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.

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