I haven’t blogged in a while – a long while. I debated whether or not I should really continue this project after getting back stateside, and I ultimately decided that I should. I enjoy writing, and this gave me an excuse and a published outlet to do just that. I envisioned documenting the move-in process of my apartment, starting my new job, settling into life in Michigan again, new opportunities and projects. I imagined poetry accompanied by photo essays, posted progress about my own cook book in the works, monologues about loving fall and metaphorical essays about shedding my own leaves and moving into the change of seasons…I saw an outlet.
However, my move-in date passed my by. As did the start date for my new job. As did all of the decorating and home-improvement project deadlines I had been setting, accomplishments in my new position, and somehow my birthday, too. Time flew, but it didn’t.
It’s almost been three months since getting back from Panamá. Three whole, little, long, short months. It feels like a lifetime and it feels like nothing at all. The existence of both of those feelings is the scariest thing I’ve ever confronted. Seriously, though: what the hell happened?
When I got back I set goals: serious, hard, inward-looking, but achievable goals. I was going back to dance, to biking, to writing and reading for enjoyment, to photo projects and cooking out of my cookbooks. I was going to take a pottery class and keep practicing Spanish. I knew that in moderation, all of these things were possible to balance in my life, even with a full time job. I’d done it before, and I could do it again.
But that wasn’t the case. Somehow, I fell into a really awful place of commuting to work, working, commuting home, watching Netflix while cooking dinner, watching Netflix while eating dinner, and then showering and going to bed. On days where nothing was on my calendar after work, that’s how it went – and how it goes, if I’m being totally honest. I fell into this god-awful unhealthy routine so quickly, convinced I was too tired and too sad to do much else.
But really, I am tired and I am sad.
I’m tired of waking up at 5:45 am to commute to work Monday-Friday, and it hasn’t even been a month yet.
I’m tired of prepping meals and washing the same Pyrex containers every single day when I come home.
I’m sad that I keep gaining weight, because I’ve been too lazy to exercise and then when I’m sad I don’t want to exercise, and it’s a really terrible cycle.
I’m tired of thinking that buying cute things for my apartment will make me less sad.
I’m sad that I’ve forgotten to send people cards and gifts on their birthdays since being back.
I’m tired of not having laundry machines in my apartment and going to the Laundromat, because on top of my 10 hour workday the last thing I want to do is sit in a Laundromat.
I’m sad that I bought a brand new bike and only rode it 4 times this summer.
I’m sad that I’m so hung up on leaving the Peace Corps still, even though I know the decision I made was well-informed, thought-out, and justified.
I’m sad that I’ve been terribly dishonest with most of the people in my life about why I left the Peace Corps.
I’m tired of pretending it wasn’t a big deal.
With the emergence of everything happening with BK and Christine Blasey Ford, the reason I left the Peace Corps has been weighing on me. I’ve been crying. I’ve been yelling. I’ve been angrier than I ever thought I could be. I’ve found myself avoiding people who stand with BK, them not realizing how doing so hurts me and so many women who share the traumatic lived experiences of existing in this world.
The worst part is, that when I left the Peace Corps and told all of my friends in Panamá that I was leaving, and even people at home that I was leaving, I was openly telling people that I wasn’t traumatized by what had happened. I told people it wasn’t a big deal, and that I was leaving because I was mad about how Peace Corps treated me when I reported it. And I was mad, I was absolutely furious with how my reported case was handled; I wasn’t surprised though. The Peace Corps isn’t exempt from the protocols of being a federal agency, and the Peace Corps isn’t exempt from bureaucratic nonsense (as I’d previously learned).
Despite that, though, I didn’t feel like I could just tell people how I felt about all of it: that I felt disrespected and uncomfortable in my community. That I felt like I had to sit on a huge secret for the next two years and pretend like my guard wasn’t constantly up, from that point onward. I mean, what happened wasn’t really that bad compared to what some women go through, and I figured everyone would think I was being dramatic, to feel as intensely as I did about it. That doesn’t matter though.
What matters, is that a man violated me and made me feel unsafe and uncomfortable. In a matter of minutes, an experience I’d worked insanely hard for and made sacrifices to bring to fruition had been ruined. My confidence was flattened. When I reported it I felt mistreated and silenced. It wasn’t but one week later that I was sitting on a plane, coming home, convincing myself the whole time that I was going to be okay with my decision in a month…two months…a year.
To this day, when I feel inclined to share what happened, I catch myself downplaying how I feel about it and making excuses for how and why it happened. I catch myself laughing at my reaction. I find myself giving other reasons for really wanting to come back to Michigan, instead of just being honest about what happened and why I’m back home.
It’s no wonder I’m not writing and photographing and launching myself into all of these projects involving self-expression and my personal health: I’ve been lying to myself and to so many people about what I’m actually feeling. I can’t write poems and make beautiful pictures when I have hate built up inside of me, directed toward a man that ruined my plans, that spat on the work I put into them, and that had no idea how his lack of judgment and restraint would ultimately affect me.
But isn’t that always the case? I can’t tell you how many friends and friends of friends I know who carry that same hate. It takes on the form of shame and guilt and apathy and depression and raw anger – because a man just couldn’t stop himself. Because a man was too drunk to stop himself even when we were careful. Because a man was too greedy to stop himself even after we boldly told him “no.” Because a man couldn’t stop himself and we were too scared to do anything about it, because women who do things about it end up hospitalized, killed, abandoned, and slandered.
Watching BK sit in that room and rage over his life being torn about for a whole ten days, because a brave woman stepped up and called him on his faults, has been infuriating. Does he not realize women all over this globe sit on that kind of rage for their entire lives? Does he honestly think he has the right to be angry? And for anyone involved in that process to say that the trauma the two parties have experienced because of the allegations is equal, is absolute garbage.
Like so many individuals across this country – men and women alike – watching that hearing and this situation unfold has been nothing short of painful. To understand the injustice is one thing, but to have lived it in any capacity is another.
When I came back to the United States, I wanted to forget about why I left Panamá. I wanted to forget about the way I was treated and how I felt brushed aside while I was on my way out of the Peace Corps office my last day there. I wanted to come home and start up again, happy and healthy and feeling motivated. I was confronted with a lot of realities when I came home: being broke, not having a place to live, not having transportation, job searching…I didn’t expect this though. I didn’t expect a national hearing validating a victim’s allegations against her assaulter, resulting in the most disgusting national dialogue I’ve ever heard, topped off with a string of distasteful jokes about sexual assault and reporting assault everywhere I look on social media.
Talk about triggered.
I made myself watch the live stream of the BK hearing.
I have read every article and expose on this process.
I have watched every video dissecting the statements both individuals made.
I’ve exhausted myself thinking and feeling about this situation, and I have concluded that, as I stated before, I am tired.
As tired people do, especially on their birthday, I spent this last weekend camping in Nordhouse Dunes. I turned my phone off and left it in the glove box. I sat by a campfire with a human that I love and drank boxed wine and listened to owls. We hiked Lake Michigan’s shoreline and spotted birds of prey overhead. We stumbled upon a magical dune-side covered in every species of mushroom I’ve never seen. We bundled up in sleeping bags and listened to soft raindrops on the tent cover. I was so at peace, and I didn’t want to come back.
However, work called me in on Monday morning, and now it is Tuesday, and I am already feeling angsty and angry again. As beautiful as my dune hideaway was, I cannot actually hide form what is happening. I cannot hide from the fact that this national outcry is making me feel things about my own lived experiences that I didn’t know I felt. I cannot hide from feeling strongly about assault and the silencing of victims. I cannot hide from my responsibility to do something about it.
However, I’m struggling with the ultimate question: what do I do?