inevitability. Suddenly there’s static, an impish, contentious energy I never expect. It disrupts connections, compelling me to assimilate forces I don’t fully comprehend. Like electricity, which I’ve never stopped relying upon. I know it was discovered and had to be captured, even subdued. Yet it was always there, and it probably wasn’t waiting, the way I am.

You’re naked, you say. Protect yourself. I cover myself in shame, lust, and greed, smearing and hiding the humiliating marks of battle. I’ve done this many times and have become a funny kind of palimpsest. You say no one can escape, and I run down a narrow, single-minded trail. I burrow deep and throw on another layer, for warmth or as a palliative. I grow big and orange. Fire is more orange than red and, like anger, throws off more heat than light. When it dies, there are embers and ash, wan reminders of its glory. The sky becomes night and swallows everything. The night is a thrilling action figure in the human theater. I hide in the dark.

You say I can’t fight the inevitable. But what else is there to fight? I arrive at my destination and tremble at reason’s door. It’s inviting to enter, seductive, but there’s really not enough room. Still I’ve learned I can’t be an exception and walk in through the back door. To outfox reason’s complacency, I escort the unpredictable unconscious. As usual no one notices. Later, perpetually, everyone’s surprised.

You and I watch the current match between rationality and irrationality. I bet on what we can’t know, which wrestles with everyone’s limits and confounds certainty. It usually claims victory, and tonight I win easily. There was more behind the scenes than we ever appreciated. You’re sorry to lose, and I console you. But the truth is I applaud the victory and prefer it to reason’s insensible claims. Like the one that says time heals all wounds. Time’s no cure, no doctor. You and I go on. We continue somehow, and our persistence is the source of everything we make. I want to surrender, but I can’t, and I live in that paradox, and so do you.

It snowed in Richmond...

after an entire winter without snow, with the exception of couple of snow flurries that didn't last more than a few minutes. It was strange, to open the back door in the morning and see everything covered with a thin layer of snow.

A few months back I was somewhat looking forward to the snow - winter snow brings some kind of peace and relief. i couldn't wait to see the snow on these littlebrick houses that look like doll houses, when their windows are lit... But it never snowed, not even once during winter. And now there was something strange and discordant seeing this snow, when all the trees are fully blossomed and after i had folded and put away all the thoughts of winter in the farthest corner of the closet together with my warm clothes...

Speaking of smoking

... and nicotine patches.

Running out of cigarettes in the middle of the night used to be my biggest fear. I could not possibly imagine what I would do without them for an entire night of long hours, without holding the dry, thin, cylindrical object in my fingers, seeking comfort inhaling the bitter smoke. The idea that I might, one day, not be able to smoke was enough to drive me insane. And I mean INSANE. To the extent of calling a cab in the middle of the night and paying two dollars for a trip to the nearest kiosk to buy a one dollar pack of cigarettes (yes, prices in Armenia are still relatively cheap last time I checked, despite the US dollar losing its value against the local currency).

I buy cigarettes in cartons these days. Cheaper, more convenient, and the risk of running out is not as frequent. I have three packs of cigarettes left. A few days ago I told myself that once I’ve smoked them all, instead of buying a new carton, I’ll get a patch. A nicotine patch. I’m still uncertain when, why and more importantly how that idea came to me, but lately I have been thinking, that perhaps, one day I should stop smoking. That perhaps, one day, I could and would stop smoking. Even as I’m typing this, I don’t think I fully believe that in about three or four days I may stop smoking. Altogether. Hmmm.

The thing is, I’m not just addicted to those damn cigarettes. I like them. In fact, I love them. I love the taste. The bitterness. The process of lighting up, the first drag, inhaling, holding it in, exhaling. I even like the gross, nasty smell that sticks to my fingers long after I’ve smoked. I like those few minutes when even at my most distressed, I can distract myself and not think about anything. Just draw it in. And out. The serenity of it…

I also cannot quite imagine how I would continue doing my everyday things without them – it’s as much of a habit as it is an addiction. What do I do when I first wake up? When I drink coffee? When I’m listening to that one piece of music that simply has to go with a cigarette? What do I do when I’m sitting outside, writing. Or people watching. Or meditating. Or decompressing. Do I actually think that sticking a little patch soaked with a certain chemical to my skin is actually going to stop my cravings for a cigarette by simply giving me sufficient supply of nicotine so that I don’t go crazy? And bite somebody’s head off?

And more importantly, do I really think, and really believe, that I’m going to quit smoking? Really? REALLY?

Smoking has always been more than an addiction to me. I grew up in a traditional society where women who smoke are look down upon with dismay for reasons other than mere health concerns. They are often considered of questionable, if not altogether lose moral character. Smoking was my way to revolt, to refuse to conform and follow the rules of a society I could not quite identify myself, let alone accept and reconcile with. This was my way of asserting myself and standing up for my choices, even if this particular one was harmful and damaging to my health and possibly gave me a questionable reputation. At the same time, I used to be attracted to the dark aspect of it, and apparently had certain fascination with self-destructive behaviors. It surprises me that considering my compulsive and addictive nature, I never got into drugs and alcohol, never even tried to. I’d be just the type for a junkie, I’m sure. But I used to find it attractive - a dark, stick thin figure, an empty stomach, strong black coffee with no cream and sugar, and cigarettes. Lots and lots of cigarettes. And books. And notes. Scattered all over the place. And I pretty much lived that life for several years. And all these years I have fought battles for my rights to smoke. I’ve kicked off quite a few men who I’d date randomly and sporadically during my school years, who would as much as dare to hint that I stop smoking. There were also those who were less subtle and would tell me pointblank that they could not possible be seeing a woman who smokes. That an Armenian woman does not smoke. That women should not smoke. Period. I’d shrug my shoulders – your loss, now get lost. And continue smoking. Some of the worst fights in my previous relationship were about my smoking. It had gotten to the point of absurdity of me being forced to make a choice between cigarettes and the person I was with – the ridiculousness of the idea enough to throw me into blind rage. I stood my grounds, I defended my choice. I yelled and screamed. And broke dishes. And I continued smoking.

I’ve been smoking for almost ten years. I’ve always pictured myself as a woman who smokes. And drinks coffee. And smokes. Relentlessly. I’d go through a pack of cigarettes like it was a handful of peanuts and by the time the evening was over, my pack would be empty. I have spent endless nights awake, smoking, reading, writing. This time last year I had an entire month of doing nothing but stay at my mother’s apartment, try to eat well and figure out what I was going to do next. And chain-smoking from morning till night. Since then I have cut back considerably. For one thing, no more indoor smoking. No more smoke breaks every thirty minutes or so during my work hours. No more smoking in restaurants, even in tobacco capital, unless I’m sitting outside. And I no longer go to bars.

And now I’m thinking about quitting. In about three days I’m planning to stick a patch on myself in hopes that that little piece of whatever it is will substitute not only the nicotine to which I’m addicted, but everything else that smoking is for me. A habit, pleasure, distraction, comfort, my past, my memories… What's ironic, I’m not even sure if I want to quit. Well, that’s not quite true. I do want to quit, but the funny thing is, my reasons are far from all the reasons you'd think one would have, including the money i'd save and the obvious health concerns, which one would think should be a priority.

I more and more realize that this whole smoking thing has become a nuisance to me and the very few people who are around me these days. And of course they all have to be non-smokers. Even the guy who works at Phillip Morris is a non-smoker. Blah. Whatever. It’s only now and here in the States, that I have thought, for the fist time, about the discomfort that smoking can cause to non-smokers. It actually bothers me. But what bothers me more, is how much I have to go out of my way to make sure that I’m not suffocating anyone in at least twenty yard radius. When I’m surrounded by people, the fact that i have to wait to finally be able to snatch a moment and sneak out to smoke a cigarette, while feeling guilty the whole time, is humiliating. Making sure that there’s no one in the aforementioned twenty yard radius is just plain aggravating. Feeling constantly guilty and apologetic about my smoking is just as demeaning. It belittles me, and I rather not feel that way than go outside and smoke my damn cigarette. And as much as I continue saying that “It’s my thing. I love it. Let it go.” the constant bitching about my smoking is not going to stop. The funny thing is thought that the one person who is most discomforted by my smoking doesn’t bitch. And rarely says anything. But sometimes it’s even worse than loudly expressing disapproval. That way I can at least snap back, like I did in the past. And have extra motivation to stick to my guns. His silence is disarming. I can’t yell back. I can’t break dishes. And smoking no longer gives the satisfaction that it used to. All I can do is feel bad and guilty and make sure I washed my hands and brushed my teeth before I go back into the room where he is.

But the main reason for my trying to quit is that a few months back, out of sheer curiosity and in hopes of getting rid of pent up frustrations and anger, I started running. And now I’m really getting into it. And truly enjoying it. What amazes me most is that after all these years of self-abuse my body is still strong and capable enough to perform this physically and cardio-vascularly demanding activity. It stuns me that my tarred lungs still have the ability to last me for entire two, three and even four miles on my better days, at more or less decent speed, without having to stop. The high I get from rush of adrenaline and endorphins is magical enough to make me swear, while I’m in motion, to never smoke another cigarette in my life again.

Smoking and running generally don’t go together. It’s either one or the other. I’m at a point when I’m starting to like the latter more to try and stop the former. Do I actually believe that it’s going to work? I’m not sure. I am not as enthusiastic as I might sound in this post, but mainly because I’m skeptical by nature, especially when it comes to things immediately related to me. But then, most of the things that I’ve accomplished so far were driven by this skepticism combined with something else that sort of resembles curiosity. Depending on which one overshadows which determines the outcome. Or something along those lines. A mind trick of sorts, i guess. I have to admit that I’m just as curious about quitting as I’m skeptical. So there, I said it. I know I talked too much. But before I go…

I bought new running shoes today. Really fancy and expensive ones, named after me, to replace the shabby old pair that I’ve had since… high school. I can’t wait to I get them in the mail. Tomorrow I’m getting the patch, although I won’t stick it until Tuesday. I’m sure there will be rants and raves about the whole process, so please forgive me if I start getting on your nerves. I’ll try not to turn this into a full blown anti-smoking campaign. But this is my blog, god dammit. And this poor little thing has witnessed everything I once thought I ‘d never be able to do, from breakup of my marriage, to my full recovery, to grad school acceptance and now running. Maybe, well maybe, smoking will be one of these things.

Last week, talking to my brother on the phone, i told him about my recent kick for running. He was silent for a moment, and then asked;
"When do you smoke then? Before? Or after. Or both."
"While i'm running," i answered, " i smoke while i'm running."
He laughed.
"i'm not surprised at all..."

This is a prelude for a much longer rant and post of smoking, running and nicotine patches.

Stranger Than Fiction

"This is a story about a man named Harold Crick. And his wristwatch."

Click, click. The voice with British accent reading the script as sharp and crisp as the sound of the typewriter.

"I am not crazy. I'm just written that way..."

An ordinary story about an ordinary man with his mundane every day life planned out and calculated minute to minute to the last second. I wonder if he goes nuts over the weekend, unless he "plans out" his free time as well. The story doesn't tell. What it tells thought is an overly comic story of a tragic writer with writer's block who can't figure out how to kill this Harold Crick guy.


"As much as I would like to, I cannot simply throw Harold Crick off a building. "

And the Harold Crick guy, who suddenly starts hearing a voice in his head talking about his life like one would read fiction.

Over all, a cute movie - despite the fact that it's not overly exciting or artsy or deep or weird or surreal enough to my taste, and not at all dark and tragic for me to immediately fall in love with. But still, something about the movie that makes it a Nika movie, and very few get to be honored with that title - "I Heart Huckabees" and "Run, Lola, Run." would be good examples. There's something in all these three movies have in common, something comically existential despite the first glance silliness that makes me like them more than an average cute movie.

Favorite snippets...

"I adore you." "I adore you too"
"Anarchists have a group? They assemble? Doesn't that completely defeat the purpose?"

"You don't like cookies? What's wrong with you?"

"I do not need a nicotine patch. I smoke cigarettes..."


"Little did he know! Little did he know! I taught an entire class on little did he know..."

And of course i loved the idea of making the world a better place with cookies.

I still have an eternity of four months in this city...
and another spring and entire summer left.
Thinking about it this way makes me smile -
There still is another summer to be lived...

This picture, taken today near downtown Richmond, looks like a random shot of Yerevan...

It’s always been hard for me to voice what’s really bothering me. I’ve never been good at expressing unprocessed emotions, frustrations, fears and anger. I have been equally unsuccessful in dealing with uncertainties, although what’s ironic is that these uncertainties often arise from my refusing to openly say what’s really on my mind and what exactly it is that makes me feel uncertain, uncomfortable, insecure at any given moment. I’m shielded in a way. There’s things that I simply cannot bring myself to talk about. Sometimes I cannot even write them out – this whole blog, or most part of it is a collection of cryptic messages, riddles that no one besides me can decipher. Why is it so hard for me to simply say, like I would be stating a fact that “ “This is white.”, “This is black.”, “This bothers me.”, “”This is what I’m afraid of.”, “This is what I need.”, “This is what I’d like to know...”. Do I actually think that by voicing such thoughts of discomfort and fear is going to kill me? Like words would cut my throat before they even reach my mouth? Is it really that big of a deal to let someone other than myself know that I’m uncomfortable, in pain, hopeful, wistful, in need of something, afraid of something else.

Is the fear of being rejected or misunderstood so great? Or is it simply because I do not think that my own feelings or needs are good enough or important enough to be voiced? Either way, these are some deeply rooted issues, and as much as I hate issues and would rather ignore than deal with them, I have to admit that they bother me on ongoing basis and inevitably result in my growing bitterness, resentment, frustration, which when bottled up for over a period of time, ends up exploding in a most graceless and emotionally messy way.

I am not sure when and how it happened that I simply stopped letting others know about what i feel and how i feel about whatever it is that may be important to me. When did i start to believe that showing need or emotion is a sign of weakness? Perhaps if I dig a little deeper, I will find a specific cause – some past event that has brought this on, but so far I’ve learned that analyzing past issues only gives me an understanding of the cause itself and does not necessarily help me deal with consequences. The consequence is that what once used to be a justifiable fear of rejection has grown into a habit of not talking and bottling up. And being more concerned about keeping certain appearances. That showing emotion, need, dependency, voicing fears, frustrations are signs of weakness, inadequacy, incompetency and that it will inevitably end up hurting and disappointing me. And that as long as I keep all of it nicely hidden, I will not run to risk of appearing weak or being hurt, even if the pain of unvoiced emotions is much greater than actual rejection. Since then I’ve been very successful in hiding all that stuff, in convincing not only others but myself as well that I’m fine, that I don’t need anything, even at times when I really, desperately need help, compassion, understanding. And just like it was with food, I sometimes deny all love, compassion and understanding to myself, thinking that I do not deserve it. I have become very successful giving an appearance of being fine. Since then I have developed great tolerance for pain and discomfort. I have eliminated my needs to the very basic. I’ve learned to live without expectations from others. I have become extremely self-sufficient and independent. Obsessively, to the point of neurosis independent only to realize not that long ago that this obsession with being self-sufficient and independent is driven by nothing else but the past fear of being rejected. Even when there are no longer any grounds for this fear.

What bothers me now is that even after knowing and understanding all of the above, I still choose to deal with these issues in the same habitual way, of keeping quiet, pretending to be fine and dealing with them on my own. What bothers me now is that I still choose to put myself in blatantly ambivalent and uncomfortable situations whereas for the most part these situations can be avoided if I choose to as much as hint that there is something wrong. What bothers me now is that I still seem to be more concerned about keeping certain appearances, like being strong, self-sufficient, cool, reserved, polite, nice, undemanding than actually being honest with myself and everyone else. Even if I don’t even care whether I’m strong, self-sufficient, cool or reserved. And what bothers me most is that I rather label all my uncertainties with “questions you don’t ask” and shove them away instead of having the courage to ask them and live and deal with answers. Especially when I know that pain is not what I’m afraid of anymore.

reposting

There are questions you do not ask….
Because you no longer want to know the answers. You don’t need them, just like the questions themselves, they’re pointless…So you push these questions far back to the corner of your mind, keeping them quiet and still, locked.

And there are questions you do not ask no matter how badly you want to know the answers. You try to ignore them, hoping that these questions will outlive themselves and disappear completely from your event horizon…
It’s not important,
It does not matter- you keep saying to yourself… cause you know that deep down you already know the answers to even the unborn questions and the only thing you can do is accept them each in its own time.

And you live day by day in self inflicted bliss of denial and ignorance, choosing it as your only mode to exist, knowing that the only thing you can ask and hope for is that you wake up the next morning…

* I no longer question. I merely accept. And I’m no longer afraid of pain- you don’t question pain just like you don’t question your own happiness…

I’m no longer afraid of getting hurt- and by having realized this I seem to have somehow eliminated all the possible pain I may have to endure at whatever point in the future.

i already miss Richmond.
i haven't even left yet...
i woke up this morning with a tight knot in my stomach and a pang of panic as if i was already gone, feeling disoriented, lost, alone and nostalgic. i still have what seems another eternity of four months left... and i already miss Richmond.