Bourget. You KNOW you have chronic sinusitis. And yet, you bloody CHOSE to pierce your nose. Nobody forced you to shove a needle through your face. You decided you wanted a nose ring, even though every month or so, your face becomes an infected disaster of mucus and extraordinary swelling.
Who does that? WHO?
You do. For some reason.
Through my haze of anger, I vow to focus on gratitude. Gratitude for a body which has carried me to 38 countries (albeit many of them with great reluctance). Gratitude for a passport which opens the world to me. Gratitude for the people I've met along the way who've shown such support.
But gratitude doesn't come easily these days, even if I have so much for which I could be grateful. I catch myself complaining more oft than not, and my belly is a simmering pit of pissed off. Pissed off the moment I catch a whiff of exploitation. Or if someone asks if I've tried homeopathy on my face. Pissed off the moment I hear another person tell me how they don't believe in vaccines or antibiotics. Pissed off the moment I notice that yet another guest or volunteer has fallen ill at The Yoga Forest.
WHY? Why don't they hire ONE person to wash all the dishes? It wouldn't 100% prevent us from getting sick, but it would certainly help keep sickness from spreading. However, since in this caring community we all wash our own dishes -- putting all our hands and all our plates in the same four filthy bowls of water -- we lovingly spread our diseases all around.
I'm not a manager. I don't know how difficult it would be to hire someone to wash dishes.
But fuck. It can't be that hard. Can it?
I've been at the Forest nearly five months now. And girl be over it. Girl be counting the days until she packs Fat Ellie and escapes to Antigua to study Spanish in a homestay through Antiguena Spanish School. And has a toilet adjacent to her bedroom, a refrigerator she can use so that she can have milk in her coffee, and isn't living in the space she also works.
Five months is too long to live at my job. A few weeks is a challenge. Five months... oof. Five months has been over-fucking-whelming.
I went up to the common area to try to study Spanish this morning. And the volunteer on shift wasn't in the kitchen (which is fine -- we all need to flee to the toilet every now and then. Some more often than others), so the kitchen ladies came to me with all their questions.
"Aimee?"
"Si?"
"Cuantas personas para la desayuno?"
"Un momento, por favor," I put down my tarea and scampered into the office, quickly scanning the board to check how many guests were currently residing at The Forest.
"No mas de viente," I popped my head into the kitchen to inform Magda.
As soon as people know that you are a person with answers, you get barraged with questions. Regardless of whether or not you're "on shift." You're just always on shift. It's just part of your reality.
I'm trying to observe my state of perpetually pissed and not relate it too strongly to other people. Sure, there are some folks who trigger the anger more than others, but in the end, these are my emotions.
What can I learn about myself and my behavior by... by observing my anger? By being present to my anger? By not judging myself for experiencing this extreme emotion and not blaming others for inciting it?
I photographed Tammo and Noelle climbing the other day. And in order to get more than butt shots, I had to climb the wall first, lock in with a life-line, and then snap my photographs from above.
It felt so fucking cathartic to scream my way up the rock face.
If emotions were colors, I think anger would be a secondary color. Or a tertiary color. It feels like a combination of primary emotions.
Primary emotions such as fear.
Love.
Sadness.
So. What emotions am I brewing together to create this stew of anger?
Where does my anger have its roots?
In betrayal. Feeling utterly betrayed by my body.
In fear. In feeling like I can't trust my body to not give me pain ALL THE TIME, and like I can't trust myself to take care of my body.
In frustration. I'm bloody frustrated by a life wherein I can work thirty hours a week not make a dime. Sure, I have my circus tent and three vegetarian meals a day --
-- but I want money now, thank-you very much. I want to be paid for my work. In dollars, quetzales, pesos, euros, or any other manner of currency I can use to become a more independent lady. And this does not include "hugs," "love," or three vegetarian meals a day.
In sadness. In feeling like I've lost another home in The Forest. There was a moment, a rare, fleeting moment, wherein I thought this place could be a home for me.
But I don't feel that way anymore. I feel like this is just another place from which I can't wait to run.
So. Betrayal + Fear + Frustration + Sadness is what I've got burbling in my pot of anger.
I'm leaving the Forest before they close in May. I'm leaving April 20th. And my Spanish school in Antigua starts on April 23rd. And Girl won't be returning to her tent in The Forest anytime soon.
One more month.
So. Bourget. How are you going to accept this anger without allowing it to negatively affect those around you? How are you going to get the most out of your final month here? And, more importantly, how are you going to continue to give the most?
Good question, Bourget, good question. You... uh... think about that. And get back to me.
Also. Maybe ask someone else. Mulling over things in your own mind is all well and good, but get some perspective from people who know and love you.
I paint to deal with my anger. I study Spanish to keep myself occupied and feel productive. I buy plane tickets to find direction.
I bought a ticket from Costa Rica to Colorado for August 23rd. From Colorado to Quebec on September 25th. From Quebec to France on October 15th.
Girl be going back to Europe. To the land of cheese, wine, limited giardia, and unlimited (for now, at least) hot water and electricity.
Thank. God.
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