automatic sinks and other weird things

Automatic sinks and other weird things

3/9/12

Remember when you were younger and people told you that when you grow up you could be anything you want to be? When I was in elementary school I wanted to be an artist, I thought being strict about coloring inside the lines qualified me for the Met, when I found out more was required, I started switching goals. There was journalism, photography, lobbying (I was really addicted to Annette Bening’s character in The American President), writer, pediatric oncologist, UN worker, art historian, but through most of that, and most of college, I knew that first I would join the Peace Corps. I liked the idea, of moving to Africa (I actually chose that one) and working in a community, of sacrifice in order to learn so much. After years of preparation, I got invited to join. That was about one year ago exactly.

My how time flies.

A lot has happened in that year, and more specifically in the 9 months I’ve been in service. I’ve changed, my relationships and friendships have changed, and my idea of what is and is not clean has changed. I can greet you in Bambara and tell you where I’m going, I now know enough French to eavesdrop and yet not enough to really get what you are talking about. I’m different.

All of that is coming to a close. At this moment I am laying on carpet (!!!) in the middle of Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris (and it is like 40 degrees outside; I so dig it). I’m on my way home. In about 20 hours I will touch down in San Diego and be swept up into the loving arms of family. And then I will probably dramatically fall apart, but that’s another post.

I found out this week that I have been medically separated from Peace Corps. It was a decision made by Peace Corps Washington on my behalf. Between Tuesday and Friday I moved out of site, said my goodbyes, filed all my paperwork, closed up bank accounts, and packed up all my stuff. Needless to say, it’s been a wild ride.

There will be a lot of rumors floating about regarding why I left, why it was so hush hush and I didn’t really tell people. Peace Corps Volunteers love a good rumor, and I fully encourage the outrageous, but just in case you want the truth, here we go.

It’s true that a month ago I fell down the steps and had a nasty fall. I severely bruised everything from my knee to my toes. I have a blood hematoma in the middle of my shin and bruising that took over three weeks to heal. I’ve been on all sorts of meds, and its still there, still tender.

But that is not why its been advised that I leave Mali. Or at least, that is not the only reason.

Once upon a time there was a little girl who was always a loner, always watching other people, always quiet, and when she was old enough, always with her nose in a book. She was a good student, a well-behaved teenager, and an ambitious person in general. It’s like she had it all, the good family, the NYU acceptance letter, the boy. But like most things, nothing is as it appears. Her mom called her a duck, smooth and calm to the world, and peddling like hell underneath just to stay afloat.

For me, everything came to a head fall of my sophomore year of college. I had just transferred schools and was more miserable than ever.  After reaching what I’m sure had to be a nervous breakdown/severe anxiety attack I begged my mom for help, for advice, for something that would prevent me from walking out of school and never looking back. That’s when I started therapy. That’s when the dark clouds started to part, that’s when the person everyone thought was an Eeyore suddenly blossomed into Tigger and surprised them all. After a year in therapy and two years on anti-depressants, I was let go. I had gotten better. I had to see if I could fly solo.

It was only four months after stopping the medication that I started my Peace Corps application, but I knew I wanted it, I knew it would be something I fought for. And I did. I fought for just under a year and a half to get accepted to serve. I fought those who questioned my decision and those who thought I was crazy. I ran straight at it with force.

And then came my worse fear. The depression caught up with me. It crept into my life and starting hanging on, infiltrating my days and nights.

It started in December but I blamed it on being away from home during the holidays. January came and I swore it was just a phase. But people started noticing. My neighbor would look at me and say, “We just need to cheer you up! You look so unhappy.” I was getting sick a lot. And tired. I kept more to myself. The English teacher I work with started giving me more time off to get well, finally resulting in a full week off just to rest. I knew something was up. I was in seventh grade English one day and we were playing Twister, teacher and students, we were learning colors and directions with one Twister mat in a dusty classroom with a dirt floor. It was great. Or at least I knew it was great, but even when I laughed, even when I took their picture all entangled in each other, it was as if I were just hovering over the classroom and not really experiencing anything that was going on. That’s when I knew I was slipping for real.

I called the medical office and made an appointment to talk to someone. I voiced my concerns and my history. The med office took note and scheduled for me to have a consultation with someone who worked in Washington, one of the counselors there. I got a phone call from her and we were able to chat only to know that we would need a follow up. Our next conversation was scheduled for the following week (what would be last Friday). In the meantime I continued talking to the Mali med office. I wanted them to help me with a plan, with a way to tackle depression in a holistic manner. I didn’t just want medicine and be sent back to site, to me that wasn’t fixing any of the problems. I know how important diet and exercise are to health, but in a country entering a hot season where temperatures reach upwards of 120 degrees, how was that going to work. And diet? Parts of Mali could be experiencing severe famine this year, and the price of food is skyrocketing. I wanted a plan to include these country specific quirks. Sure, Peace Corps needs its PCVs to be flexible, to bend, and be prepared for anything. But this was my health, my sanity, my service, I at least wanted to hear a rough idea of what to expect.

Instead, once I voiced these concerns DC thought being medically separated would be best. Peace Corps can’t make any guarantees, and they can’t give me the counseling services I want and need to make a full comeback. So they are sending me home where I can control what I eat, how I work out, my therapy, and get back to someone I like.

I know that this is what is right. I know that nothing should ever come before personal health. I know that a lot of Peace Corps is luck. You get lucky if you don’t have a family emergency that takes you away, or don’t get sick, or don’t lose yourself or your sanity in the time of your service. Sometimes there is no control over that. Sometimes you have to love it all enough to let it go.

That is not to say this hasn’t been hellish. Because, let’s be real, if you know me, you know this is killing me. I feel like I’ve failed, something I just don’t tolerate. I feel wimpy and fragile. I feel like I really am crazy because I can’t control my own thoughts. I’ve let everyone down, including myself.

And then there was saying goodbye to all my PCV friends, and of course the Goodfellas. It broke my heart. I’m a big proponent of saying that if you are good enough friends you’ll stay in touch no matter what, and I totally believe that, but leaving them there felt like we were separating forever. They are such wonderful people, I know that they will do amazing things and the world better be ready for some great future leaders because they are going to be a force of nature. I just didn’t want to leave them.

See, it’s been crazy. And exhausting. And stressful. But it’s happening.

So here I am. In Paris. Cold because I’m sitting near the big windows to watch the planes land, contemplating making another bathroom trip because this is the western world and we are talking automatic sinks and filled soap dispensers and all kinds of crazy stuff.

I don’t know what the future will hold for me now. I don’t know what life after such an abridged journey abroad will be like. And maybe the point is to find the beauty hiding around the corner. I’ll keep an eye out.

P. S. I didn’t get a chance to post this in Paris, my 15 minutes of free internet ran out, but I want you to know that I made it to San Diego and am now safe and sound at home with my parents and sister. More to come…