Flashback to Mizak. And why I'm essentially Audrey Hepburn.

Reader,

I was just flipping through the journal I kept in Haiti and stumbled across this entry: 

11/16/15 

"I kind of want to try living off of boiled potatoes for like two weeks just to see what the Irish potato famine was like."

That's the entire entry. 

Profound, Sadie. Really profound. 

It's raining here today, which I love.

One day in Mizak (the little town up in the mountains of Haiti) it started pouring at like 4:30 pm. We quickly packed up all of our stuff from outside. Laundry, chairs, dishes, and bustled it into the house. The door of the cookhouse was firmly locked and then we retreated into the house. Our poor little dog was left shivering under the awning of the front door.

It was freezing. 

There is no electricity in Mizak so the house was incredibly dark. We lit candles and sat around damply. Not saying much at all.

After awhile I just went to bed. Bundled into as many layers as I could.

Side note: I wasn't living with Lee. I was staying with some of his friends, but when I first got to Mizak Lee had given me a blanket.

It's pretty warm in Mizak most of the time, but I was used to Port au Prince where it is HOT. The family I was with gave me a sheet to sleep under. Which was fine. When paired with my blanket. 

But on this night, this particularly rainy night, I was feeling very cold indeed. 

I tucked the blanked around me, and doubled up the sheet. Wrapping it over the blanket for added insulation. 

Sometime in the night I woke up to the sound of raindrops...in my room. 

Yes, there was a leak in the roof directly above me. 

Oh God.

The sheet was no good. Soaked through, but the blanket had miraculously stayed dry, so I scooted as far away from the leak as possible, while still being on the bed. Very pathetically huddled under my one little blanket. 

So needless to say, today I feel very appreciative of the lack of leaks above my bed here in Oregon. 

I do however have two leaks in other areas of my room, so I don't consider myself too much of a princess. 

Okay that's a lie. I'm a total princess. 

My new style is what I call the "Audrey look". It means I try to look as much like Audrey Hepburn as possible. Though she was like 5'7 and had gorgeous hair. Whereas I'm short and my hair is...well. 

Still, princess all the same.

Even if my fancy, designer clothes come from secondhand stores, and I'm lacking in friends because I act a bit too aloof. Seriously, everyone in my class just sort of stares at me blankly as I waltz into the classroom, Juicy Couture bag in hand, taking off my Audrey sunglasses and gazing around at my subjects with my head held high.

What can I say? I love playing dress up. 

--S

Starlings

Dear R,
Here is part three of the story I wrote you.
--S

III

T

I can see her car from a few miles off, pulled to the side of the road. I push 75 mph as I approach, and as I slam on my brakes to stop the car behind me blares its horn. I jump out onto the highway so quickly that It’s a miracle I’m not hit.

The March air is freezing, and I didn’t bother to grab a jacket on my way out. I can see that my sister is crying. Her arms are draped over the steering wheel, and her head is buried in them. She doesn’t notice me.

B

I’m crying embarrassingly loud. There is snot on the sleeve of my sweater, and I am positive my eye makeup is in puddles. But I can’t stop. It just keeps hitting me like waves. Washing across my mind. He didn’t even say anything as I walked out. Just sat there at the stupid breakfast table, staring at his hands. And it was in that moment that I wondered if he ever cared like I did.

T

I rap my knuckles on her window, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, trying to stay warm. It is beginning to snow.

B

Someone knocks on the window and I look up. Thomas is standing there, spring snow drifting around him in the cloudy sky. I stare at him, and he yanks the door handle impatiently. It is locked.

“Open the door!” He yells through the glass.

I unlock it and he swings it wide before clambering in, practically on top of me.

    I scoot over as much as I can without actually sitting on the center console as he slams the door shut. He turns to me.

“It’s fucking freezing outside.” He says.

T

Her face is streaked in black makeup, eyes all puffy and read. And she’s still beautiful.

“Here” I say, lifting the hem of my t shirt and wiping a few tears away for her. She’s just looking at me. Dumbfounded. As though a stranger just climbed into her car, and not her...what am I to her?

I clear my throat. The snow has turned to sleet, making spattering noises on the windshield. I don’t know what to say. We’ve been through everything together. She is my best friend. A friend, and a sister, and this other thing that I really can’t explain. She has kept by my side when it’s felt like none of the world would. And what I realized as I left the house after her, what I’m beginning to realize now, is that that ending it today would be ending one of the biggest pieces of me.

And if all of this isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

B

His features soften and his endless, hazel eyes are slightly hidden behind the snow on his lashes. I expect him to say that he is sorry. And that we should still be close. Friends, just not all of the other stuff, but if I need time that’s okay. And that I shouldn’t wait for him, because we are never going to happen. I’ve got it all mapped out in my mind. Every word, and I hold my breath, waiting for my heart to officially break.

.    .    .

“I love you.” He says. A flock of starlings surges outside as the sleet turns to rain.

It's just so wrong.

R,

Here is part two. From Thomas’s point of view.

--S

II

Who expects to ever have to break up with their sister? How can you possibly prepare yourself for something like that? It’s not my fault. She just waltzed through the front door one day, snow in her hair and eyelashes, carrying overstuffed bags, and my dad walking behind her, introducing us. “Beth, this is your new family.” He said.

“Hi.” She said, looking me right in the eye. And that was all it took.

I’d never felt anything like that for anyone.

Bethany moved out of the house last spring, after her senior year ended. She just drove off ten minutes ago in the Volvo Dad got her for graduation.

And I’m up in my room staring at the only real photo I have. You know, the kind that are actually printed out. Not something saved on a phone.

It’s a picture of my sister, Bethany. She hates it when I call her that. She says we’re not really brother and sister. That it doesn’t count.

But trust me, it does.

In the picture she is looking at me out of the corner of her eye. There is snow on her long lashes, like the first time I saw her. I took it before anything had ever happened between us.

I don’t understand how you can love someone like a sister and in another way too, at the same time, and I don’t really know if I even understand the difference, because who the fuck expects to be put into a situation like this? I know that life is unfair. But this? How come the person that I decide to love had to be my dad’s daughter?

We’d come home from school, make Katie a snack, get homework out of the way, and then Mom and Dad would come home.

And while my parents fought upstairs, and Katie watched TV, Beth and I would kiss for hours, locked in the hall closet. Coat hangers falling down around us like rain, and nothing but breath and love between our bodies.

It was like a game. Exciting and terrifying all at once. And so wonderful, to be that crazy about someone. Knowing that you could do anything as long as you had them by your side. Knowing that they made you infinite.

I run my thumb across the glass frame of her photo.

I’ve never in two years told her that I love her. I should have, but I just sort of figured she already knew.

It’s wrong. It is really wrong. We’re not even step siblings. We are full blood relatives. It’s not the kind of thing anyone would ever accept. I don’t even think that I can accept it. Because it is fucked up.

But God, I love that girl.

I swear, I really am sorry.

My Dear Reader,

Here is another short story. A weird I short story. Not that the others weren't weird. 

Anyway, I hope you find it interesting.

This is only part one. There are two to follow. 

--S 

I

We’re sitting at the kitchen table because, yes, the house is big enough to have both a kitchen, and dining room table. Forgive me for thinking that’s a bit ridiculous. It’s mid afternoon and the sunshine coming through the windows is really warm, even though it’s March, and last time I was outside, a few hours ago, it was freezing. Thomas’s hands are flat on the table, and so are mine, like we’re in the middle of an interrogation. We’re looking each other dead in the eye.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” It’s me talking here. My brow is all furrowed. Something I didn’t notice I did before Thomas pointed it out to me one day.

He’s got tawny brown hair, and a straight nose. Like mine, but my hair is reddish. He’s got my father’s eyes. Thomas swallows hard, and then parts his lips to speak. I close my eyes and pray that he will stop talking. “I just think...I just think we need to stop.”

“But why--”

“Bethany.”

I shake my head, even though I do know exactly what he means.

“It’s not…”

And then a bird hits the window. We both look. It’s lying on the ground, looking dazed, and I feel for it. I feel like I just slammed into a window myself. Like I can’t breathe and my head's on fire, and how, how, how can this be happening to us?

After a while the bird ruffles its feathers and flies off.

If only it were that easy.

“It’s not right.” He continues. As though the bird thing didn’t even happen.

I pull my hands from the table and clench them together in my lap. The bird left a little smudge on the windowpane, and Carol, Thomas’s mother is going to have a hissy fit, and because I am pretty sure she’s got OCD. Like, bad OCD. Then my dad will come home with their daughter Katie, and Carol will be in a tizzy and she’ll snap at poor little Katie, because Katie is only five and doesn’t have enough sense to go hide out in her room like Thomas and I used to when I still lived here. And then my dad and Carol will argue, because they are always arguing.

I look back to Thomas. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of me. Hazel eyes. My dad’s eyes. But he has Carol’s tawny hair, and didn’t I mention all of this already? I feel tears swarming up in my eyes, and stinging me like bees. “I--” I begin wiping them away with the tips of my fingers, trying not to smudge my makeup. “I stayed for you.”

We’re both quite attractive, Thomas and I. We got the good genes I guess. Because, no offense to Katie, but she’s not the cutest of kids. Not by a long shot. And I know it’s bad, but neither Thomas nor I like her that much, though he’s known her way longer.

See my dad knocked up my mom right after he got engaged to Carol. Why Carol stayed with him after that I have no idea.

So I’m six months older than Thomas. We’re a grade apart because I’m one of the spring birthdays of my class, and he’s one of the autumns of his. We went to different schools for a long time. I lived with my mom until just two years ago when she decided that running off with some guy was a lot better than taking care of her daughter. So yeah, that’s when I moved in with my dad, and Carol, and Katie.

And Thomas.

I’d never even met any of them except my dad, and I only used to see him about twice a year. Moving in with them sucked, especially at first, but as time went on I began to realize that I’d never felt like I had a family before them. Kind of sad isn’t it? Not having a real family until you’re fifteen.

“I stayed for you.” I repeat.

“I know. I know.”

“I gave up Princeton for you!” I didn’t mean to say it so loud.

He hangs his head. Like he really is sorry, and I know that he is because Thomas is one of the most honest people I know.

You can’t possibly understand what it is like. Coming from living in a shit neighborhood with your crazy, inattentive mother, to the suburbs and living with your wealthy family that you barely knew existed before. And you can’t understand what it’s like to feel so downtrodden and then thrown into a nice, private high school where you don’t know anyone but your half brother.

And then suddenly your half brother is letting you sit with him and his friends at lunch, and he’s talking to you like you’re a real human being, and he’s showing you around your new town. Your half brother who’s got these eyes, and this tawny hair, and a perfect nose, even though I already mentioned all of that.

I’m just sitting there wondering and wondering where it went wrong, and the answer is that it was wrong from the beginning. We just didn’t care.

“Beth. I’m sorry. I just feel like it’s really not okay.” It’s like he read my mind.

“You seemed pretty okay with it when we were screwing on the bathroom floor.”

Okay maybe I didn’t mention that part yet. About eight months after moving into my new home, Thomas and I were instructed to babysit Katie while Dad and Carol went out for lunch, and shopping, and whatever they do after they’ve had a particularly bad fight the night before.

Katie was watching TV in the family room, something about cartoon, peter pan, super hero bullshit. And Thomas and I were bored, so we were wandering around the house, because it’s so big that you can do that as a form of entertainment. Or at least I can. After having lived in that shit place with my mom for so long. Yeah, I know I mentioned that already too. I was sixteen and he was almost sixteen and we were just walking. Not saying a whole lot. We ended up in my dad and Carol’s bathroom because it’s gigantic. Like seven shower heads, and a jacuzzi bathtub, and an entire wall of mirrors.

Thomas just reached forward and touched the tips of his fingers to mine. And then, I don’t know, there was just a lot of pulling at each other’s clothes and towels being thrown on the tile floor so that it wouldn’t be so hard to lie on. We weren’t very good at it because neither of us had done it before. But after two years we’ve gotten a lot better.

I exhale.

Time, Life, and Death

R,
I am finally in the library. I just feel so exhausted. Like I never have enough time in the day, and I know everyone says that. But it's just become so real. 
I spent the last year or so avidly believing that time did not exist. That instead of a linear path to be followed, our lives are like looking at the page of a book. It's all laid out right there, and we are constantly living every moment that we will ever live.
Don't confuse it for fate, or destiny. That's not what I mean at all. I just mean that I never had fear of loss, or change, because I believed that I would constantly be in each moment always. So loss did not exist.
But over the last couple of weeks I feel that time has reentered my perspective on life. And not at a "normal" pace either. It is speeding by me so quickly that I can barely breathe. I look back on Haiti and it feels that I was there for a mere second, Christmas passed and I don't even remember half of what happened.
I'm stumbling over my own feet, being dragged along by a train on a track.
Maybe because since high school I felt a bit stagnant, and now it's all catching up to me.
I'm trying not to let it make me irritable. But I get so stressed and anxious now that I find myself reacting far to severely to things.
I find solace in the library. And in writing.
Creative writing lets me disappear into another world, so forgive me for posting so many excerpts and short stories. I just need it right now. It is a form of therapy.
I do not want to check out. I don't want to distract myself. I want to be fully present in this world, I am merely looking for ways to cope with my new reality.
The way I view the world may seem pessimistic.
If I'm being truly honest, I don't believe in God.
I used to, I really did. But then something happened, something little. Inconsequential, and yet suddenly my faith was gone. I wait for it to return, I've searched for it. I've tried. But as of now, I believe in time, life, and death. My higher power is the universe. And, for now, that is okay.
I have a prayer that I find very beautiful that I want to share with you. You might have heard it. It's the serenity prayer.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.
I say it to myself nearly everyday. It helps.
Okay, so this has been a very vulnerable post. I implore you not to judge me harshly with your opinions. I respect the beliefs of everyone around me. I hope you will do the same for me.
--S

Homesick for Haiti. And another book excerpt.

R,

I cried in the shower today. Silly I know, but I was using the same shampoo that I had taken with me to Haiti. And suddenly it smelled like warm breeze, and hummingbirds, and black coffee. (The shampoo is rose scented.) So I cried because I ached for Haiti. 
I didn't feel like writing you an entire post, so here's another excerpt from my book. From chapter 2. Enjoy.
--S 

He stretched his arms up over his head, running his fingers along the bricks of the wall. As he shifted his weight, Vega murmured something in her sleep and rolled over so that her back was to him. Her hair was coming out of its braid and spreading across the pillow in bronze waves. The charcoal that she lined her eyes with everyday smeared under her lashes. Even like this, she was the most breathtaking sight he had ever laid eyes on. He turned his face into her hair and wrapped his arm across her bare shoulders, feeling her damp skin, breathing her in. She smelled like cloves and oranges. And of course the ever present sweat and dust that clung to everyone in the city. His favorite times with Vega were the mornings, when she smelled like herself. Not the lingering scents of others she’d been with. In those moments, he could pretend she was his.

The market was opening up, the city coming to life, and he closed his eyes, hoping for more sleep. It couldn’t be much past dawn, and being awake meant being hungry, and too hot, and without Vega. She was muttering something fitful, lost in her own mind. He pulled her closer against his body, wishing that he could protect her from whatever demons haunted her dreams that morning. Her bones felt small and delicate, like someone who needed saving.

Giving up on the idea of more sleep Taurean opened his eyes. The library was dimly lit now, light streaming its way through cracks in the walls. He stared at the tattoo of the sun on the back of Vega’s neck. He had been with her when she got it. He remembered her squeezing his hand as they filled in the intricate rays.

It took hours.

She laughed, and cried, and when it was done they sat in the shadow of the eastern temple and ate stolen pomegranates from a vendor on the other side of the city. Tearing into the fruit, clawing out the juicy seeds with broken fingernails, and with such desperate greed you’d have thought it was to be their last meal. The sun went down, and the moons rose one at a time until they lined up, in the monthly formation, perfectly above the two orphans like three broken eggshells. And the two had kissed with lips stained red from the fruit, and as cracked and bleeding as the desert around them. And the world had felt whole.

He smiled with the memories as he began to trace the lines of her tattoo, until she twitched his hand away irritably.

“Sky, stop it.” She murmured into the pillow.

He pulled away quickly as though her skin has suddenly scalded him. “I’m not Sky,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’m Taurean.” 

A Brilliance of Suns, chapter six exerpt.

Dear Reader,
Did I tell you I'm writing a book? I have been for quite some time now. Obviously it's still a first draft...but I wanted to share with you a piece of the sixth chapter. It's a short piece, and I haven't given you any explanation as to what is actually going on in the story, but I thought you might want to read a bit anyway, just for fun. It includes my favorite character.
--S
p.s. Guess who my favorite character is.

“I know it was you.” Sky whispered. He licked his lips, staring at the ground. She could see his hands trembling with anger, and then he looked at her. His eyes were bright, the crystalline irises blue flame. ”Bitch.” He spat.

She swallowed hard, trying to keep her face void of fear. “I didn’t--”

He took a step toward her, and she broadened her stance, readying herself.

No one spoke, only watched as the two circled around each other slowly in a rigid dance. Sky clenched his left fist, and had she not been so terrified Danielle might have found this interesting. Because she too was left handed.

Her throat was dry. Her heart was pounding in her ears. Her mind felt only capable of taking in one thing: The boy standing in front of her. Sky’s dark hair was in his eyes, and his tattoos covered almost every inch of him up to his neck. Tan skin peeking from between the inked lines.

She wanted to back away, but he would only follow her.

“I didn’t do anything.” She said.

“Who else would it have been?” His voice was still dangerously soft.

“Sky, what are you talking about?” A voice in the crowd around them asked.

Sky didn’t take his eyes off of Danielle. “She’s been leaking information about us to the compound.”

The room erupted in whispered conversation.

“What?” Danielle almost laughed. “That’s ridiculous. Why would they want to know anything about you?”

“Are they planning another purge?” Someone from their audience called.

And then Danielle knew that that was exactly what Sky had been thinking.

She let her eyes soften, trying to beg him without words to believe her, and instantly knew that it was a mistake.

Sky moved quickly enough that she didn’t have time to so much as flinch.

He slapped her so hard that she fell, throwing her arm out to stop her. But her bad wrist collapsed. Her head hit the tiles and an shrill ringing filled her mind. She felt Sky approach her again.

“Sky. Stop it.” Someone snapped.

“Vega, get the fuck out of my way.” He answered.

And then “Don’t you dare touch her.” It was Taurean, and Danielle opened her eyes enough to see him push Vega behind him, away from Sky.

She closed her eyes again and listened to the sound of Sky’s boots stomping the floor are he left, the door slamming behind him on its rusty hinges.

She felt sick.

People were still whispering, but dispersing to other ends of the library now,leaving her lying on the floor. She felt her face cautiously. Her brow was moist with either blood, or sweat. Maybe both.

“Hey.” Someone nudged her elbow with the toe of their shoe.

She opened her eyes again. It was Leo. He was smiling at her, revealing his missing left canine, and she wondered again how he had lost it.

“You should have fought back, girl. No one ever stands up to that bastard.”

“Aren’t you friends?” She mumbled.

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a bastard.” He squatted down beside her, shaking her shoulder. “Come one, stop being such a baby and sit up.”

Danielle pushed herself up on her elbows, wincing.

“Look at me.” He took her face into his hands like he was about to kiss her, then tilted her head from side to side. “Nah, you’ll be fine.” He said, wiping the blood off with his sleeve.

“I think I have a concussion.”

“What’s a concussion?” He asked, taking his hands away from her.

For the Love of Libraries

Dear R,
I'm trying to make myself content at where I am at this moment in my life. And I mean that as a location. I want to be content in Eastern Oregon.
I can't spend all of my time missing a place that I won't see for at least another six months.
And it's important to appreciate every aspect of your life.
So, in order to do this I have signed up for two classes on campus (I know I said I was taking a year off from school, but two classes doesn't count. Right?), I do a lot of zumba which is incredibly fun even though I have to dance in the back, because I trip over people and fall down. I also get really confused so I usually just end up making up my own dance moves. I like to pretend I look as good as Jennifer Laurence in Silver Linings Playbook.
I go to the public library everyday to have some time away from my house, yet still not really doing much. Which makes me feel peaceful and quiet.
One of my favorite things about Haiti was the quiet.
Going back onto a college campus was terrifying. It was so hectic and loud. It's funny because I used to love that sort of chaotic frenzy. It took me out of my head. I didn't have to confront my thoughts. I could avoid personal turmoil.
Once I was in Haiti I was forced to face myself. Something I think I mentioned in my other blog site. It's like if your bedroom is a total mess, your things lying all over the floor and your quilts hanging off of your bed. You could simply avoid your room, and when you HAD to go in you would just close your eyes and pretend the mess wasn't there at all. Well one day someone locks you in this disaster of a room. Obviously you'd be terrified, but after a few days you'd have no choice but to start cleaning it up. Once it's in a decent state again you realize how wonderful it is. You can finally see all of the possessions that you loved, and the ones you didn't you could throw away.
Okay, now that same someone unlocks the door. What do you do? Do you let the room become a mess again, or do you continue to keep it clean, even though you have the rest of the world to distract you?
That's a long metaphor. But that's how I think of my mind. Now the door is unlocked and I have the potential to hide from my mess of thoughts again. I'm trying not to do that.
So I go to the library. I read or write, and sometimes I just think. It's a great place to think.
Other things I do to help myself like EO...
I take walks and I visit with new friends. People I didn't really realize existed before because I was so caught up in the idea that I was only able to hang out with people I knew from high school if I was home. NOT TRUE.
I think that location doesn't really matter because your demons are going to follow you everywhere. You can run away, but they'll eventually catch up. So either keep running, or face them.
Just because I'm in a town that holds difficult memories for me doesn't mean the town itself is difficult.
People my age complain about this place a lot. I do too. But honestly, that's just an excuse, another way of saying "I need something or someone to entertain me because I'm incapable of doing it myself."
It's about finding things that interest you.
And this town holds a lot more than I realized.
So that's me being positive about my current home. I'm excited. Doesn't mean I can't miss Haiti, but it does mean that I don't need to be miserable. I have the ability to decide how I will face any situation, and I am choosing to face this one just like I face the great majority of my life: It's an adventure. Go out and live it.
--S

Honey

Dear Reader, Dear R,

Here is a bit of flash fiction I wrote. Don't judge me too harshly on it.

Oh, and try listening to this song while you read:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B-xHtjngCeM

 --S

Honey

It began with the bird. As much as he’d wanted to believe that it started so many years later. In the deepest fissures of his mind he knew: It began with the bird. A pigeon, common, and dirty. Nothing special. He thought of it as he looked at the woman, laying sprawled on his mattress. He reached out, and placed one cool hand on her thigh. He remembered the way the bird had struggled, shivered beneath his perfect hands. He wondered if the woman would shiver.

His mother had said he had the hands of a pianist, an artist. Long, slender, and the perfect outline of blue veins just beneath his pale skin. She, his mother, would take one of his hands in hers, and kiss it. “Beautiful.” She’d whisper, with a voice dripping like honey.

Three days before the bird, he’d found his mother with slit wrists in the bathtub, and a note saying that she was sorry. His aunt had come to stay with him. His mother’s awful older sister, reeking of cigarettes and perfume. She was the one who had found the bird. It had flown down the chimney, and was trapped behind the doors of the cold, wood stove. She instructed him to catch it, take it outside, and set it free. He’d stood in the hallway, stroking one long finger over the brown corduroy of his pant leg, as she had repeated her request, demanded that he take the bird away. The women he picked were never demanding. They were plain, like the pigeon had been.

He’d knelt in the gravel and dust, near the train tracks behind the house. Just beyond a row of trees that blocked the view from the kitchen window. He’d delicately twisted the bird’s neck from side to side, and then just far enough in the wrong direction, until, with one delicate snap it’s distressed chirping had stopped, and it had gone still. He tore it’s wings off, ripped at them with raw fingernails, until the bird oozed red. It had laid limply then, on the gravel like a crippled toy, and as he’d stared, he had felt the honey word form in his mouth, had tasted it on his tongue.

The woman’s wrists were bound, but she was struggling now, like the bird had. His fingers itched for her throat. Her eyes bulged behind the thin blindfold. His knuckles were white. He tasted honey. “Beautiful.” He whispered.

New Year (cliche tile, I know.)

Dear Reader,
I told myself that I would begin my blog once new years had passed. Well, now it has.
First I'll catch you up on some things that you've missed since I last wrote you:
1. I went and saw starwars.
2. Shortly after seeing starwars, while waiting to be seated at a restaurant, I completely fainted and woke up in the chair that my family had dragged my lifeless body to.
3. I read a lot of books.
Okay, that's about it.
I know, I know. You were probably hoping for something slightly more exciting, but as it turns out being back in the states limits my ability to go gallivanting off to remote mountain villages, or contribute to disaster tourism by visiting children in slums.
I'll openly admit it, I am really sad.
People ask me what it is like to be home and I just sort of shrug, because I know what they want to hear. That Haiti was life changing and intense, but I am so relieved to be back in my home and to appreciate all of the privileges I have.
I do appreciate them. But let me be honest with you, I was just as happy (if not more) with having less. Running water isn't as great as everyone makes it out to be, and I didn't really miss TV.
Of course I am happy to be with my family, but I feel all achy and empty at the same time for Haiti.
I don't know what it is. Maybe the simplicity, or the warmth, or not being able to understand most of what was being said.
Maybe it was that when I was stripped of all of the comforts of home, I felt as though I was a more authentic version of myself.
I'm trying to hang onto that version.
Alright, it's a short blog, but it's something. Tomorrow I was thinking of posting a short story. I've got one in mind. Happy new year. Happy 2016.
--S