#for context on sundays i work alone for three to four hours in the store

[destructix]

manager said on sept 23rd i can stop working sundays :)

#for context on sundays i work alone for three to four hours in the store #and customers especially men will act very awful/weird so i asked him to put me on fridays which he wanted to do in the first place #last week a guy. who is a regular btw. said im supposed to smile and came back an hour later to give me potted flowers?? #which could sound cute but ive never been more uncomfortable. i dont know you i only smile at you bc i work in customer service mind ur #fucking business godddd #talk tag

[swampgallows]

i was writin it in the tags before i maxed em out but it had me thinking about how much more shit i did in college because i actually had access to shit. for one, there was a viable public transit system there. there was a bus stop literally outside my dorm, and i used to take the bus all kinds of places and just walk around the city and shit. i did tons of things i previously would not have accessible to me because i didnt drive. back when disney passes were cheap as fuck i had days where id swing by disneyland after class just to hop on a ride or two and then go home. i went to parks, beaches, the aquarium, the movies, clubs, raves, morris dancing, restaurants, the mall, and all kinds of shit on my own because i could actually physically fucking get there. the only real challenge a lot of the time was if i bought anything to get it home (i remember walking half a mile with a full length mirror back to my dorm because i kept missing the bus). but the point is that i DID SHIT. i wasnt constantly being micromanaged by people in my environment about what food i bought or what i ate, where i went and when, etc. and i had the resources to actually go fucking do things.

it all came crashing down, i think, when i got into that series of bad relationships. i dont think i was aware of it at the time, but that was about the time that things were ramping up toward something great and then i was betrayed by people close to me and continuously shot down. i didnt know how to process those toxic relationships, and part of me still doesn’t. almost ten years later im still trying to recover from the damage of them. yes, it was the same time that i was having heightened anxiety and the worst period of panic attacks in my life, which were and are awful and shitty, but i also had very understanding and supportive friends who were there for me during that time. it would be no different than if i got very sick and had friends who took care of me. i was having a human experience and because i had a good support network, i was able to cope.

so like. of course i got depressed when my boyfriend would hate-fuck me and embarrass me on purpose in public or in front of his friends. of course i felt too scared and sad to go to class when i was constantly being told my art wasn’t good enough and was a waste of time and “useless to society”. of course i hid in my room playing video games with rude assholes because at least they couldnt touch me. of course i didnt want to open up to people when they told me it was “fascinating the way your mind mistreats you”. 

of course i got suicidal when i got zero weekend days off for three straight years. not even easter sunday, even though greek easter usually falls on a completely separate sunday. of course i didnt want to live anymore when i couldnt see or be with my friends or express myself naturally. of course i would be depressed about waking up at 7am every day to stand in a cold room alone for 8 hours and not even be paid enough to live.

friends and family and past teachers on facebook can encourage me to go on medication, but for what? will a SSRI pay me a living wage? is celexa going to make men treat me better? will prozac install a public transit system in my area, or help me move to a place where a better one already exists? xanax didnt sit in the car with me to teach me to drive and offer support, but it did help me recuperate from the dozens of screaming crying fits and panic attacks i had while orchestrating my own exposure therapy. it took years for me to get acclimated to just sitting in the driver’s seat of my car while it was off without having a complete meltdown and slamming it full speed into the garage to kill myself. because i am still so mad that i learned so late, that nobody gave a shit about me enough to teach me, that i had to shell out hundreds if not thousands of dollars on lessons with complete strangers to learn this skill that has become mandatory for survival in the place i live. i had to use money to replace the love and support normally given by family or my community.

i am trying to condition myself to see my car as an emblem of freedom, but it feels like a cage. it costs so much money, it is so scary and exhausting to operate it, and everything in this world and society is forcing me to use it. and honestly it feels like, because i have it, i have run out of “excuses” for not being employed. that if i have a car, i should be able to go to any job whatsoever and sit in my car in traffic for four hours a day like every other average person in l.a. even at the trader joes i interviewed at THREE TIMES before they eventually didnt bring me on, i would have to drive anywhere from 30-45 minutes to work every fucking day just to work at a fucking grocery store. i know people see those numbers and go ‘psh that’s nothing! my commute is so much longer!’ and that just feels like hustle propaganda. like why are you proud that you have to sit in your car in fucking traffic every day to do a job that you probably could (and now probably do) work at from home?

the shitty case worker i had, tonya, could not offer a suggestion to me when i brougth this up to her. how is medication going to make me more employable? how am i not supposed to blow my brains out when my life is going to be sitting in a car that i struggle to operate to go to a job that doesnt pay me enough to live and then doing that forever until i die? why dont i skip all that and just die right now? why live through that? all she could say was “well, that’s just how it is.” 

The much more obvious answer is that mental disorders, while influenced by genetic factors, are largely caused by trauma and context, and that oppressed groups of people experience way more trauma under capitalism, and are way less able to navigate the context of American society because it was built without them in mind, and in many cases to intentionally harm them.

this is why im going to be mentally ill forever, man. because i can’t fucking adapt to a society that doesn’t care about me. why would i do that? is it not inherently harmful and mentally ill to perpetuate an unhealthy environment? why belong to a society if we don’t care about the people in it? who is society for? if these circumstances were due to a partner, they’d tell me to leave them. if these circumstances were due to my living situation with my family or roommates, they’d tell me to move out. so must i leave society? do i have to live off the grid? do i have to hunt game and skin animals for fur and build my own shelter? even if i wanted to, like many natural peoples, capitalism is taking those things away too. look at first nations and indigenous people. look at the multitudes of the people experiencing homelessness and mental illness simultaneously. 

it is all so obvious when you’re on the outside. no one expects, or wants, people like me to survive. the whole point is that we do not belong to society. the whole point is that capitalism wants me dead. my suicidality means capitalism is working as intended.

#blathering

[beauty-grace-outer-space]

Pardon my rant post, but I need to vent. Some triggery stuff under the cut. 

For context, my grandmother is bipolar. I believe she also has narcissistic personality disorder. I think my father may also have narcissistic personality disorder. 

Nearly 3 years ago now, my grandmother and I were talking when she told me she was having trouble affording her anti-depressants. I offered to pay for them, and to schedule an appointment with a psychiatrist to get her dosage confirmed and her prescription renewed. I told her I’d take care of everything.

A few days later, when I called to tell her I had an appointment scheduled for her, she told me not to bother and that she’d decided to kill herself months prior and had actually been storing up her pills to do so. She told me my grandfather knew, and they were making arrangements for him to go on without her. She kept me on the phone for over an hour, in hysterics and hyperventilating, begging her not to die. 

I got my mom and my aunt involved (since I was pretty young and had no idea what to do) and we were able to get her to meet us at a nearby place; we had paramedics waiting to evaluate her. 

Despite 4 nurses and 2 doctors saying she was a danger to herself and should be kept for a mandatory 72 hour hold, she was released less than 5 hours later by a county representative. 

Thus began months of emotional and verbal abuse. She told me she hoped no one would ever love me, because I don’t deserve it. She told me that “the way I am” must be “the result of my warped upbringing” and that she hoped my friends “saw who I really was”. Etc. etc. 

In the midst of this, I found out that when she had called me and told me she was going to commit suicide, she was already back on her pills. I can only assume she wanted an emotional response, but never thought I’d actually try to get help involved. 

Four months later, she decided we were going to pretend it never happened. She went back to being a loving, cheerful grandmother-- though still making snide comments here and there. 

But our relationship has changed forever. I don’t trust her, and I see when she’s being manipulative. She decides who to call-- of me and my cousins-- based on who’s most likely to give her the reaction she wants. 

Two months ago she had a series of small heart attacks. Upon her release from the hospital, she and my grandfather temporarily moved into my aunt’s house while my family and I set to work trying to clean and declutter her home. She’s an extreme hoarder, so this has been quite the task. 

This weekend was the last weekend of cleaning. She and my grandfather came and sat with neighbors while we worked 11 hours a day cleaning, and I overheard her making comments. 

“I don’t have a single person I’d call family.”

“No one cares about me.” 

“I guess we’ll just go to a shelter.” 

“My ‘family’ never does anything for me.” 

Things like that. For two days. 

I was already worn thin from the cleaning, the fact that in taking care of things for her I haven’t seen a single friend in over 3 months, the fact that I haven’t had a weekend, or a bit of free time in 3 months. And then I hear her being manipulative, lying about us, about me... 

That’s how Saturday and Sunday went. Then comes Monday. 

My father has always had problematic tendencies. When he was younger (20s and 30s) he punched holes in the walls when he was mad. When his father died when I was 4, he disappeared without a word to my mother for a week. When he gets mad he throws things, he kicks things... just... a whole host of things that I have only realized with a lot of therapy are not ok. 

For the past several years, he picks fights with me over political differences. I have begged him repeatedly not to bring up these topics because we don’t agree and no matter what I do, he ends up yelling at me how stupid I am. 

If i walk away or stay silent, I’m too stupid to form an opinion.

If I try to have a calm discussion, he pushes until I’m no longer calm, and then tells me that I don’t have opinions, I have emotions, and this is why no one can have a conversation with me. 

If I tell him I don’t want to talk about it, he continues to do so anyway.

He’ll push me to the point of tears, yelling at me that I’m stupid or uninformed, but if someone else enters the room, he switches topics mid sentence. All cheer.  

It hit a point where my mom had to light into him to get him to back off by saying, “You have to stop treating my kid like this.” 

He realized he was being an asshole, and actually apologized, and things... calmed down for a while. The only conversations we’ve really had are, “You should find a nice Christian boy and get married”. Which... yeah right. 

Monday night, he picked a fight with me at a restaurant, yelled at me all the way home about how I don’t listen and only hear what I want to hear, and then once we got home, acted like nothing was wrong. All smiles and cheer in front of my mom.  

I went to my room in tears, and he followed me and knocked on my door. I ignored him. He knocked again. I ignored him. He came in anyway and proceeded to tell me that I’m emotional and misinformed and if I would just listen to him, we’d agree. 

I told him we don’t agree and I do listen, but I’m not going to agree because of the things he was saying. 

He asked for examples and I gave him some from the “conversation” we had just had. 

His response was: “I don’t know where you make this crap up in your delusional little head. I NEVER said that, I’ve never said anything like that!” 

And it pushed me over the edge so I just sat on my bed staring at my comforter and sobbing, “I don’t want to talk about it. Please just leave me alone.” 

He finally huffed out, “FINE!” and left my room. 

My therapist phrased it well when she said it was a “torrent of emotional assault”.

I’m exhausted, and that’s why I’ve been sad/vague posting. I’m so worn out. I’m so tired. I just want to cry for three days. 

I don’t know what I was hoping to achieve with this post. I just... needed to rant. 

#it speaks #personal #delete later #not trek #abuse tw? #idk #emotional abuse #verbal abuse #sigh #i'm so f-ing tired ya'll #i need a hug

[the-bells-bells-bells]

God. Whenever I end up (fully and actually) leaving this damn job complaint number one is gonna be manager I don’t get along with, aka nasty manager (tm). She has her nice moments... but they’re almost all just false or passive aggressive. I’ve had managers who have been overbearing or not a joy to work with, but they’ve been outright with shit and not just hiding it behind smiles and then snapping at you or making rude comments. Maybe it’s because I’ve been reading stuff like the just no MIL subreddit and I’ve gotten a bit more of a reference of bad behavior (and I hope I’m not misconstruing her intent), but when I dread coming in to work on a day I know we’re gonna be short staffed and she’s gonna be grouchy because of it? Not cool. Literally does not happen with any other manager closing in the same situation—even if they’re upset or mad about the situation they don’t take it out on the employees there (or at least me).

One very Cool Manager (tm) and I have closed down the store for 3-4 hours with JUST US TWO and he never got upset at me—and when he did get a bit too worked up he would apologize and ask me to take over for a bit with register so he could have a quick stress break/smoke. The closest nasty manager has had to that is me leaving about an hour or an hour and a half before close and leaving just her and one other person, compared to three hours with cool manager. And she always “thinks” I was gonna be there the whole night, like uhhhh... you have equal access to the schedule and probably should know peoples’ shifts for the night better than I do...

Maybe I’m being too harsh on her. But seriously, I can’t stand her and her (what I’m assuming is) passive aggressiveness. Me calling for another cashier (knowing well that I may not get one because she and my coworker may both be busy) and having her ask me HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE IN LINE like I’m new to this and don’t know how to judge when I need help? I think I miiiiightve made it a little too clear that that pissed me off. I ended up not needing backup (THAT time) because I had a customer leave my line, but usually the “how many people” line is used with new cashiers, as generally around three in line (unless you’re almost done with #1 and the third joins then) is when you’re supposed to call for backup. I have also numerous times heard her ask that in that context. So her using that on me tonight? Pissed me right off. She’s belittled me numerous other times as well, which I’ve taken to trying to make note of so I have them handy to pull out and tell my store manager because ABSOLUTELY she’ll be the main reason I leave the store. Crazy schedule that isn’t made properly covering gaps nor on time? Frustrating, but can (somewhat) get covered and can be explained by “that manager’s retiring soon”. The staff shortages have mostly been due to (both great and shitty) coworkers quitting or just not showing up to work ever again.

But god, I feel like nasty manager still has a grudge against me for when I made her cry two years ago because she decided to do her own thing and leave the register alone AND NOT TELL ANYONE and I passed by and had to deal with a line of four people who had been waiting there for several minutes without a cashier in fucking sight. Apparently she cried after I chewed her out for it (admittedly may’ve been too bitchy with that...), I got chewed out by a manager the next day, I apologized, and yeah. Either that or a grudge for me constantly watching over what she was doing for the first few months of her job... three years ago. Which I (to my knowledge) haven’t done since then, and try my damn hardest not to do to anyone else. Also she’s absolutely said shit that made me cry since then—notably the “oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were so sick you couldn’t stand” comment when I asked to leave early ONE FUCKING TIME and not even when there would be no coverage for me.

I’m just... glad Saturday is my day off, Sunday there should be enough coverage plus more manager coverage so hopefully I can mostly hide from her, and I can maybe go to sleep now and hope Sunday goes okay or else... I’m not gonna continue that. Beginning of shift today was bad enough, I REALLY should’ve called out but I felt guilty for shorting them further. I should have though because the first four or so hours I had no energy or will nor much ability to hide it. Hopefully I recharge enough Saturday. I need to recharge Saturday...

#personal stuff #negative #work #i REALLY wish they had read mores on mobile... c’mon tumblr #because as much as i tried to break up shit this is a BRICK WALL #but a lot of it is for my own reference and helping me remember shit #so when i have an exit interview i can smile and tell management just how shitty of interactions ive had with this woman #not even delving here into how she was supposed to be over my department abd neglected to do any of the necessary learning to do that #so it got lumped all on my coworjers and i #and never fixed until they hired new manager a few months ago #shes been great btw no complaints sith new manager #did all the training listens to advice is willing to comprimise #will probably kick my ass if i get too over bearing... shes friendly but not too much of a pushover #and most importantly SHE ACTUALLY DID THE TRAINING TO LEARN WHAT TO DO FOR THE DEPARTMENT #instead of picking something to harp on constantly and doing literally nothing to either help get that done nor anything else #...god damn it i wasnt planning on venting in the tags this time

[gingerandwry]

Salvador, Brazil

The day I left Brasilia for Salvador marked five weeks in Brazil (and fourteen of the past seventeen spent on the road). I was losing steam. Constantly packing and unpacking, always being a guest in someone else’s apartment, being alone nearly all the time, stifled by high temperatures and humidity and, I think more than anything else, not being able to speak the language were all taking a toll. I wanted to make the most of my time in Salvador, which everyone told me is a special place I would love, but I also started counting the days until I would be home.

In fact I was lucky to make it out of Brasilia at all. Months earlier I booked a flight on the budget airline Avianca. A few weeks before the flight they emailed me about a change, but the email only showed a different flight number. When I checked on the flight a few days ahead of time, I discovered my original flight had been canceled, and I had been rebooked on to an itinerary with a layover. At least it only added an hour of travel time, and I may have been lucky. It turns out Avianca was teetering on bankruptcy and had canceled 2,000 flights in the last two weeks of April since they were unable to pay the leases on their planes and airport slots. That might explain why on the first leg of my flight we were served only water and muffins and on the second leg the flight attendants didn’t even come through the aisle (tho it was only 45 minutes). They seemed pretty unhappy in general.

My Uber ride to the city was a bit surreal. When I planned this trip I forgot about Holy Week, and I arrived on Good Friday, a national holiday. I thought that Easter in a Catholic country might include some unusual parades or festivals, but it turns out most people go home to their families that weekend. So as I drove through the city in the middle of a Friday afternoon it was eerily quiet and deserted. I was already nervous since many people had warned me to be careful since crime was rife (even more so than everywhere else in Brazil). And I knew the area I was staying in, Centro, could be dicey, especially at night, but it sounds like everywhere in Salvador is dicey so there weren’t any great options. In any event, the crumbling buildings, stray dogs, abundant trash, closed shops and streets mostly devoid of people (except some layabouts) all added to my sense of unease.

I was staying on a public square, Largo Dois de Julho, which hosts a number of businesses, so that felt reassuring. Most were closed but I did find a couple open restaurants. I was scared of venturing further, and I didn’t want to take an Uber to a restaurant only to discover it was closed for the holiday, so I stayed close to home my first Friday night. Fortunately just two blocks away was Bar Ancora do Marujo, a truly tragic drag show dive. Bizarrely the show started with “Bye Bye Birdie”, and I must have been the only person to recognize it in the mostly young, entirely Brazilian crowd. I appreciated the obscurity but the show did not improve. I spent most of the night chatting with a friendly guy and his drunken friend who talked a lot of shit (especially about Argentinians).

On Saturday it felt like some life had been restored to the city. I was tired from lack of sleep, humid heat and homesicknesses, but was determined to press on. I headed south on (I think) the city’s main thoroughfare, Sete de Septembre. Centro soon passed into Vittoria, a much nicer (i.e. wealthier) neighborhood with lovely tree-canopied streets. There was not much to look at besides walled-off high-rises and the occasional colonial mansion. The road eventually dipped down into Barra, the city’s most popular beach. The coastline is dotted with numerous outcroppings, and Barra is marked by three forts, one still in use, one in a state of glamorous decay and one that has been restored into the Museu Nautico da Bahia, famed for its lighthouse, the Farol da Barra. The street above the beach has been made pedestrian-only and that afternoon the whole area was full of sunbathers, vendors and on-lookers like me.

Taking in the views, I meandered my way over to the museum, a history of Bahia’s relationship to the sea, full of historical displays (presented in English too!), curious artifacts and ship models. (It also exhibits some of the remnants of a famous shipwreck that was only salvaged about fifteen years ago.) I’m not a maritime aficionado, but still found all of it interesting. I especially enjoyed the restored fortress that houses the museum and lighthouse (which you can climb to the top of) as well as the fabulous views they offer.

There is not much else to do in Barra, so I bought some beer and acaraje and sat on the beach for a while. I later repositioned myself to the bay side for sunset. Salvador sits at the mouth of the very large Todos Os Santos Bay, whose mouth opens south on to the Atlantic ocean. The city is on the east side of the mouth, which makes it the only place in Brazil where you can watch the sunset on the “ocean” (actually it’s setting over the bay and behind Ilha De Itaparica, a large island, but the effect is the same). After soaking in the beautiful sunset, I left the increasingly revelrous crowds to buy some groceries and go home for an early, restful night.

Sunday was Easter, and I did not know what to expect, except that most businesses would be closed. After a leisurely start, I walked down to the waterfront and over to the Mercado Modelo, once a Customs House that stored slaves awaiting auction, now a large marketplace full of stalls selling touristy tchotchkes. I breezed through then crossed the street to the famed Elevador Lacerda, a couple Art Deco towers holding four elevators that whisk passengers from the waterfront up the hill to the Pelourinho neighborhood, for just R$0.15 (US$0.04) a ride. I really don’t understand why this is such a big deal, even highly recommended by Lonely Planet. Yes it serves a helpful function, and the views from the lookout at the top are magnificent. But inside it’s just a metal elevator with no windows. The top of the structure juts out of the cliffside but its views are spoiled by tiny window frames and dirty glass. I’m glad the elevator was there so I didn’t have to walk, but it’s hardly an attraction in itself.

Pelourinho is Salvador’s most famous, tourist-friendly neighborhood. I was planning to spend Monday there (figuring more places would be open and fewer tourists would be about), but I figured I would get a sneak peek the day before. It’s also full of churches, so I thought I might catch some Easter celebrations but alas I did not. After a tasty lunch at Bar Zulu (my first salad in ages), I visited two of the local churches, side-by-side and competing for opulence. The first was Igreja da Ordem Terceira Secular de Sao Francisco. Bucking the national trend, the exterior is extremely ornate while the interior is (relatively) subdued. Visitors can tour the rest of the complex, which includes a creepy crypt and some deeply disturbing portrayals of Jesus suffering. Not to be outdone, next door is the Igreja e Convento de Sao Francisco, a decadent Rococo stunner covered in gilded embellishments and Portuguese tiles (tho its exterior is a fairly modest Neoclassical facade). I decided to save the rest of Pelourinho for the next day, so after snapping a few more pics in the light of the setting sun, I headed back down the hill to my apartment (before it got dark and scary).

What a difference a (working) day makes. When I looked out my window Monday morning, the city seemed to have returned to normal. My AirBnB was on Largo Dois de Julho, and it was bustling with shops and street vendors, and the streets were densely packed with shoppers and pedestrians. I made my way up the hill back to Pelourinho. It’s a very charming, pretty area of narrow cobblestone streets, scenic plazas, historic churches and small colonial-era homes, mostly restored in the last twenty years. It encompasses several paradoxes that made it hard for me to settle on my feelings toward the place.

The word Pelourinho translates as “pillory” (”a wooden framework with holes for the head and hands, in which an offender was imprisoned and exposed to public abuse” aka the stocks). And indeed slaves were often publicly punished in the area, which is nowadays postcard-perfect and full of tourists and street performers. It was the historical center of town, and its wealth was driven by the slave trade. When slavery was banished and penniless slaves were set free in Salvador, the city went into decline as the money left. It is now a poor, often dangerous city, and Pelourinho was not “rediscovered” and cleaned up for tourists until the 1990s. Yet none of this history is visible anywhere, and slavery is only mentioned in the context of the slave church (more on that below).

My first impression of the neighborhood was that it was now pandering to tourists and had lost its character, like a post-Guiliani Times Square. But it’s more nuanced than that. For one, its character before was poor and decrepit, so it has certainly improved even if that meant losing some elements. Also there are many locals there as well. They come for the cultural spaces, performance venues and bars (tho the restaurants seem distinctly touristy). Many work in the area as was clear at lunchtime. And a few steps away will lead you to streets that look like any other, with markets, consumer goods stores, etc. that cater only to locals.

Some of the locals, however, are there just for the tourists. Pick-pocketing and panhandling are rife, and everybody is looking for a way to get your money, legitimately or otherwise. As a tall, very white guy with red hair, I felt like I had a target on my back. Every time I entered the area, I was ambushed. Some asked for money, some tried to shove some ribbons into my hand (they are a local religious emblem) so that I would buy them, some showed me their displays of trinkets and some offered food. It was nerve-wracking having random strangers lunge at me constantly or make a beeline across the street for me, especially knowing how frequent muggings are in Salvador. It’s exhausting saying “Obrigado nao” all the time. And most of these people will not accept the first “Nao” so they aggressively keep demanding, which then makes me worry how they are going to react. I quickly learned not to stand still, not to let anyone engage me in conversation and not to sit at a street-side table at a restaurant. These measures only lessen the number of encounters, and they hardly make for a pleasurable visit. (And this happens all over the city-- one of the street kids who hangs around the plaza in front of my AirBnB told me that “tourists have money”-- but Pelourinho is the most touristed area so it is most prevalent there.)

So it’s a beautiful, historic neighborhood, well-restored but white-washed, that almost looks like a section of Disneyland but which locals continue to embrace and frequent and where I enjoyed walking around but was relentlessly accosted. I have conflicting feelings about it all, but in the end, it’s still a beautiful, fun, important area that shouldn’t be missed. Pelourinho centers around four plazas, ringed by multiple churches. I began at Praca de Se, whose 400 year-old cathedral was actually torn down in 1933 and which nowadays has little to offer (except a fountain and some fenced-off remnants of the cathedral’s foundation). Next to it is Terreiro de Jesus, the biggest square that is home to the Catedral Basilica, an elegant, only-slightly-overwrought Jesuit church from the 1600s. The plaza itself looks like a wonderful gathering point for all types, but unfortunately it was walled off for construction.

I explored some of the side streets which are full of restaurants and tourist shops and made my over to Largo do Pelourinho whose slope, triangular shape and colorful old buildings make it the perfect spot for photographs. At the base of the square is the sky blue Igreja Nossa Senhora do Rosairo dos Pretos, a church built by slaves (in their spare time) over the entire 18th century (on land granted by the King of Portugal). The interior does not match the facade’s beauty, but its significance to the black population for 300 years makes it an interesting stop.

The road then continues uphill into the Carmo neighborhood, which looks similar but slightly less cute. The defining structure there is the Igreja da Ordem Terceira do Carmo, a massive church and former convent atop the hill. It too is less impressive inside tho it does offer some magnificent city views. The street continues into the Santo Antonio neighborhood which is still more run down but in a decidedly hip fashion. It is now being reclaimed by small pousadas (inns), restaurants, music stores, boutiques, etc. So far they seem to be succeeding at restoring the area and adding to its character without sacrificing its authenticity. One advantage, as I found when I stopped for a coffee at Cafelier, is that the buildings on the west side of the street are perched high on the hill so they enjoy sweeping bay views.

I wandering back to Largo Terreiro de Jesus for my last stop at the Museu Afro-Brasileiro, which is housed in the fantastic pink colonial Faculdade de Medicina building. The museum started with eight artifacts in 1972 and has since acquired an important collection of items linking African and Brazilian cultures. It is much smaller than its counterpart in Sao Paulo, but that makes it easier to focus and understand the exhibits. The undisputed highlights are the 27 stunning carved wood panels by the artist Carybe, one for each of the deities of the local Candomble religion. Feeling much better about Salvador, I walked back home for a quiet Monday night.

It was raining Tuesday morning so I started late. My first stop was the Museu de Arte Moderna housed in Solar do Unhao, a well-preserved former sugar mill and transfer station. The “museum” was underwhelming. The one exhibit occupied just one room plus a small side room with a video installation (it looked like there was an upstairs that was closed). The featured artist’s works examine colonialism’s enduring impacts. Some of the paintings were quite captivating, and nearly all had large gashes meant to resemble open wounds, which was very unsettling (as I’m sure she intended). With little to see, I did not stay long and, after walking around the marina only to discover the only restaurants were seriously over-priced, I took a car up to the Itapagipe Penninsula.

The main attraction here is the Igreja Nossa Senhora do Bonfim, the origin of the colorful ribbons that people are always trying to get me to buy. Apparently the Senhora effects miracle cures, and those ribbons grant wishes. I was pleased to see the plaza in front was undergoing a well-executed makeover that makes it a very pleasant place to hang out. Unfortunately the construction inside was still in progress so the entire altar was blocked off while the workers’ loud clangs and bangs diminished the overall effect. It’s not a particularly pretty church anyway. The only part that interested me was the Sala dos Milagres where people leave photos and even wax replicas of body parts to request cures or give thanks for successful ones. Hundreds of detached limbs hang from the ceiling. But other than that the church really is not worth the journey unless you’re very superstitious religious.

From the church I started walking west toward the bay. None of my guidebooks mentioned it, but I happened to read somewhere that a nearby lookout point offered some great views. After 20 minutes of walking I reached the coast and yet another old fort, Forte de Monte Serrat. The attempted military museum inside was falling apart, but the views around the fort were indeed fantastic. Looking to the south I saw a very serene, almost empty beach and to the north a number of small fishing boats and kids playing in the water. It struck me that this must be Salvador at its best. I walked along the beach a little then back up to the fishing area which is an outcropping called Ponta do Humaita. There is not much there: an old church (of course), a long pier, a little lighthouse and what appear to be some old military buildings. But there were kids diving in the water, locals chatting and drinking beer at the small restaurant and a few other tourists checking out the views. It’s a really nice spot, far removed from grit and/or tourist centers of the rest of the city.

That evening I headed back to Pelourinho since Lonely Planet said it comes alive on Tuesday nights after mass. There were a good number of people about, one especially crowded bar, a live band and some drumming groups, tho it did not seem like this was unusual. Still it was fun to see the area at night and sit outside eating dinner watching the band in the Cruzeiro de Sao Francisco square. I walked around a bit and ordered a large beer from the bar. But of course standing outside drinking invited the usual assault from people wanting things from me (some even asking for a sip of beer). I relented with one guy and let him tie one of those stupid ribbons on my wrist (which I realized made me look even more a target). I only had a 20 so I asked for 15 back (which I think is still pretty generous). He went to get change then came back and put a crumpled bill and more ribbons in my hand-- of course it was only 10. Another guy witnessed this and tried to do the same thing, and when I refused him, he insisted he had AIDS. Federal police from the military stand guard everywhere, but like the restaurant staffers, they do nothing to try to curb the begging. This was all too much so I went home, frustrated that I couldn’t enjoy a nice evening in the city’s prettiest area.

On Wednesday I surprised myself by waking up early to join a boat tour of the Todos Os Santos bay. It’s a large, beautiful bay with 56 islands which are mostly cloistered close to land. As a solo traveler my only option was to join a large boat with dozens of other travelers. That is not my style at all but I hoped it would be worth it. The vessel, the “Maria Mulata” (!), was full with about sixty people, but it was comfortable enough. It took 1.5 hours to reach our first stop, so in the meantime, the crew passed around fresh fruit and caipirinhas, and a jovial three-man band played music. One of my fears was that I would be pressed into small-talk with strangers all day, but it turns out that I was the only English speaker aboard so I barely talked to anyone (which grew tedious). Most passengers were Brazilians along with a few Argentinians (a standard tourist mix here). The band were working hard to create a festive atmosphere, so there was a lot of encouragement to clap and sing along. I’ve never cared for this kind of enforced enjoyment so I just smiled and tapped my feet. But sticking out as I do, the band leader quickly signaled me out and had me get up and do a silly synchronized arm waving dance. I at least showed them I have some swagger in my hips, and everyone seemed really nice so I didn’t mind. The journey was tough tho because it was all in Portuguese, and I would repeatedly get drawn into interactions where all I could do was smile and say, “Sim!”

We finally reached Ilha dos Frades, a beautiful tropical nature preserve. I walked around the small accessible section, through the tiny village which was oddly buzzing with lots of construction, up to the cute little church on the hill and then down to the beach for some beer, swimming and relaxing. It was all quite nice.

After a couple hours we got back on the boat. Halfway across the bay, we encountered some engine trouble (ah... Brazil) and just sat and swayed in the waves while the band tried to keep everyone’s spirits up. After 20-30 minutes another tour boat came along and tugged us to the next stop, Ilha de Itaparica, the bay’s biggest island. There was no dock here so we had to transfer to small speed boats that carried us to shore. This stop was for lunch at a lovely restaurant/resort, but the beach in front of it was not nice at all. We did not stay long tho and soon were being ferried back to a new, bigger boat. This operation took a long time since I think we had merged with another group or two. By the time we started moving, it was getting close to sunset so we headed right back to Salvador. I think there was supposed to be another stop at a nicer beach but clearly we had run out of time. This was very frustrating, but none of the staff seemed to acknowledge it or apologize or offer some compensation, like free drinks on board. At least the ride back during sunset was wonderfully beautiful, but the tour was disappointing overall. I figured we spent just three of the eight hours on the islands. As lovely as that lunch was, they need to find a new spot that is more accessible and has a nicer beach so we could have spent the whole afternoon there.

That night I did something I almost never do: I followed The New York Times’ travel advice. I find their “36 Hours” pieces pretentious and aimed at their readers’ narcissistic desires to have a more “authentic” vacation than everyone else. They tend to ignore the things most tourists enjoy and to recommend expensive restaurants and out-of-the way spots so that their readers can feel like they’re doing something special and unique. But there is not a lot for tourists to do in Salvador and (as the NYT acknowledges) much of the city is too dangerous for tourists to explore. So I thought I would try out some of the recommendations from their article in January. Yes, they have some expensive suggestions and steer you to some far-off places, but to their credit, they start in Pelourinho, admitting that despite the tourism and aggressive tourist hunters there, it’s still the nicest part of town. And they were right about the restaurant where I ate Wednesday night, Mistura Perfeita. It’s near the center and looks like every other hole in the wall here with plastic tables and chairs setup out front, but they serve incredible lambretas (clams cooked in an oniony broth) and delicious caipirinhas in a a wide variety of exotic fruit flavors. And they get extra points for being the only restaurant I visited where the staff actively shoed away beggars from the outside diners. (Still, the NYT couldn’t help itself: it praises the Mouraria neighborhood as “gloriously not prettied up for visitors”, as if the writer were foolish enough to walk around the area at 8:30p when they claimed to be there.)

By Thursday I had run out of things to do so I stayed in all day and caught up on this blog. That evening I headed to Rio Vermhelo, a seaside area up the coast from Barra that’s know for its nightlife (and was also recommended by the NYT). It’s a 20-30 minute drive from the center, and it feels very apart. It’s much newer, cleaner and safer than the rest of Salvador with far fewer street people but it lacks the Afro-ness the city is known for. It’s a nice, pretty area and the only place I’ve felt entirely safe and comfortable walking around. But it feels like it could be any coastal neighborhood in Brazil or anywhere else for that matter. For locals I imagine it’s a nice escape. The focal points (besides the beach) are several plazas lined with interchangeable restaurants and countless vendors (mostly selling acaraje or tapioca). Several hosted live music. I was disappointed at how generic the restaurants are-- they’re essentially the same as all the others around the city but newer-- until I realized that Salvadoreans like generic restaurants. They just want to sit outside with their friends sharing beer and snacks, so it doesn’t matter where those come from. They like the familiar and comfortable, and I get that. As I explored the area a little more I discovered it also has some hipper, more discreet bars with DJs, live music and younger crowds (more like American bars). All in all it seems like a cool area and probably the best place for tourists to stay, despite-- or because of-- its distance from the center. Also, for the (newspaper of) record, NYT got Rio Vermelho all wrong. They recommended a bar that serves weird, sugary shot concoctions and the least interesting, most touristy plaza. Take that “36 Hours”.

Friday was another day with nothing to do (except counting the hours until my flight home). I took the Elevador down to Comerico, the waterfront neighborhood below Pelourinho. It’s one of the city’s original neighborhoods and I guess it is still the commercial center, tho it was hardly bustling. It’s full of beautiful old buildings which have mostly been left to rot. Some have masked their decay with fresh paint; others are fabulously deteriorated like ancient ruins. It’s quite a sight, especially juxtaposed with the more modern office buildings that have sprung up among them.

That evening I packed excitedly, well ready to be home. And then, somewhat unexpectedly, my last night turned out to be pretty special. I had planned to go back to Santo Antonio to Forte da Capoeira since I thought there would be a capoeira show there. But when I looked out my window, I saw the building across the street was hosting an event with drummers and dancers, so I went to check it out. It appeared to be the closing night party for a symposium on African culture in Bahia. And right in front was a group of 8-16 year-olds putting on a capoeira show. Obviously they were novices (although some had good moves) but I caught the gist, and the kids looked like they were having a really good time. I also enjoyed the variety of people that passed by to watch for a few minutes, particularly the grandmother with her baby granddaughter who loved playing with some trans women’s dogs. Dois de Julho is a gritty area but a colorful, diverse, tolerant one (like San Francisco’s Tenderloin).

Later, for the first time in Brazil, I went out to a gay club. I resisted before since I knew it would mostly be me standing around, watching, unable to talk with anyone. And that’s pretty much how it happened, but I’m still glad I went. Everyone was enjoying themselves (and others...), and it was fun and interesting to note the similarities and differences to bars back home. Then it was back to my AirBnB to sleep one last night in Brazil.

It took me a while to warm up to Salvador. Everyone said the same three things about it: one, you’re going to love it; two, it’s different from the rest of Brazil and more African; and three, be careful it’s really dangerous. When I heard this from Brazilians, I sometimes suspected two and three were code for “poor and black.” From what people had told me, I half-expected to see women carrying jugs on their heads, donkey-drawn carts jostling with cars while chickens scurried out of the way, muggers lurking in every doorway and nonstop singing, dancing and drumming. These are quarter-truths at best. Salvador is unmistakably Brazilian in its look and feel, tho many people sport more African-looking styles and behave more forwardly and loudly. While the city’s general state of disrepair shows its age, it is actively building and modernizing. Crime rates are high here, but I exercised common sense and did not encounter any problems. (There are a LOT of homeless and beggars, and they can be quite aggressive and demanding, but this is a far cry from mugging.) And while I did hear a lot of music (and firecrackers) around the city, most of it was coming out of speakers not street corner performers.

My timing was unfortunate, visiting at the fatigued end of my trip and starting on a quiet holiday weekend. Not only was the city duller than usual, the emptiness exaggerated my fears for my safety. But as the city normalized during the week and really picked up on Friday night, I started to see all its wonderful qualities and appreciate its color and vitality. Still it was hard to ignore the city’s drawbacks. Every time I went outside, I was targeted by beggars, scammers, vendors and anyone else who wants a dollar, and many of them were extremely difficult and unpleasant. When I can’t just sit outside and enjoy a beer without being harassed, it severely curtails my enjoyment of a place. Safety concerns also kept me from exploring most of the city or walking around at night, which are my favorite things to do when traveling. In Brasilia I couldn’t walk by design, in Salvador by decline.

And finally, beyond safety concerns, it’s not an easy city to be a tourist. There is not much to do (especially if you don’t care for the beach). It’s difficult-to-impossible to find information online, and when you do it’s often incorrect-- even the tourism agencies don’t have websites. (In fact I’m writing this in an otherwise very nice, contemporary, “American-style” cafe that requires a Facebook account to get on their WiFi which I do not have.) And Bahians, like much of the rest of Brazilians, do not seem to care much for outsiders. To Salvador’s credit, I saw improvement works projects all over the city-- several of them impeding my tourism-- so they are working on making it a nicer, easier place (at least the tourist areas). However I suspect it will take them decades to undo the decline of the past hundred years, and it would take a significant shift in culture and crime rates before tourists really feel welcome.

Salvador reminded me in some ways of Philadelphia, where I went to college 20 years go. Proud, defensive Philadelphians were well aware of the generally negative view of their city, and they were quick to remind me that it was the nation’s first capital. (To which I responded that New York was the second, but they seem to have moved on.) Salvador’s motto is “First Capital of Brazil” (the second capital, Rio, also seems to have moved on). Like Philadelphia, its glory days are behind it, and the city seems to be slowly decaying with pockets of revitalization. But I think that’s how the people there like it; it’s part of the city’s unique character and culture. Ultimately I am undecided on Salvador. I did not love it as much as everyone told me I would; its qualities are largely counterbalanced by its drawbacks. And I think that’s just how the locals want it.

#salvador #bahia #brazil #brasil #travel #gaytravel #intentionaltravel

[pcvkaplowitz-blog]

Before the Riots Started

Clare and I met with Josh on the highway to Managua early Sunday morning. Buses don’t run as often on the weekends so we waited for a while at the stop, which gave a friendly drunk a chance to come talk to us. More accurately he was talking at us, slurring his words, swaying side to side, blinking frequently with a big toothless smile. This went on for a few minutes until he must have relaxed a bit too much because he dropped the bag of corn he’d been carrying in his right hand and it spilled all over the side of the road.

We watched as he very deliberately placed his pail of milk down and reached even further to pick up the bag of corn as if in slow motion. His fingers raked the ground and almost secured the bag while at the same time, thrown off balance by this attempt he stumbled backwards into the road. The horn of an oncoming truck sounded as it swerved to avoid him. The drunk didn’t seem to register the danger. Widening his stance, he bent over again, slowly grasping the bag gingerly between his fingertips. Bag secured he stood upright again, only to realize he now had to pick up his pail of milk.

“Don’t spill the milk,” he muttered to himself. Perhaps the first words he said I could understand.  And with the bag in his right hand he bent over again, left hand extending toward the handle of the pail. He barely brushed the backs of his fingertips against the handle. Too gentle, clearly worried about spilling the milk. After another failed attempt our morning’s entertainment was over. The drunk strolled across the highway, successfully toting his corn and milk.

The bus came a little bit later and we got into Managua with no issues. A Peace Corps certified taxi driver met us at the stop and took us to the interdepartmental bus station on the other side of town. Enrique was nice, and I was glad that Peace Corps started using a special taxi system to cut down on the number of thefts and robbery incidents that still pose a problem in Managua. Before we boarded the bus to Somoto we made plans to call him on Thursday on our way back to town. Plans that would never be completed.

The bus ride went smoothly, I passed the four and half hours in the express bus reading, napping, and looking at the landscape. All the accounts I had heard made me thing the highlands would be lush and green jungle, instead it was strips of fallow fields and the occasional tree, almost devoid of leaves. As we ascended the color seemed to drain out of the landscape until everything was brown and dusty.

Finally, we pulled in to Somoto and were greeted by our volunteer counterpart who gave us a warm welcome. Elah, took us on a short walk over to her house in Somoto and despite the heat and the bright sun it felt good to stretch my legs after the long bus ride. We put our stuff down and drank water, there were no bathroom breaks on the bus either so I hadn’t drank anything all day. Although she told us we can drink the tap water I still stuck with the filter, despite the faint taste of clay.

We went out for lunch in Somoto and looked around. Lunch was tasty and the city seemed nice with a green park, a basketball court, a market area, even a Palí grocery store! We loaded up with produce for the next few days before we made our way up to San Lucas, the smaller town where we would be staying and doing work. On our way out of town we passed a funeral procession. The mourners trailed the coffin lying in the bed of a pickup. Behind the procession a sedan with speakers strapped to the roof projected hymns down the streets.

I thought of the funeral procession as we loaded up the taxi for San Lucas, trunk full of groceries, bags strapped to the roof. The taxi was driven by the Volunteer’s husband, Uriel, who she had met three years earlier. He was a local and spoke no English but seemed nice enough. I was surprised to learn they had gotten married during service without Uriel having a chance to meet the volunteer’s family.

I only really had one conversation with him, but I learned his family all fought with the Contras back in the day. Also, he used to work for the police and did operations in the RAAN. After some of his comrades were killed he left the police and started driving the Taxi. He shared some stories of long nights playing poker and drinking beers at the local bar until the sun rose.

We finally got up to San Lucas, about thirty minutes up the mountain and drove most of the way up a dirt road outside of town to the guest house we would all be staying at together. The last bit of the road we had to traverse on foot. The house was cute, bright teal, and there was a big garden in front and behind the house. The front room had a big hammock and there was almost enough bedrooms for everyone. I shared with Josh, but Clare got her own and our Spanish professor, Alvoro, also got his own bedroom.

It was a little remote but didn’t really feel that far until Elah told us she wouldn’t be able to come up the first night because she didn’t feel safe walking alone at night, too many drunks on Sundays. Elah definitely integrated into the community fully, besides marrying a local she know most people by name and would often stop for long chats with basically everyone. But it makes me sad to think she doesn’t feel safe walking around her own community alone, even after extending her service and living there for three years. Then again, maybe it was just community integration as to why she didn’t walk around alone.

Most of the streets in San Lucas were empty except for the drunks, at least during the times we were passing through, and it may be abnormal for a woman to go out by herself. Even the four of us, Josh, Clare, Alvoro and myself walking around together the first night attracted some attention. The police pulled us over to warn us about the drunks and told us to come in the next day to register our visit. I wasn’t as stressed by the drunks as I was during the subsequent visit to the police station where they took down all our information, from passports to local addresses, to cell phone numbers just for our four night visit.

Every day basically had the same schedule. Wake up at 5:30, shower, head down to breakfast and meet with Elah at Uriel’s house in San Lucas, go do our productive activity in the morning, eat lunch around 1:00, study a little in the afternoon, and eat dinner than go to bed. The breakfast was typical Nicaraguan breakfast fare, eggs, gallo pinto, coffee, some bread.

The first day we went to a teacher capacitation training. I was shocked to learn that the teachers I worked with had never taught the class before, but in the context of the town it made sense that they wouldn’t have taught entrepreneurship before it was required by the Minister of Education. Honestly it would make more sense to teach agriculture. Still, I was impressed by everyone’s participation and it was a good atmosphere and I left my first teacher capacitation feeling relieved. I have a better sense of what I will be expected to do in my site and more confidence in my ability to host and evaluate teacher capacitation trainings.

The first day we also met with some members of the mayor’s office and some international volunteers from the organization Raleigh. The town officials we just said hi and shook their hand, the Raleigh volunteers participated in the capacitation training. I though the Raleigh folks were nice. They do a lot of the same work as EEP volunteers, teaching business skills, working with local business owners, and they do the added part of microfinancing businesses. However, our Spanish professor Alvoro was not impressed their informal attire and said, “If I was director I wouldn’t let them into my school.”

I think the week was hard for Alvoro who likes to have a clear plan and seems like a very type- A person. I benefited from one on one Spanish classes with him and he was organized an methodical about my problems. He missed home and seemed happiest when he was getting his shoes shined at the bus terminal on the way out of Somoto. At night I could see the light in his room go on and off and overhead him telling Elah he slept better with the light on.

Honestly, it’s not like anyone slept that well. After finding a Chinche on the couch that Josh slept on the first night we were all on edge. The Chinche is a type of insect that bites you, sucks your blood, and defecates on the bite. The excrement can cause an infection and the bug transmits a virus known as Chagas with long term health effects. After that I was up in the hammock because it was the only place I could hang my mosquito net from. It wrecked by back but it’s better than risking it with Chagas.

The second day we went to a rural community and taught in the classroom with a teacher who we met at the capacitation the previous day. The conditions were harsh. Only accessible on foot and without any water I struggled to imagine the hardships that the community faces. When we brainstormed types of entrepreneurship almost all the examples were related to agricultural work. Nevertheless, the students seemed to be in good spirits and have a strong environmental consciousness.

Working with a teacher besides Ernesto who is my counterpart in Niquinohomo was eye opening. I realized again that every counterpart will have their own pedagogy and while Ernesto is focused and straightforward, Darline was much more prone to tangents. Still, she had a good rapport with the students and solid command of the material.

After class we walked down to the river bed, talked with a few women doing the washing and enjoyed the beautiful landscape. We meandered our way back to San Lucas, catching a ride in a truck about halfway there. I didn’t mind the slower pace of live, but would need to download some books on tape if I had a two hour commute every day.

We finally made it back to town and had our Spanish classes. Later we hiked up to a Mirador and got a great view of the valley. I cooked dinner (thank you mom for teaching me to cook!) and we tried to unwind with a bottle of rum. But when we were about to go to bed we saw a scorpion. We got a good video of it before sending it on the next life.

Our last day in the north was spent at a co-planning session in the morning which reaffirmed my thesis that each teacher is going to be very different to work with. We hiked a little of the Somoto canyon in the afternoon and cooked a pizza for dinner. It was especially delicious after spending a long time outside. Although our hike was beautiful I was a little jealous of some of the other volunteers who had done a guided tour deeper in the canyon and I’m open to returning there when some adventurous friends come to visit.  

Clare was the first to say that our practicum week was like a horror film and between the chinche, scorpion, and deserted streets I can’t say she was wrong. The effect was undoubtedly multiplied by the walk up to our house each night, illuminated by a flashlight the eyes of spiders that lined the trail reflected back at us. The metal roof of the house creaked and moaned as it cooled off in the night air and the lights flickered but even at their best were never that bright. Still, I’m choosing to view it more as a cultural experience and enjoyed learning local legends, like the men who turn into monkeys at night and the rumors of the blonde hair blue eyed inbreed community that lives farther up the mountain.

I’ve left the whole experience feeling like each site will have its own idiosyncrasies and that I can handle whatever is thrown at me. I wish I felt like the entire experience was clarifying but I left with more questions than answers. Overall, I think what is most obvious is that no two sites are the same, no to counterparts are the same and no two volunteers are the same. We each will have unique experiences and I will have to adapt to whatever the nuances of my site are.

[mychemicalrant]

Emetophobia Panic

Just a quick (ha, yeah right) post about my current headspace. (TW: discussions of emetophobia, norovirus, and all that that entails.)

The person I live with spent a planned weekend at his partner's house and was supposed to come home on Sunday. However, on Saturday the partner came down with puke-a-rella and my roommate told me he had to stay to care for his partner who had, gulp, the stomach flu.

Those words have put me into such a state of panic. The stomach flu has been my biggest fear/obsession growing up (as far as health anxiety is concerned). And while my fears have matured with age and I've moved on to more Deadly Illnesses to worry about, hearing someone has the stomach flu can still stop me dead in my tracks.

I am emetophobic. I had a traumatic experience as a toddler where I got into a bottle of pills and was given ipecac and threw up for hours. I don't remember anything past my grandma seeing me on the counter and trying to stop me (I thought I was getting the chewable Flintstones vitamins). But the sheer terror and panic I feel whenever I see, hear, or know of someone vomiting is unbearable. I am so very afraid of getting sick myself.

I mentioned in other posts that I went through a meat and medicine paranoia phase that...has only gotten marginally better. I am very restrictive about which medicines I will take and do not allow raw meat anywhere near my kitchen. (My roommate and I are quasi-vegetarians and when we do eat meat it's precooked.) I have spent hours, days, years even being crushed by my fear of vomiting. It has affected almost every aspect of my life. Eating, traveling, medical stuff, relationships. You name it. If I had to pick just one reason not to have kids, this would be number one.

Anyway. So, the partner had the stomach flu on Saturday and my roommate stayed to care for him. Sunday the partner was done being sick sick but still didn't feel great, and I urged my roommate to stay a few days to be sure he wasn't also sick. He said he was feeling fine. But sure enough he texts me Monday night and tells me he's got it too. Fuuuuuuucccckkk.

I tell him he better stay the whole week, which he agreed to. It is now Wednesday night and both of them are feeling better and able to eat a little. Roommate will come home late tomorrow night and I'm just. I'm freaking out.

I've been disassociating and panicking all week long over this. First because my planned routine for the week (when to have roommate here/gone) was disrupted. My roommate is my best friend and is my emotional as well as physical support. Secondly because I am terrified he will make me sick.

All the sick parts were done over at the partner's house (the most contagious aspects of norovirus are feces and vomit particles) and both have stopped being actively sick, but you are still contagious for three or more days after being symptomatic. It has been...almost that long since my roommate reported being really sick.

My roommate and I have our own bathrooms and I sanitize mine obsessively, as well as the kitchen and my phone and everything else I touch. However, my roommate...does not share my obsessiveness about such things. He has a bad habit of touching filthy things and then going into the kitchen and reaching into the utensils drawer or handling food he is going to eat without washing his hands. He is good about washing his hands most of the time but he forgets to when doing things like touching his computer or phone (he never sanitizes them either).

Since he used his phone and computer at his partner's house while he was sick, I'm panicking that he didn't wash properly in between sick episodes and then got on his computer and transferred norovirus onto his computer which he will bring home and then reinfect himself with. Then he'll go into the kitchen and touch all our shared utensils without washing his hands or even thinking about it. I know not to put my hands into my mouth after touching something contaminated but what about utensils? And how long do I have to worry about him cross contaminating our shared spaces after using the bathroom? What if he doesn't wash his hands properly? I lysol spray and clorox wipe everything we both touch anyway but I don't want to micromanage his life anymore than I already do.

I'm freaking out. This is a living nightmare. I feel so violated and so unsafe in an environment that is my safe space and with a person who is someone I trust. I feel like I can't relax, I can't feel safe. I'm just waiting for him to come home and infect me and I keep rocking and hitting the liquor cabinet and I'm not sure how to get my sanity back. I have thought about almost nothing else since Saturday.

(I have lived with this person for ten years and not once has he gotten sick like this, lucky for me. So I haven't had to deal with this yet with him.)

He told me it was a bad one too. He understands how scared I am and I feel guilty for focusing more on my emetophobic terror of him coming home three days after being sick and infecting me than him ACTUALLY being sick. I feel unfairly angry at him for not being more careful, but he is a caretaking type and would gladly put himself at risk to care for a loved one (even me when I've been sick). I feel angry that he doesn't value being more careful about managing cross contamination in general, although these are all OCD requirements and you are not "supposed" to force your family and friends to follow your OCD rules. But handwashing is a good rule???

He is coming home tomorrow and I just want him to move to a different country. On the other hand I did not expect him to be gone so long and I miss having him around, so either way I am miserable.

Considering this in the possible context of autism (I already know I have emetophobia, health anxiety, and OCD), it has been a difficult few weeks for me. First there was the disruption of an interstate trip with family, small spaces, hotels, etc. Then I come back and my roommate's weekend stay becomes a weeklong stay. I am okay with being alone for periods of time and I can leave the house within walking distance or visit friends/the grocery store nearby, but I need my roommate's help to do anything more. I just feel disassociated because I can't integrate back with my safe environment and routines because my routine has been disrupted in an upsetting way and my space will be violated by potential contamination. I feel so anxious I can't think straight.

But let's think of the positives. He got sick somewhere else so the worst of it did not happen here, and most sources say that norovirus contamination happens from direct contact with fluids, which obviously is most relevant right when it's happening or in the environment it is happening in. (Of course, other sources say norovirus is contagious in a sick person for six weeks in either direction of symptoms showing and that the viruses can be spread by people simply having the same eye color or middle name and can survive in space or in a black hole let alone on your counter top or carpet for eternity, but let's not be Aza Holmes here, those articles are just shock articles, right?)

I'm just obsessing about contamination because that's what I always do. That's how my mind works. But if contamination were that easy, we would all be sick all the time, right? If viruses really lived on EVERY surface for 11,000 months after contact and you were deathly contagious for four months before ever showing one symptom and for two years after you *thought* you were feeling better, well, fuck. We would never be healthy. I just have to calm down.

#emetophobia #actuallyanxious #actuallyocd #fear of vomiting #anxiety #health anxiety