So it begins...

A few things, while I have a minute to breathe, reconnect to the world, check email, make phone calls and jot down some thoughts, before I plunge headfirst back into day four of orientation at Heller School of Social Policy and Management. More to come I’m sure, for now, this will have to do.

• Where do Peace Corps Volunteers end up after they’re done with their two year service? Apparently, the SID program at Heller is the place to be – it seems like ninety percent of the Americans who are in the program (and believe it or not, they are a minority in an extremely diverse and colorful incoming MA student crowd) are returning Peacies. To take this further – what are the chances that you’ll meet one, let alone two of these amazing well-wishing, tree-hugging do-gooders that have just come back from your own country? Even more so, what if you even happen to have personally seen them on site? From the day one, when after being freshly inaugurated and sworn in, they crowded my favorite bar, making complete fools of themselves, i'd stumble upon them throughout the year here and there in ever corner of downtown Yerevan… A former PC groupie that I was back in the day, while conducting series of interviews with them for my still unfinished project, I actually ended up befriend a few (they are, after all, charming, and adorable, and totally harmless). And yet, Brandeis was the last place I’d expect to run into a former Armenia stationed Peace Corps Volunteer – but then, it’s a small world that makes room for even the most improbable encounters to happen.

• Among the many questions that I’ve been pondering upon for the last year or so that were directly or indirectly touched upon during the course introduction session earlier today: the ethical side of development as to who makes development happen, how certain development projects are created and chosen for implementation, who gets to decide which projects to choose and how to implement. The question being - do we (development practitioners) - or the developed countries, namely the West in general, have the moral and ethical right to make development happen - choose a project for a country or a region that we know little to nothing about without even considering the issue of participation and collaboration, thus ending up face to face with downright hostility from the locals and leaving the site shocked by their "ingratitude"? A dominating theme in the attitude the West that is prevalent not only in this particular field, but the entirety of US foreign policy. To come to think of it - can Western thought and the Western model be imposed to the rest of the world, with neither the knowledge, nor the participation, nor consideration of choices of those who live in the region?


• Snippets from introduction to Poverty and Assets – Poverty is a man created phenomenon that doesn't go away because certain groups happen to have vested interest to make it stay. Certain economists consider poverty as necessity, the driving force of progress – if this is so, capitalism does truly encourage the worst tendencies of human nature. Any comments?

• From introduction to Food and Nutrition – Food for Peace Program, a seemingly harmless and humane project has turned out to be one of the most harmful, if not downright criminal in the practice of aid that sends the agricultural surpluses of US produced wheat and corn to malnourished countries, in the long run has resulted in disrupting the already shaky local agriculture and bankrupted thousands of farmers. Due to a very powerful farmers’ lobby in the US, the US government has agreed to buy the surplus from the farmers, lest the excess supply should push the prices down, and dump it on countries that would rather grow their own produce, which in its turn would result in gradual growth and development of local agriculture. However, as long as the lobby exists, the program will not stop. Politicians of wheat and corn growing states that rely on farmers’ vote will not let this happen either. Speak about morality. How is it different from dropping a bomb on a given country?

• From introduction to Framework to Development – despite the fact that foreign aid has been in practice for several decades, it’s still a very young field in its experimental stage, where both practitioners, policy makers and scholars are trying to find applicable solutions to pressing global issues more through trial and error process than a unified and collaborative strategy (if it's even possible to come up with one). If that’s the case, why does the UN and other joint aid agencies make the assumptions that they will meet the Millennium Development Goals by the projected year of 2015? One has to wonder whether it is pretense, arrogance or plain ignorance or there is more to it that what “they” let us know?

Needless to say, I’m excited. And this is before even the classes started. Yet, the fact that they won’t let the incoming class register for courses yet drives me insane. On the bright side - I found out that I might just as well try to find a real job instead of shitty unpaid internships for my second year. As delighted as I am, this adds yet another important task to my already crowded agenda for the coming year, more on which will come later...

The last days in Richmond were almost surreal. Starting from the big storm last Thursday night that lasted all night and shook the ground with lightning and thunder, to the heat finally subsiding a little, to overcast skies and fog in the morning and the smell of fall in the air predicting all kinds of change, and the red brick of the houses looking brighter against the gloomy sky…

Running on Monument for the last time, through the mist of the early morning fog… Packing. Cleaning up… the trip to the airport…

Lisa came to visit on Sunday. I hadn’t seen her since I left Gainesville. That was an eternity ago. Seeing her, seeing myself, how much we both have changed since then and yet how familiar it all felt. How much at ease both of us were. The same welcoming feeling of familiarity. The same long conversations over coffee, the same musings of what happened, and what will next… Our past, our future, our plans and dreams…
She wanted to see Richmond, since I spoke so fondly of it. Showing Richmond to her gave me a chance to see it once again, all the favorite places that I will miss so much, the downtown and Shockoe Bottom to Boulevard and the Museum District, Byrd Park and Carillon, the bridges across the river, the Fan and Carytown… Showing these places to her felt as if I was showing a part of myself, despite the fact that I myself was so new to Richmond only a little while ago.

Finishing up the last little tasks at work. Trying not to forget to pass on the last little details to my replacement. Finishing up training. Hoping that I was leaving all these files in good hands, and yet for the first time realizing how good of a job I had done even having only partially applied myself in this work.

Leaving work was harder than I thought it would be. Although work itself is probably one of the last things that I will miss, it was hard to leave the place, especially after knowing that I’ve been valued and appreciated. It’s strange how throughout this entire year, after feeling so strange and out of place with my foreignness, ill fitted liberal ideas that I kept to myself, my lack of genuine interest when it came to real estate, to only partial effort that I put into my work, I suddenly felt welcomed, accepted, a member of an extended family that sent me away with genuine wishes and warmest goodbyes.

Almost all free time outside work for the last couple of weeks was spent with him. Playing, joking, being cute and silly. Cooking together, going out for meals. Watching Before Sunset yet again. Distracting each other. Planning future trips…

It wasn’t until we were at the airport when it hit. It hit hard. When I was about to cross the security check point. And every single tear that I had been trying to hold back for days, every sad emotion that I would distract myself from fell crushing on me. I cried through the entire flight. Listened to David Gray and cried. And yet, despite the sadness that still lingers with me and gets me teary eyed, I am so hopeful and optimistic … Looking back at the relationship this time last year, and even a few months back, I realize how much it has grown, how different it is from what once started as an undefined, equivocal, ambiguous relationship… All the uncertainties that I once had, all insecurities are gone. What I once asked for – continuity rather than commitment, is what I am finally able to see. I realize that I could not have been happier. That I cannot be happier now, from however many miles away… For now, it’s merely a distance of days, surviving time in short intervals: eight days, ten more days, two more weeks until I see you again. Soon. I promise.

А на последок я скажу…

This time next week I will be in Waltham. The time interval between now and then seems gray and fuzzy. Next Wednesday seems an eternity away. Once again I am reminded how multi textured (flexible) time can be, rigid in some occasions, fast and rapid and stretchable in others…Every day seems to have acquired a special significance. Yet, in the bigger scheme, it’s just another day, another week…

It still hasn’t quite clicked in that I will be leaving in less than a week. I’ve known this all along, from the first day I came to Richmond. Yet it is still hard for me to comprehend that I will be leaving. Perhaps it’s partly because I know that the leave is not final, that I will be coming back, in as little as three weeks. This time next month I will be back in Richmond for a long weekend, thanks to Rosh Hashanah that’s an official holiday for Brandeis. I am looking forward to these coming trips. Another one in October, one for Thanksgiving, a month long stay during the winter break… I’ll be here in February, in March and April…Yet anything after that seems vague and blurry… It gives me an uneasy feeling – the fact that I do not know where I will be in less than ten months, let alone this time next year.

I try to be realistic. Try to keep myself still, not to run ahead of myself, which is something that I have been doing a lot lately. I try to objectively identify all the options that I have. Likewise, be aware of all the limitations that are on my way. And for the first time, these limitations don’t make me feel helpless… Better prepared, maybe more pragmatic but not helpless… And yet, for the first time I ever remember myself, I wish I knew what was coming towards me, what the future holds for me. I once used to be the greatest believer of randomness, perceiving the human condition as our collective helplessness against circumstances that determine it all… Thus I never let myself make any far reaching plans, even in my wildest dreams and felt frozen and paralyzed within the bounds of my limitations… Lately I’ve been trying to look at things differently. Trying to believe that there’s always a remote possibility for even the impossible to come to life. Lately I’ve trying to look at things through the power of believing. Make room for even the farthest reaching dreams. And likewise I actually believe that it is quite possible that I find myself one day looking at Himalayas, strolling the streets of Prague or back in Armenia working on a documentary… Or back in Richmond, living quietly on Strawberry Street. Maybe happily married, with a couple of kids…

What makes it possible to believe in all of the above is the fact that I am the happiest that I can possibly ever be... It’s a feeling that comes from within. From the certainty of knowing of what’s important and what’s with me to stay. Those are things that cannot be taken away from me, won’t be left behind…Everything else, everything I encounter on my way, or happen to accomplish, will count as bonus points to this happiness. At this point, I am moving from point A to point B not because I have to, but because I want to… And that’s all that counts…

And now, only a week away from moving, only a breath away from yet another exciting adventure that lies ahead, I feel incredibly calm and confident. I am leaving Richmond with a peaceful mind, knowing that it will always have a place in my heart. And that is something you can’t leave behind. Neither now or ever.

A few things

- more as side notes to myself, in hopes of turning them into full blogs between now and the move, that is, if I don’t collapse of exhaustion, dehydration or pass out from excitement first.

• If I had a nickel every time I trained someone, or my take on summing up residential real estate in a few paragraphs, as my way of marking an end to a phase. I hope that after the next two weeks I'll never ever have to deal with it again… Even when I decide to buy my own house one day.

• Between Persian princess and street urchin, I will forever go down the history of R&C as the girl who not only politely corrected the boss that “No, Mr. R., it’s diphthong, not dipthong” but was also able to explain what it actually meant and illustrate it on examples. Big deal – even the dumbest student at Brusov knows this, and yet, the Boss-Who’s-Always-Right was not only impressed but somewhat hurt, as I shoved the dictionary right at his face and ended the argument with Subjunctive “I wish I were wrong…”, thus scarring the poor thing for the rest of his lifetime… The incident itself took place a couple of years ago, and yet up to this date the guy won’t stop bringing it up. Food for further though - you’d think that with such grammar background, I’d make a lot less errors on this blog but my short attention span has been a long established and documented fact.

• A baffled attempt to respond to an image conscious comment thrown at me some weeks ago, as in “You look great! Different.” “Different how?” “You look like you’ve lost a lot of weight. You look skinny now. ” Apparently the comment affected me more than I'd expect it to, hence the necessity to write a coherent piece on an extremely tangled and convoluted mess that weight related issues once used to be.

• Can someone tell me what’s the difference between a regular physical checkup and a school checkup? Apparently there is, since they’re billed differently and chances are that my current health insurance won’t over the latter. Which sucks – such a waste of year long insurance money thrown away for nothing. Does anyone actually need another long and drawn out rant of hostility and rage on how much health care sucks in this country?

• Is it just me or Starbucks has been brewing some seriously mediocre coffee lately? An observation of the last few months or so based on visits to several stores, including one in Boston and another one in D.C… On a slightly different note – as my coffee consumption dramatically decreases, my soft drink consumption increases accordingly. Between the two, I’m not sure what to consider a lesser evil…

• I have finally reached the point where I am mentally and emotionally done with Richmond. And yet, I find it hard to list every little thing that I will miss. However, I can firmly assert that anything south of the river or north of Broad will not be remembered fondly…

• As much as I hate winter, I am having a really hard time dealing with dog days of August, when Richmond seems to be the hottest spot in the whole entire East Coast, if not the continent intself (seriously, check weather.com, if you don’t believe me). At this point, frost bite and snow seem a much more pleasant alternative to this blood boiling, brain melting, suffocating hell. I do realize that I might want to reconsider this last statement in a few months. I think I need to move to a place like Oakland, or San Diego, or whatever happens to have temperatures of perpetual upper 70s, if for nothing else, at least for the sake of having one less thing to bitch about.

• And lastly, I still owe a comment to Tamara, and the promised reward, so hopefully, that will be coming shortly. Just to let you know that I haven't forgotten.
  

It’s August yet again…

My two notebooks have come to an end… Pages filled with scribbling, half sentences written in hurried, illegible handwriting, dark butterflies on the margins… Lists, random quotes, words underlined for future pondering…

The year in Richmond is in these notebooks. Two summers, fall, winter and spring… From the very first “Give me a day…” to frustrated “How long it takes to get better…” to affirmative “I need more definitions” to shy “I love you” to trembling “I’m afraid of randomness of circumstances” to reminiscing “this time last year… ” to wistful ”if only… “ to airy “I’m happy like I’ve never been before…” to restless “I have to go and see…” – this has been the year in Richmond. How ironic that both notebooks would come to their end when my stay here is coming to its own end…

I need a new notebook…

Yet I am reluctant to get one, just like I’m reluctant to write these days, as if I’m afraid of what might come out, afraid to voice what I do not want to hear, lest I wander off into a territory that’s better left untrodden…

My days are filled with little tasks, small deadlines, chores, must-do lists… I concentrate on them one at a time, trying to live in those moments, stay in those moments as long as I can, aware of every passing minute as seconds tick away… My days are full… My heart is full… at night my dreams are crowded… prophetic…

I still haven’t found what I’m looking for in the Golden Notebook… And yet, I’m at awe that the book still has that strong hold on me, just like I did when I first picked it up when I was barely eighteen, not knowing that the book would change me, shape me like no other book would… The divided self – in four notebooks, in hopes of bringing it all together in one unified golden notebook… I think of all the notebooks that I’ve left behind, scattered bits of myself left here and there…

I need a new notebook…

It’s August yet again.

I’m leaving the new notebook for everything after…

"Honey, once you live in the South, it never leaves you..."

Am I the only fool who thinks that Southern is darn sexiest thing ever?

Bringing summers back…

Seven summers back I was in Charlottesville, having just moved to a tiny studio in a rundown building off of 29th. Having just escaped almost slave-like conditions that a five-star hotel has for its employees, this ghetto seemed nothing but heaven to me. I will always remember the experience of Charlottesville with bitterness; the misery, hostility and exhaustion of that entire summer will always be there to haunt me, and yet, out of the dark and strenuous experience The Tale of the Cities was born, a story that I wrote and rewrote and shaped and reshaped and cried and bled on paper without knowing that I would be living out that story one day. And despite every single hardship that I went through that summer, I will always be grateful for having found two of my most dearest people – the Bosnian girl who generously let me share her shoe box apartment, and the one who is the main reason why I am here in Richmond today.

Six summers back I was unhappy, depressed, torn by longing and overwhelmed with regret, feeling helpless and trapped in a city cursed by the sun, the city that only years later I was going to love and accept as home. I remember that long and hot summer of hell, living on ice-cream and tomato sandwiches day in day out, staying up night after night, dreaming, writing, writing the Tale, and when the pain of helplessness was too much to bear, I would cry myself to sleep, dreading the awakening the next morning, knowing that the new day would not bring any possible change. At the end of the summer, when the heat started to break, exhausted and jaded and dry after all the tears I'd shed, I sold my soul to the “devil” and got a full time job and fell in love, hard and fast, against all odds and every reason of rationality, the way you fall in love only when you’re twenty one, still young and stubborn, ignoring and trying to defy the reality with all might. Looking at it now, I realize that it was nothing but desperation – desperation that was to determine the next two years and everything that had to come afterwards.

Five summers back I graduated. And got my first apartment in downtown Yerevan. With five months’ rent I bought all the freedom and solitude I could ever ask for, realizing, for the first time, that I could live like that, alone, hidden in the heart of the downtown, happy in my solitude – a woman, alone, in a big city. And yet, before the summer came to end, I gave up the freedom and was married, without fully aware of any repercussions, waiting for a new life to start under a different sky.

Four summers back I was in Florida. Biding my time in timeless indolence. Hopeful, still in love, waiting for that long expected happiness to dawn, and thinking to myself that there must be something more to this thing that they call marriage.

Three summers back I was still in Florida. Surrounded by bliss of domesticity, slowly embracing what was coming to shape as complacent middleclassness, and desperately trying to grasp the finality of marriage. And yet, I’d often long for the woman I had left behind, the woman alone, in a big city… At the end of that summer Another Life was born, which, with its main theme of adultery, was nothing but the longing for all the other lives that I could have had, had I not made that one particular choice that I was slowly coming to regret.

Two summers back I was in Yerevan. Dazed and crazed by the heat and the sun, the cloudless skies, watered streets and freshly cut grass, happy, delirious, a butterfly on the sidewalk, intoxicated with my own freedom, testing its limits and daring it every way I could. Restless. Sleepless. In love – but this time it was the city I had fallen in love with, fast and hard. For the first time I felt that I was at home, finally at home in a place that I had so long hated and tried to defy. At the end of the summer I moved into my second apartment downtown and with another six months rent I bought the dream that I had so often longed for – the dream of a woman, alone, in a big city.

Last summer I was in Richmond – to come here, of all the places in the world, a decision so sudden and unexpected and yet looking back at it now – the only possible choice that I could have made wondering “whether this was a choice or an inevitable consequence of the past years that brought me here...”, realizing that I’m living out the end of the story that I once wrote and dreamed about night after night before I'd cry myself to sleep out of helplessness and desperation.

This summer it’s Richmond again. If they ask me what’s the best that I have had so far, I’ll tell them it’s Richmond – the year in Richmond. Looking back I realize how happy I have been and how much this entire year has changed me. Yet before the summer’s done, I will be gone, elsewhere, chasing winds and kaleidoscopic dreams… As restless as I am, as eager as I am, I have to make myself slow down, stop and enjoy what probably will be the last month of this quiet and uninterrupted stay.

I have no way of knowing what future holds for me. I have no way of foretelling where I’ll be this time next year. Come what may, happen what will, I know I will make the best of it, since I’ve outlived so many summers and have so many more to come… The only thing I can ask for, the only thing I can wish for, is to be back in Richmond, once again, without an urgency to leave, without an expiration date, a stay that will feel that I have found home, of all the homes I’ve had and have willingly left behind….

This Thing I Do

Once, early on during my recovery, I started making lists of every little thing that made me happy during the day. The list included every random, miscellaneous thing that would instantaneously lift my spirits and make me feel happy, humbled and grateful at the thought that it really didn’t take much, after all… There was so much satisfaction in simply writing those little lists, the process itself was so comforting and therapeutic. I would often go back to those lists, re-read, add more things to them, rewrite them all over, just for the sheer satisfaction of being reminded over and over again that

“when you come to think about it- it’s the simple everydayness that makes up for everything… it’s this everydayness that contributes to this overall happiness that I am feeling now… orange juice in the morning, apple and walnut crepes in the afternoon, late evening ride to downtown, watching the string of lights at night as the cab takes me home… going to bed tired yet knowing that the morning is going to bring yet another wonderful day and it’s all that matters…”

And that happiness itself was this ability of experiencing every single nuance of the day, the usual, the routine, the mundane, and still derive the greatest satisfaction from living it day after day, one beautiful moment at a time, instead of waiting for that abstract, big and wonderful thing that I used to picture happiness as, to never happen.

My list of entries were as random and miscellaneous as they could be, from “waking up” and “drinking orange juice in the morning” to

“smell of freshly baked bread, as I pass by the bakery on my way to work…to think about all the labor that goes into making it, from growing the wheat to grinding it to flour, to putting the dough in the oven, to make sure that there’s fresh bread on our tables every day…”

“This morning I made breakfast for him. Left his place with a smile on my face…”

“Oh the decadence, raspberries and truffles, overpriced bagels and apple walnut crepes, hours spent at my coffee shop, lazy afternoons as I sit and watch the city from above, slanted rays sliding over the rooftops… Late night outings, loud music and laughter, endless talk, and the rhythm of the day and night, day and night as I’m living every moment of a life that I once dreamed of and am watching now to turn into my reality…”

"It's amazing how you continue living your life day by day in a way you've always lived, doing the same things you ordinarily do and yet with the knowledge that every day is bringing you closer to whatever you've set to accomplish. It's a wonderful feeling..."

These days being happy has become my default state. How i got there from being constantly, chronically depressed and apathetic is next to a miracle. However, i wonder where i would be if i hadn't learned to appreciate these very little things, almost ridiculous in their simplicity, and yet making the bulk of this very everydayness that my younger and depressed self so desperately tried to escape.

• Waking up in the morning before the alarm clock, to the whistle of the train. Half asleep stumbling to the kitchen to get my daily dose of bliss and calcium that a glass of orange juice provides.

• Morning runs on Monument Avenue, as I look at those big houses and realize how truly beautiful they are and how different from where I grew up.

• Running downhill, wind blowing on my face, with a feeling that’s the closest that I’ve come to experience to flying.

• Strawberry jam and waffles on weekend mornings.

• Cooking a meal for something other than me.

• Pretty, colorful, summer dresses…

• Painting my toenails.

• Catching myself say “fiiiiiine” and “niiiiiiiiiiice” in a still slight Southern drawl.

• Dave Matthews’ “I love you oh so well, like a kid loves candy and first snow…”

• Haagen Dazs Vanilla Bean Ice Cream (not to be mistaken with plain Vanilla).

• Rain at the end of a hot, summer day.

• Those few minutes before falling asleep, as I feel like I’m sinking into a warm, soft pit, soothing and comforting and yet already impatient for the coming day that will dawn tomorrow and start everything all over anew.

• Still, after all I’ve been through and all I will be going through, after all tentative planning and consideration, being able to look at future “as if I were in a brilliantly lit haze, shifting and flickering according to my changing desires…” (Doris Lessing).

Speaking of Ordinary -

here are a few excerpts from Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life by Amy Krouse Rosenthal, a cute little book that i've read and reread many many times, her Alphabetized Existence from A to Z reminding me time and again how wonderful, amazing, funny and extraordinary an ordinary life can be...

"As"
As self-conscious as rearranging what's on your coffee table before guests arrive - putting Art Forum and Milan Kundera's latest novel on top of People magazine and The Berenstain Bears Potty Book.
As specific as a mosquito bite on a pinky toe knuckle.
As startling as coming home from vacation and seeing yourself in your own bathroom mirror and only then realizing just how tan you really are.
As out of place as a heap of snow that remains by a street lamp on a sunny April day long after all the other snow has melted.

"Butterfly"
Once you learn how to draw a butterfly, you just want to keep doing it. There is something calming and satisfying about drawing them. Maybe it has to do with the symmetry, and the curves of the wings.

"Doing Something"
It is so much easier to not do something than to do something. Even the smallest tasks, like filling out a Scholastic Books order form or putting away the butter, requires time, focus, and follow-through. It's astounding, actually, that anything gets done at all, by anyone.

But then, let's say you finally are prepared and determined to do that thing, whatever it is, but you wake up to find that your basement has flooded and you must spend your day making phone calls to the contractor, plumber, and carpet people. Or not that but something else - perhaps you must stand before a committee for approval, a committee that neither grasps your intent nor appreciates your ingenuity, and anyway, they are in a bit of hurry to break for lunch.

Yet. Still. Somehow. I am encouraged to see that despite the colossal effort, despite the odds against one, despite the mere constraints of time and schedules and sore throats, houses do get built, pottery gets glazed, e-mails get sent, trees get planted, shoes get reheeled, manifestos get Xeroxed, films get shot, highways get repaved, cakes get frosted, stories get told.

"Rainbows"
If rainbows did not exists and someone said wouldn't it be cool to paint enormous stripes of color across the sky you'd say yes that would be very cool - impossible, but very cool. Children are totally tuned in to the miracle of rainbows - that's why they are forever drawing them. [...] It would be nice to have some universal ritual connected with rainbows, along the lines of stray penny equals good luck, and car with one headlight equals, say, piddiddle/make a wish. Maybe: See a rainbow, eat a sugar cube. Or see a rainbow, put a dollar in a jar: then when you leave home at eighteen, your mother sends you off with your rainbow money...

"Toast"
I cannot stress this enough: One second your toast is fine, golden brown; the next second it is black.

"Sunny Day"
I stepped outside. It was bright, very bright and sunny. There was a long patch of yellow flowers across the street. The flowers were in full bloom, so alertly yellow, as if plugged in. I felt like I was in a Claritin commercial.

For more excerpts read here.

Wonderful everydayness

"Going to a grocery, getting up in the morning. . . seeing that our clothes have buttons--are aspects of everyday feeling; but seen from the viewpoint of existence as a whole, they are strange and wonderful. That people should feel warmly familiar, routinely intimate, unsurprisingly comfortable. . . from the viewpoint of time as a whole. . . existence straight--is a grandly amazing state of affairs."

Eli Siegel
in his definition of "Everydayness," from
Definitions and Comment, Being a Description of the World.
(a link to the work itself i was unable to find, however, i ran across this, this and this which might be more than you want to know on Aesthetic Realism.)

Tired. I am so tired. Drained. Exhausted by the heat. Suffocating in this humidity that feels like hot bath water the minute you step outside. Yet, it’s beautiful, the summer in Richmond. Lush and green. Alive. If you listen close enough early in the morning, you can almost hear the earth moving beneath your feet with all kinds of living, breathing things…

I am running out of time. Missing out on summer. There’s work. There’s always work that I can hardly bring myself to do. I don’t want to do any more of it. No more closings. Back to back closings, one after another. I’ve become so proficient that hardly have to put any effort. I’m merely biding my time. Wishing I was elsewhere. I’m tired and burnt out beyond all acceptable limits. The rush of adrenaline that kept me going for the whole past year is sizzling down, and all I seem to want to do these days is stay in, sleep in, go for runs, take naps in the afternoons, go to Shakoe Bottom and hang out at Café Gutenberg. Write. Read. Find the Doris Lessing passage. Sort through my illegible notebook scribbling. Simply sit there and breathe… There’s never enough of that quiet time. Breathing time. When you simply shut out all the noise and let yourself be. Present and aware in every passing moment…

I will be working until the very last day. I wanted it this way, although now I wish I hadn’t. I thought that if I keep myself busy until the very last moment, distract myself with work that soon will no longer matter, I will keep the sad and overwhelming feelings at bay… I gave myself only a day to pack, a day to travel, another day to get settled until school starts. I thought it’s better that way anyway. Now I wish I had given myself a little more time. To simply rest. And breathe. And marvel at the thought of just how happy I am at this point regardless all the sad and overwhelming feelings.

A reoccuring theme of social ineptitude or as it turns out, I'm a closeted dog person...

Sometimes there are moments that make me seriously question my social skills. Despite the fact that I have been known to be selectively antisocial on certain occasions, thus giving an impression of being stuck-up and stand-offish, up to this day I consider myself rather outgoing and friendly, friendly in a way that even boyfriend notices with certain dismay that I’ll start a conversation with anyone who’d stop to talk to me (today’s encounter on my way to grocery store serving as an example). If I were to describe my personal skills, shy would be the last attribute I’d apply to myself, keeping in mind that the last time I said, half-mockingly, to a shocked by some previous statement Peace Corps volunteer that “I’m just shy”, I received a roaring laughter in response.

Yet in the last year or so my social skills with a particular group of people have been greatly challenged and have left me wondering whether I’m really, seriously, socially handicapped. I’m not sure what it is about this particular “click” (and these people have known each other since high school, some even longer than that), that makes me feel not only extremely bored, but uncomfortable, inadequate and tongue tied. I have to admit though that I have to sit tight and watch myself closely so that i do not accidentally blurt out some of my typical “you’re such a dear, bitch” comments that have previously given me a reputation of “stay away from her, she stings.”

I realize that I may not be the easiest person to decipher. And perhaps it takes a lot to get “in” with a group as exclusive as this one, where my “foreignness” has been long established to explain why I don’t like football or share an enthusiasm for certain movies, “don’t hate me for being a communist, since I’m not, hate me for being a flaming liberal” has been agreed upon, and I have patiently explained to one of the crew that foreign does not necessarily translate to vegetarian and answered “thanks, I’ll take the burger, like everyone else” to “we thought you did not eat red meat.” As a side note - I wonder if there’s something about people who choose not to eat meat that gives them away, and whether I look like one (I take my steak bloody, thank you very much).

I have, on several occasions, tried to be more “open,” and “social”, and “nice” and yet, time and again when hanging out with this particular group I have to ask myself what it is about them or myself that makes me feel so uncomfortable, whereas I’ve been a whole lot more comfortable with a lot more exclusive, more stuck up and out of my league people.

“You’re comfortable when you’re in your element…”

Considering my past encounters, my element seems to include a potpourri of drunken Kentucky miners, snobbish government officials, gay bartenders, random cab drivers, Russian sailors, US marines, college professors, my mother’s friends, my brother’s younger friends, retired grandmas, nearly bankrupt farmers, lawyers, real estate moguls, corporate pricks and republicans my grandfather’s age who usually end up finding my “liberal” ideas at such tender age nothing but endearing. I am, after all, irresistibly charming and plain adorable, even when I’m the dear bitch. So what gives?

The thing is, when I look at each member of this group separately, I actually like them for the most part, and would probably have quite entertaining conversations with them had I met them say in a bar, or a coffee shop, out in the street or a grocery store, where the “nice talk” was not required and I could find some common grounds beyond the usual “cocktail” questions. And yet, considering that the likelihood of running into them separately in aforementioned settings would be very very slim, I am limited to a few “nice” phrases of exchange when having to spend time with them, thus giving up the hope that I’ll ever be anything but a tag-along girlfriend who’s shy and does not speak.

So once I realized that I am more or less denied of “group love” from people that separately are more or less ok, and even quite likable, I simply stopped trying and/or looking at those situations as uncomfortable. I’ll be selectively antisocial if that means that I can go an entire evening without having to utter as much as a peep. And this weekend I had a great, “quiet” time amids the group noise, truly enjoyed the stay at the lake with the boat ride in the setting sun while watching fireworks, and when alpha male arrogance and bloated ego became too much to bear, I simply retrieved to play with the dogs, discovering, to my surprise, that dogs, of all sizes and shapes, actually like me and that I have, indeed, been a closeted dog person all this time without even knowing it.

What I Hide Behind My Bed...

Or what i will miss most, when I leave my current job.

“What’s this?” asked the Boyfriend, pulling out from behind my bed what turned out to be the latest of Martha Stewart Living Special Entertainment Issue featuring Fourth of July star spangled cake, and further tips on summer outdoor entertaining, fancy recipes, arts and crafts and gardening.

“I have to tell you, most people hide porn and Playboy behind their bed, you hide Martha Stewart?”

“Ummm. Oops. Patricia gave it to me when I was complaining to her about how bored I’ve become with food lately. She thought this might cheer me up a bit. Like I'd be caught dead reading this thing, when I have Playboy sitting out there in the open on my nightstand? Or do you actually see me as a homemaker, or outdoor entertainer?”

“Your cooking is pretty decent, but your outdoor entertaining would be something like ‘Come over and share the stoop with me on my back porch,’ if even that… ”

“…'And I’d be happy to let you leaf through one of the older Playboy issues that I scored at work.' Like there's something more entertaining than that. What am I going to do without them when I leave work?”

As ridiculous as it sounds, I do bring Playboys home with me from work. And sadly, this is what I will miss most about this establishment, this, and the wonderful people in the office, with who I share my love for such vain and shallow magazine.

A very happy, tall and skinny birthday

My most favorite person in the whole entire world recently returned from the army, having served his mandatory military “duty” to his county, which really is a regrettable and unrecoverable waste of perhaps the best two years of any young man’s life just out of college.

This favorite person, who is one of the cutest geeks and a rabid fan of soccer (think Juventus), speaks Italian and dreams of living in Italy one day, calls me “ma piccolo bambina ” – my little one, despite being the youngest of the two of us – this favorite person happens to be my brother, who just turned twenty two. The idea that my baby brother is already twenty two is a little scary – having the older sister syndrome, I will always see him as the baby of the family. Although the baby has all the smarts of the genius who will invent the next brilliant invention of mankind, that is, if he decides to finally give up slacking and get off his butt to put his brains to work.

Although as kids we were very close, we sort of drifted apart after I hit a certain age – blame the age gap and the fact that I was often absent for long periods of time and busy with one thing or another. One of my biggest regrets is that I didn’t spend enough time with him when I could and missed out on being there to watch him become who he is today – one of the greatest, smartest, funniest, kindest and tallest people that I know. But despite all the time that we’ve been apart, despite the fact that being from the same family, we are, after all, product of two drastically different environments, we have the strongest bond and an unspoken understanding with each other that only grows stronger as we grow older. We read each others' thoughts, finish each others' sentences, understand each others' gestures, laugh at each others' jokes before they're even told and team up against our mom, making fun of her in a most endearing way that always makes her laugh.

Happy birthday, my little tall and skinny genius. I miss you more than anything else. And since we’re already too old to wish each other jars of mayonnaise and jelly on our birthdays, I wish you a bottle of bourbon, since last time i checked, you were still the smartass who had not stopped drinking bourbon early in the mornings.

We Feel Fine

Check this out, people.

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

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

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

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

Untitled thoughts are better than whimpering

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

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

• Blog a little more, sulk a little less…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Washington, D.C.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrapping it all up

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

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

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

Practice makes master

or my measly attempt to comment back to Chi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I like the way she puts it:

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

and the way she ends it:

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

On hurt and anger

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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