Monday, December 7, 2015

It's Not Your Fault.

If I've learned anything in the last four and a half years, it's this:

It's not my fault.

The likelihood is that:

It's not your fault, either.

When others try to blame you for their problems, remember:

It's not your fault.

It's their own shit they need to deal with. It's how they tackle adversity. How they learn to cope with emotional stress. How they learn to have a conversation with others. How they learn to say what they mean. How they handle difficult situations, whether it's family, friends, work, money. How they invite conversation. It's them. It's not you.

You're probably a really good person. You probably mean really well. They, on the other hand, are probably short with you. They probably have a quick temper. They probably blame you, blame work, blame being tired. They probably don't give you a reason, just cut you off. Put you down. Tell you it's your fault. You pushed too hard. You probed. You instigated it. You tried too much. It's your fault, your problem. You picked the wrong time to talk. You forced the tequila down their throat, forced them to drive drunk. It's not them, it's you.

Whether it's a hand, a belt, a fist, a shove, a slur, a condescending sneer, a 1 am call flush with hatred, a snarl, a venomous name calling, a mean text, the infinite blame: it's not your fault. Their alcoholism is not your fault. Their inability to hold a conversation is not your fault. Their lack of motivation, procrastination, excuses, failures, poor choices, family, upbringing are not your fault. Their inability to take responsibility for their actions, to control their spending, or to control their temper is not your fault.

Shit gets hard when you grow up. It's not always fun. Cleaning the toilet is not fun. It's not your fault he doesn't like that chore. It's not your fault he prefers just one more round over finishing the painting. It's not your fault the diaper needed changing, the dog needed walking. Not your fault the spark plug had to be changed, the plumber had to come and he had to rearrange his schedule. It's not your fault he went to a concert instead of paying the bills. It's not your fault housework isn't fun. But it's not your fault.

Sure, we all have regrets or wish we could have done x, y, or z differently. But how our significant others treat us is never our fault. We make choices about how to enact the change we want in our lives. We decide how to treat one another.

You're probably both really good people. Deep down.

But first? It's not your fault.


Monday, November 30, 2015

Bittersweetness

You move across, innocence lost
All static and desire
You're blue in the face from navel gaze
You set yourself on fire

You strip down and lay yourself out
I know you can't fake it
But are you tired and naked?
Are you tired and naked?

Yeah, I'd sooner chew my leg off
Than be trapped in this
How easy you think of all of this as bittersweet me


R.E.M., Bittersweet Me (1996)





So this happened today, among other things. It's bittersweet. Bittersweet me. This is what I wanted, right? To sell the house and move on? Now that it's actually happening, it's tough. Damn tough. In the scheme of life, it's not all that awful. Relationships end. Houses sell. Possessions are divided. We move on. I'm not a Syrian refugee, or an Iranian refugee, or a Sudanese refugee, or a climate change refugee, or any one of the other people fleeing violence, tyranny, famine, extreme poverty, lack of natural resources.
I should recognize my privilege in the world and stop complaining. But that's not productive. One of the first rules of caretakers is that you must take care of yourself. When the plane is crashing, you put your oxygen mask on before your child's. Emergency responders treat their burns before they rush back into the fire. 
When your life is a meteor about to crash and explode into a thousand shards, causing mass environmental change, you don't stop to say, "Gee, someone else is in a worse position in life than me right now" and let it crash on you. You run. Or you freeze in a panic of terror, knowing unthinkable change is happening faster than you can plan your next move.
That's a long way of saying "Relationships are hard"... sometimes. Is there an effortless relationship? I think it's impossible but then I think of my Potatoface friend who, after almost a decade, consoles me with hope that it's possible for things to be simple - providing we acquaint ourselves with a complementary personality. Of course I know other people who get along swimmingly. They don't have the knock down fights where voices escalate above the din of a world gone mad. They don't reach into the depths of unutterable slurs, slinging curses from room to room. They don't re-write the history of how you got from there to here, and everything in between.  
But I have a difficult passion. I'd like to blame it on being an Aries. As much as I try to wrangle it into submission, the passion often overtakes sensibility. One minute, there's calm among chaos but faster than the tattoo needle scars your skin forever, my passion awakens. Sometimes this is great. At work, I love projects that I love. I will stand up for my municipalities and their leaders even when I'm doubtful. When that fiery email refuting a narrow perspective is sent two minutes too soon, it's not great. This passion makes relationships tricky. 
The same passion that instigated this life change is needling between utter sadness, hope for future change, and the acceptance that nothing - absolutely nothing - is permanent. When the fog of this bittersweet passion separates, a theater curtain pulled back for the opening act, I am hopeful I'll see the myriad lessons learned. I already sense myself correcting past mistakes as I move forward. Simultaneously, I recognize when I take us down a narrow rabbit hole of circular logic. I knew one of these days that the for sale sign would go up. The reality is quite different. How I handle this is how I learn from this.
So, what's the lesson learned? There's a for sale sign up in front of my house. It wasn't there when I left this morning. But there it stands, taunting me with my passion's failure. I know this is the right step to take; the caretaking I need to do is for myself. The suffering around the world is no less important, no less noble, but if I'm not taking care of myself, I'm no use to anyone else.
Still, it's bittersweet. The end to a dream we failed to realize together, accepting a plan not communicated, diminished hopes set in a bar too high to cross. One step forward in the direction towards "moving on". The potential that letting go of the house is letting go of our interconnected lives.
I'm tired. My emotions are naked, laid bare and stretched out in front of me. My foot has been in my mouth too many times. Chewing off my leg to spite my solar plexus - my energy source. And us? Both blue in the face. No one's happy. No one's an innocent anymore. Mud slung ceiling to wall to floor. This isn't easy for anyone. But here we are. Bittersweetness surrounds us, taking shape in the form of a for sale sign.  

Saturday, November 21, 2015

This Decay (a poem)

He said to me, "When did this decay start?" From recent conversations, it started at the beginning. A slowly crumbling decay. In September, I attended an open poetry workshop. I wrote this, based off the theme of "the elements".






My anger is red hot, burning from my Aries temper
Fueled by passion, jealousy, and immovable honesty.
Its flames light up my face
A radiating force field of one sided stubbornness
Finally admitting the slow decay of a relationship doomed.

Tears flow freely, the vital fluids that carry life forward,
Released.
Healing can start when the energy is spent.

Where is the oxygen I need
To sustain a beating heart?
The heavy air of our fights chokes me.

Ashes to ashes the fire from my depths meet the cool (eventual) end of life.
Returning each moment to the beginning,
A cycle of life and death, life and death.

Earth’s elements envelope me
Offering rejuvenating breath to free my soul,
Drowning my fear, suppressing the glowing embers of anger,
Baptizing me with newfound wisdom. 

We need decay to be reborn
Like the fire releasing the seed in an old growth forest.

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Thanksgiving... or giving thanks without a turkey. Or thanks without thanks.

Thanksgiving... a holiday favored by many. Me? I hate it. I've never liked turkey as far back as I remember. Even before I was a vegetarian, I didn't like turkey. My mom went through a phase where she made lasagna at Thanksgiving, which I appreciated. But turkey? Canned cranberries? Yams, candied or otherwise? Green bean casserole? Pumpkin pie? Hated them. Hated them all! Before I knew the joys of dousing myself in alcohol at family holidays, before I knew there was such a thing as homemade cranberry sauce, before I enjoyed a good and simply prepared green bean, before I understood how football or cooking work, I hated Thanksgiving.

There was something about overindulgence for the sheer purpose of overindulging in food while millions go hungry... something about the "traditional" foods we kid ourselves into thinking we need to make... something about overhyping a meal that never sat right with me. Of course as a kid I liked the cousins, the idea of feeling thankful, the ability to eat a lot of sweets and not a lot of the same old, same old. But as an older teen and adult, I didn't care much about Thanksgiving.

Until I joined the Peace Corps. My first year as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I spent Thanksgiving in my village. It was a regular day... any other day... and how do you really celebrate? Is it the actual day or is it the actual day in America that you recognize? The second year, I spent Thanksgiving - the Thursday in Fiji, Wednesday in America - with fellow Volunteers (and a Canadian) in town. We had a vegan celebration full of home-cooked food, largely cooked in a toaster oven, and sat around a cloth eating locally grown food we prepared ourselves, giving thanks for what we had survived (seriously, not an easy feat). My memories include laughter, fellowship, connection, comfort.

The next year, I was back in Wisconsin, celebrating Thanksgiving at a buffet at a restaurant. Granted, it was with my family. But... very different.

The following year, Thanksgiving became a holiday to celebrate. By then, I was in Vermont. Again, thousands of miles from "home", Thanksgiving was something to celebrate. There was laughter, fellowship, connection, comfort. We celebrated the next three Thanksgivings with friends who took me in to their family. I moved to Vermont to start a life with a boyfriend I thought was my end-all-be-all. His teachers-come-friends were mentors to me - the kind of "adults" I wanted to be, who raised their kids in the city with a quarter acre of garden, chickens, nature, imagination, public radio. The kind of parents who still knew how to have a good time and balance responsibilities of adulthood. The kind of parents who concert, vacation, and raise their kids to be conscientious participants of a world gone mad.

Celebrating Thanksgiving, or Sundays, or birthdays, or any day, really, with them was always an event. She plans the menu two months in advance. He acquiesces to spare a fight. We divvied up ingredients lists. We prepared kosher Thanksgivings full of seasonal foods and recipes that received the modern, artisanal, homemade treatment. So long, canned cranberries! Goodbye, canned green bean casserole! Sayonara, bland mashed potatoes! Hello everything seasonal, everything homemade. The old recipes with a new spin. The discovery that I liked sweet potatoes!

I had fun - hours of cooking, turkey prepared multiple ways, everyone contributing. Her parents and his parents were always there. The Dude and I there. Sometimes a brother and sister-in-law and a child I knew would be raised in the hippest of households. Occasionally the potential for a friend of an in-law's cousin's cousin to show up. Movies, football, course after course of delicious food, going round the table and saying "thank you" for something. Usually my thanks involved this family and their hospitality: a second family while so far from my own. Three boys is certainly different from the gaggle of girls I was raised among but kids are kids and youth is youth. And being thankful for our company and lot in life was enriched.

This year, there's none of that. I've been trying to avoid thinking of Thanksgiving completely. No advance plans. No parade. No knitting. No menus. No kiddos and board games. No root veggies. No Hunger Games movie. I shove aside the panic of not seeing Mockingjay Part 2 with the three people I've seen the first three movies with. I try in vain to ignore that I'll be alone this year. Instead, I push down the fear that I'm being replaced by the new me. My imagination says the Dude's new gal pal will take my place, giggling and happy and extroverted where I was shy, nervous, and too eager to pull my weight. I breathe out my sadness of not playing with the youngest boy, of not challenging the oldest to my limited football knowledge.

This year, Brett Favre is being honored. Outside of my family, this Vermont family is the only one I think will appreciate that moment. How do I find a bar? Do I make myself a special feast and scour internet pirate sites to find FOX? Do I get the dog a turkey bone and celebrate with her? Do I invite myself somewhere else, into someone else's family? Do I sit alone in the sadness that I've created for myself? How do I force myself out into the world to be adventurous, social, busy? Secretly, I have movies to watch (I'll even pay to rent Trainwreck), chores to do (paint the upstairs hallway? Hells yeah, drink in hand and music blaring), days of journaling to catch up on (and poems aplenty ready to make the page!) and the lazy motivation to tackle a hike with YannaDog (Belvidere Mountain at last!).

In reality, I know it'll be a combination of the above, mixed with the sad and guilt-inducing Skype call with my parents. Maybe I'll turn back a generous offer that I'll feel I've guilted the offerer into; relegate free Netflix flicks to the queue; and indulge Ben and Jerry's as my special meal.

Last week, I wished upon a falling star. As you can imagine, I made wishes. As you can imagine, wishes aren't happening and I'm still feeling stuck. I'm waiting for this year to be a distant memory. I'd like to think that I can give thanks this year for something. My health? The fortune that I'm not a Syrian refugee? The mounds of stuff accumulated in my house over four years? The health of my family? That I'm alive? What does one give thanks for when one's life feels perforated, spiraling out of control into an unrecognizable oblivion? That I can write a blog post where I reminisce about times when I've had too much food and fortune to appreciate?

But that is unfair for anyone to do. Those who can should be thankful every day for the fortunes we have. I was born white, middle-class, Christian, in a white, middle-class, Christian suburb in central Wisconsin. It's an enviable position for many.

This year... I'm thankful to be alive and in good health. I'm thankful my family is in good health and cares so deeply for me. I'm thankful I have a house that I own that provides me shelter. I'm thankful I've developed a support system (largely named Jessie and Jackie and Lost Nation Brewery) in Vermont. I'm thankful I have friends who stick by me all over the mid- and far west, despite everything all these years. I'm thankful my body doesn't rebel on me. I'm thankful I have a counselor whose healing has calmed my emotional tsunamis. I'm thankful I have the ability to choose so many options for my life...

Yet I'm sad and lonely and scared and confused and wishing I was seeing Mockingjay Part 2 and getting tipsy off wine and taking secret trips to the basement and sharing clandestine moments with a bearded weirdo whilst roasting root vegetables and eating homemade pies and watching football with an 11-year old whose knowledge far surpasses mine and building towers with the cutest four year old boss I'll ever have the pleasure of knowing. I'm missing the purpose of Thanksgiving. I'm giving thanks without a turkey this year and without a turkey substitute. Giving thanks without giving thanks, really. I'm glad I won't have to go to work. But I really, really want structure to keep my brain from flailing. This year has taught me about patience and even though I wanteverythingrightnowgimmegimmegimmeeverythingI'mowedamanababyajobIloveundyingfriendshipsNOWNOWNOW..........

I get it. Thanks means realizing time is all that matters. I can give thanks for seeing through the forest, into the other side, and knowing this is all temporary. It will pass and I will be be on the other side and someday this will be a nasty dream and my head will rise from the ashes and one of these days, I will celebrate Thanksgiving however I want to, on my own terms, and I can have that family on that corner lot and I can love it all and I will be thankful. I'm just taking my own circuitous route to get there. Turkey not included.

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

ICU, IUC


I’ve been on some form of hormonal birth control for twelve years. The Pill, the NuvaRing, the implant. Disposable packaging. Incremental solutions to an age-old issue. This fall, I decided to switch to a non-hormonal birth control, an intrauterine contraceptive, the IUC (formerly known as the intrauterine device, or IUD).

This post may be TMI but there shouldn’t be anything wrong with talking about birth control. The better prepared we all are, the more we all know, the fewer misconceptions there are about birth control, unintended pregnancies, and how women’s bodies work (see: Republican politicians).

So I decided to get an IUC, the non-hormonal kind. This was long overdue. The benefits of IUCs are many, including:
  •  Long lasting (they can stay in place for up to 12 years)
  • The lowest rate of pregnancy
  • Longer term, they may reduce cramping and lower menstrual flow

When I went on a hormonal BC, I did so because I felt I needed the regularity of my menses, smoother skin, safety of sex without pregnancy, reduced side effects of the dreaded PMS.

Three years ago, after many years of different birth control pills, I tried a longer-lasting method, the implant, a little device that is inserted into the tricep. Every month for 36 months, it released a little bit of estrogen. But it’s a weird concept. I never really felt it – it’s smaller than a tube of chapstick and it was in a place not commonly touched. I didn’t like the side effects I felt it gave me and when I stopped being sexually active with no plans in sight for getting pregnant, it was time for a different method.

So I decided to get an IUC. They've been making a comeback in the birth control world since a nasty recall in the 1970s tarnished its reputation. I wanted protection for the long term. I was sick of disposable packets and remembering to take a pill at the same time every day. I was sick of having my hormones manipulated.

Every woman’s experience with an IUC insertion is different. This is where my story takes shape. I didn’t read other stories until I was on the couch afterwards nursing my bruised ovary “researching” (read: Googling) others’ stories. The gamut was everything from near-death experiences to it being nothing more than a 30-minute inconvenience in an ordinary day.

I had a hard time. My experience was definitely on the side of painful. The T-shaped device gets inserted into the uterus. Doctors recommend taking ibuprofen; I didn’t take it an hour in advance but even so, the insertion was excruciating. There's two bad parts - first when your vaginal channel is measured to make sure the IUC can fit. Then, there's the actual insertion of the IUC. 

The pain in my left ovary was intense. I was nauseous, dizzy, lightheaded for two hours afterwards. Once they finally let me leave the clinic after an hour of rest and guided bathroom trips down the hall, I spent the afternoon on the couch, watching Maron, with ibuprofen and a hot water bottle on my abdomen vacillating between awake and asleep. The pain was worse than any menstrual cramps I’ve ever had, and then some.


I’ll be honest: I still get cramps. My menses is different – very different from regulated hormonal menses – and the flow is greater than I ever remember. But at least it’s my menses on my body’s schedule. And when I’m ready to try getting pregnant, it just needs to come out.

For a more detailed history of the IUC and a more detailed story of its insertion, check out this Jezebel article with links to other articles.

Friday, October 30, 2015

I'm taking a break from posts exploring my failed relationship to focus on values and issues related to  our local/ regional food systems. I just spent the past two days at the Annual Gathering of the Farm-to-Plate Network, Vermont's statewide network of state agencies, non-profits, education community, businesses, technical providers, farmers, and others connected to our food system. This is a phenomenal conference in its 5th year.

I attended a session on Thursday about values in our local/ regional food system. On Friday, I attended a session about scaling up the food system, featuring a variety of producers, from the small scale company sourcing 90 - 99% of its ingredients from Vermont to the Woodchuck cider rep talking about buying apples from Argentina and Washington state.

What are the values we place on our food system? Are they the same as labels? Does "Vermont made" carry the same weight as "organic", "local", "grassed", "GMO free", etc.? An example came up about someone who comes to the Vermont Food Venture Center from Virginia to make a hot sauce with jalapeƱos and mangos then sells it back in Virginia under the label "Vermont made". He doesn't sell it here or use Vermont ingredients, but he makes it here. Does Woodchuck carry the same value as Citizen Cider or Eden Ice Cider?

What does "local" mean anymore? If none of your ingredients are from Vermont, is it still local? If you try to source a product from within a certain number of miles, is that local, even if it's not from a geographic boundary? If you live in Swanton or Newport, buying from Quebec is "local", more local than buying something from Bennington or Brattleboro. Conversely, if you're in Brattleboro, New Hampshire or even Mass. is "local". In Bennington, it could be New York grown products. Local is all relative.

I heard an economics professor talk about how he hates vehicle miles traveled labels put on products. But why not? I use my example of my co-op: it favors products that are organic, rather than conventional. Is buying a butter from Maine made with organically produced milk "better" than buying Cabot butter? It depends on your values. If we place a higher value on organic but need to ship the product hundreds of miles, what good does that do our environment? Our transportation costs have just increased, thus decreasing our air quality and emitting numerous pollutants into our environment. And, we shift the cost burdens onto our road network and transportation system while perpetuating the idea that we need fossil fuels to power our economy. So while that farm is using organic practices (that may or may not be ecologically sound), any environmental benefit is essentially offset by shipping costs.

"Organic" isn't necessarily better if the organic practices aren't ecologically sound. Sure, a farm may not be using pesticides or other chemicals, but if the farm is still using tilling practices, that is just as harmful for soil and water quality as no-till. And again, what is the benefit? Sure, you don't use chemicals but if your tilling reduces your soil health causing increased run-off and microbe demise, what's the difference?

I would prefer to buy Cabot butter, and I would prefer to buy it from my co-op. At least I know that my neighbors are getting a paycheck. I know that my state is benefitting. I know that my rural countryside is being protected. All of us who live in Vermont NEED that rural aesthetic. We need the working farms. We need the Cabot farmers. Without them, we don't have the working landscape that drives our tourism economy. We don't have the people to come here. We have the trees, the picturesque villages, the rolling hillsides, the cows and barns. You don't have that in New York City or Brooklyn or Boston, so you come here. If our farms can't make a living, then what do we have? We have those city dwellers building McMansions on our beautiful hillsides. We have Wal-Marts that can move in. But my co-op doesn't carry that product so I must go to the chain supermarket.

To me, knowing that my dollars go to support my neighbors and fellow Vermonters is far more important than importing food. Ultimately, I think we need to be able to feed ourselves. It's great that Jasper Hill Farm is able to sell internationally. It's great that breweries are entering New York City markets. It's great that Sweet Rowen Farmstead and Harlow Farms are able to sell at markets in Brooklyn. But we have far too many people here in Vermont that have never heard of Jasper Hill or Sweet Rowen. We continue to import food products here in Vermont while we export similar products. Many Vermonters can't afford to buy those premium products. And yet, we look at the ability to enter the out-of-state market as the panacea and the gold standard.

We have a real hunger problem in Vermont. And I think we're about to have an identity crisis. What does it mean to be a Vermont company or a Vermont product? It's great that we have businesses that can sell and make such a premium off of products sold out of state. But again, at whose expense? It's still our roads that bear the brunt of those vehicle miles. It's our air quality. It's our water quality. It's our soil health here in Vermont. It's our standard of living. It's our wages. I love that businesses are expanding. But given our hunger issues here and that the markets ARE NOT tapped out with local products, shouldn't we place a higher value onto our local businesses so they can thrive HERE? And if people can't afford the products made here, we're failing!

It's a personal struggle that isn't at all easy. I want to support my local businesses but at the same time, I want them to share my values. When my local brewery spot runs out of my favorite beer because they've just shipped their kegs to "the City", that turns me off. I'm a regular here; I want to know that you're looking out for your regulars. I want to now that you share my values... that you appreciate those of us who supported you while you were getting started and will continue to support you even after "the next big thing" hits the market. That has to mean something, right?

It's not easy... and I don't envy any business for having to make that decision. But I think as an entrepreneur, you have to be willing to take a chance, and you have to be willing to defend the choices you're making. If it's merely about the bottom line, as a consumer, I can't support that. I want to know that you're looking out for our community the same way that I'm looking out for my community by supporting you financially.

At the same time, I would like producers to get creative. The easy stuff is done - the market is saturated by salsa and hot sauce (I was so glad to hear this validated! I said this three years ago!); we have produce and bread and dairy, even plenty of alcoholic & non-alcoholic beverages. NOW WHAT? What are the products that we don't have enough of? Think of a typical meal and what the average family eats: do we have that available locally? And, is there more than one option? That's the other thing - competition can be good. As consumers, we want to have choices! We want more than one option. So what's next? What else can be made or packaged or processed? This is a challenge I throw out there. And, can it be organic? Can it be local? Can it be ethical? Can it be affordable?

This is the challenge the next generation of entrepreneurs faces. And by next generation, I mean both young and the next crop of people with an idea. Let's see what can happen! It's exciting, and it's hard. There's no easy answer. But I would love it if we, as a state, could pull together some standards by which we measure our food system. It's not enough to say that our goal is 10% "local" by 2020; we need to know what that means. We need to consider the triple bottom line and then some: we need to know that wages are fair, ecology is a factor, and that Vermont means something really special... really uniquely "Vermont". We have those values, but can we define them for our food system?

Friday, October 16, 2015

4 years later...

It's been almost four years to the day since I've written a blog post. An email reminded me I even had a blog. So much has happened in those four years but I'm finding myself back at the place I was. In January 2011, I wrote about readjusting to life back in the U.S. after being a Peace Corps Volunteer. Those days in Fiji are a distant memory. It took many years to not think about the people, smells, sights, and day-to-day activities every single day. What I'm struggling with is how I'm now back at where I was, readjusting to a new place, only I'm in a different location and a completely different state of mind.

I currently live in Vermont, in a small, rural northern town. I own a house I'd like to sell. I moved here with someone I loved and with whom I thought I could start a life. I have a job in my field that I loved, but now struggle to focus on, finding myself needing to be an advocate rather than settling for the political compromise. I don't know what my next step is. I have the option to go anywhere, do anything. Does life always upheave all at once?

And yet, I don't have options. I'm constrained by financial reality. I'm constrained by fear. I'm terrified to be separated from the pup that is my best friend. I'm haunted by moving to this beautiful, lonely place with someone I don't recognize anymore. We live together but we're worlds apart. I don't know how or when it started to feel so distant but when I'm not feeling scared, anxious, or incredibly sad, I don't know how to feel. I don't know whether to change everything or to keep some pieces constant.

Vermont is a wonderful place. It's stunning. People are laid back and easy. Everything is hyperlocal because it HAS to be, not for any gimmick. People are hardy and tough. It isn't easy to live here. Sometimes I recall my days as a PCV. I live 20 minutes from town and the silliness of driving to town for a slice of pizza because I'm too lazy to cook gets me every time. I rely on the car, which after four years still seems unbelievable to me. We don't have the simple pleasures out here that being in a town or city offers.

My last posts were largely about environmental issues. Two summers ago, the Ex and I had a garden plot. Big dreams we weren't prepared to realize. One afternoon when we were working the land, we had two of his friends visit us. We started talking about a documentary they watched about the plastic island in the ocean. The Ex decided to tell them about me drinking out of a Styrofoam cup at an event the week before. They were incredibly offended. Without knowing anything about me or my experiences, they proceeded to ridicule me for this action.

What they didn't know, or understand, or care to hear, is that the event I attended was a summit with others from our area to talk about the future of the "Northeast Kingdom", the three northeastern counties in Vermont which are the most rural, dispersed, and financially challenged. Yes, I drank coffee out of a Styrofoam cup. Did I buy the cups? No. But one of the things you learn as a Peace Corps Volunteer is how to integrate. To refuse to drink a cup of coffee among the diverse attendees of this summit would have been elitist of me because I was better than Styrofoam. I never want myself to be perceived as "better than" someone else. Could it have been a teachable moment? Of course.

Rereading that post about having to think about every single piece of refuse in Fiji reminded me of that exchange. I was made to feel like an awful person when in reality, this couple had absolutely no idea what I had been through or how I live my life today. My house is heated primarily with wood, a renewable energy source. I despair when I have to drive for things or needlessly drive around. My trash is minimal and I recycle everything as much as possible. I always carry my reusable bags and I refuse receipts when possible. I don't buy things like paper napkins or paper towels or plastic bags. I compost. I'm an incessant re-user and primarily buy things secondhand. I buy organic, from co-ops, direct from farmers, and from local businesses as much as possible. I try so hard to minimize my footprint.

Why does this story matter? In the scheme of life, it doesn't. But reading that post from 2011 reminds me that I am on path. I don't need the judgement of others to justify my actions. Not being born in the Northeast Kingdom means I need to integrate if I am ever to be respected or heard. In the scheme of life, me drinking out of a Styrofoam cup led to an awareness about the type of people I want to be surrounded by. Being thrown under the bus by my Ex was something I didn't expect but showed me his true colors. (Since then, he's thrown my entire personality under the bus, even specifically mentioning that couple.) In the long run, it was one of those things that had to happen.

As we work to untangle our lives, I've been thinking more and more about my time in Fiji. That post in 2011 made me think I was on track to do something really profound and to achieve the plans I had in my life. The separation from my Ex was a serious detour. I will not have a family by age 30. I will not be in a career that will last the rest of my life. I'm not yet the person I wanted to be - or want to be -, but I'm getting there. I'm re-learning who I am.

My life has taken a very unexpected course. It sucks and it's not easy. Every day is a challenge. I teeter between tears and sadness, anger and betrayal, jealousy and heartache. I'm not yet independent and strong but I'm on the road to recovery. Breakups aren't easy, especially when you've invested so much of your life in someone else.

I was so much wiser four years ago. People change. We're not static beings. I realized that then. I'm again in a weird grey area - do I stay here or do I go? Vermont has grown on me. I love it here, simply put. But I miss my family, my friends, my social support in the Midwest. I miss the conveniences of being in a city. I miss the ability to realize minimizing my impact on the environment. I mean, really, urban areas have a lower carbon footprint than rural areas! (We tend to just ignore that fact here in Vermont because we're surrounded by trees.)

This post is rather pointless, but it has made me think about using this as an outlet to sort through the tough questions and issues in life, and to document the readjustment of this phase of my life. My life is very surreal right now and rather absurd. Maybe one day I can write about it more. I wish I had an instruction guide for how to go through a separation where you still live with the person and he's moved on very quickly. Especially as an introvert... living in an extroverted place full of adventurous people during tumultuous change can be overwhelming for quiet, shy, homebodies like me. Our tendency is to pull in even more.

I need to repeat what I wrote four, almost five, years ago, because really, we repeat ourselves in life, and I'm back to where I was four years ago:

Am I readjusting?  Slowly.  Slowly.  I’m moving forward, and that’s a good sign