Stick-her Shock

I took the pink plastic package over to the scanner to check the price. 19,958 stared at me from the monitor. Shock rattled through me. I went back to the display shelf, searching in vain for a cheaper item, a different brand. There was none. I turned the package over in my hands, wondering how badly I needed them. There were 16 inside. Would that be enough for this month? I knew, though, that I didn't have a choice so I put the package in my cart and pushed it to the escalator. 19,958 for one package. 

Pads.

It's not a topic we talk about easily. If you are from the older generation, you likely don't mention the word at all because it is taboo. If you are younger, you may throw the word period around easily enough, but we still don't talk about pads, tampons, and other hygiene items for a woman's monthly period. 

I live in a country where women, naturally, make up a significant portion of the population. It is also a country that is experiencing a significant economic crisis. While a number of items are subsidized, pads are not. Yet they are more essential to daily life and health than coffee creamer, bug repellent, or sugar which are considered crucial and on the list of subsidies. 

I am one of the lucky ones. I have a decent salary, enough to afford the 19,958 every month or even splurge on an extra packet if I want to have both overnight and daily options. But what about the woman who begs on the street, a small child sitting on her lap while two more huddle beside her? What about the woman who earns a meagre pittance of a wage as a domestic helper? What about the single mother who is struggling to put food on the table and put her children in school? What about the refugee who is living in a two-room dump of a place, or a tent in a refugee camp, battling the elements to survive? They are just trying to find money to buy a bag of bread; how will they ever manage to buy a package of pads? 

We do not have a choice about whether we bleed. Don't make us choose whether we live in comfort and peace of mind, or put food on the table for our children or take care of our ailing parents. All life comes from the woman--she nourishes the child inside her and continues the cycle of life. Don't make us feel ashamed of what makes us a woman. 

Like the Windmills Circling Madly

I'm not doing well. I sit down to do my accounts. It's one of the highlights of the month since there isn't much else to do other than bake, eat, and watch movies. I've diligently tracked every expenditure during the month, as always, in my hand-dandy Excel sheet. I count my cash. I check my bank balances. I lay aside the treasured dollar bills, so scarce these days. 

But I'm not doing well. 

I search for a familiar classical music playlist so I can distract my mind. I breathe a sigh of relief when my husband turns off the pressure cooker and the hood that whisks away steam from feeding the mold in our house. I decide not to try to figure out whether I had converted the offerings into the local currency or not. 

But I'm still not doing well. 

My husband has turned the beans and hood back on. The classical music is too familiar and irritating. The numbers start to blur and I HATE, absolutely hate, working in dual currencies. I know I can ask my husband, and probably should ask him, to set up a new budget system that will work better. 

But I sit frozen on the sofa. 

Anxiety has struck again. 

Today wasn't too bad. I'd actually slept well the night before, which was such a rare treat these days. My hayfever somehow had subsided to the occasional sniffle three or four times a day instead of violent sneezing or uncontrollable itching all day long. I'd lounged about all day, just cooking something, taking a nap, enjoying the rest day. 

But when faced with the reminder of how very fragile and uncertain life is, as I counted paper money that was worthless, meaningless, only able to provide for food and perhaps a car repair or two, I froze. 

Sometimes I have good days. Often I have bad days. When the good days come, I find myself surprised. I wait for something to happen, sure that the goodness cannot last. We live, after all, in a cursed world run by a demon and though we have a hope of something better after this life, there is no guarantee that our trust in a higher power will keep us off the streets, alive, and in somewhat decent condition. After all, small children scream silently at night when grown men violate their soul, so how can we possibly live with that? 

I realized the other day that I have taken the burden of the entire world on myself. If it was almost too much for Jesus to bear, the sins of the world that is, how can I even begin to imagine that I can bear the weight of the knowledge of evil? For that is what we have chosen, since Adam and Eve ate the fruit willingly. We live every day with the knowledge of evil and this is what dances tauntingly with our consciousness. We know, therefore somehow we are implicated in it all even if we do not know where or how people are suffering. We have no excuse because we know suffering exists. 

We are told in the Bible to speak simply. Let our yes be yes and our no be no. We should not swear by anything in heaven or on earth because God is in heaven and we sure have no control over what happens on earth. So instead I swear silently in my head. It's the Christian thing to do. It's the only way I can pierce the boil of terror and fright at what so many people are going through in the world right now, at this very moment. 

Maybe the anxiety has absolutely nothing to do with the figures I try to arrange into a logical order. Or with the pressure cooker that WILL NOT be quiet. Or with the knowledge that yet another gargantuan task lies ahead. Maybe it's none of them; maybe it's all of them. I do not know. All I know is that I feel this way. Often. And I don't know if it will ever end. And I'm scared.

Today I Feel Sad -- Take 2

I am the one who wears a thousand masks, one for each day and time. I am the one who learned to be all I’m expected to be, but is still not sure of who I really am.” (Knell, 2007)

My student asked me if they should use a symbol between the quote and the author of the quote. We were working on a writing assignment in Google Docs and I was switching between tabs as I checked on each student in their virtual writing room. I told her how to properly introduce a quote and then left her to make the changes while I moved on to the next "room." Today was a good day, for class that is. I didn't have to sneak in any possible chance to mute my mic so I could blow my nose profusely. I had slept more than 4 hours the night before, so my mind was alert. I had prepared my class so I was ready to teach. I had a fun game to try to keep my students engaged. 

But before class started, I was irritated. And after class ended, that turned into sullenness. And after lunch, it had subsided into feeling sad. Again. 

I tell my students they should never start a sentence with "But" or "And" and I hammer this into their heads all semester long. They may go into their academic classes still not knowing how to spell "opportunity" but there is always auto-correct for that. There is no auto-correct to catch some grammar mistakes just as there is no auto-correct to catch some mistakes we make in life. 

I guess I'm still trying to figure out if I made the right choices in my life. All too often, they seem to have been made with others in mind. My mom, my brother, my boss, my best friend, my husband. But isn't that what we are supposed to do, as Christians? To make decisions based on what would make others happy? Aren't we supposed to serve others? Isn't thinking of ourselves being selfish?

My mom used to love asking me a question when I was growing up and caught amidst the angst of it all. If you could be anything in the world, what would you be? In this scenario, money was never an issue and I was free to dream up anything my heart desired. Sometimes I was a marriage and family therapist, other times I was a doctor, most of the time I wasn't where I was then. 

I dreamed to going to another university. I dreamed of getting my masters and then my doctorate in marriage and family therapy. I dreamed of specializing in addiction studies. I dreamed of having my own family with little ones to call me Mommy. I dreamed of a little house. I dreamed of traveling to Australia and South America. I dreamed of writing a book. I dreamed of being a teacher. 

Then I grew up. Some of my dreams were born after those teen years and I saw those dreams realized as I sat across from my desk advising students in the registrar's office or traveled across the ocean to live and work in one of my many heart-countries. Some dreams morphed into what I could manage, like my masters degree that was not in any way related to marriage and family therapy but was still a therapeutic and validating experience that I proudly financed on my own. 

Some dreams are still working themselves out. You see, they don't tell you that when you dream, the dream is the wish your heart makes but then that dream is in actuality a whole lot of hard work. The first stage is most likely infatuation, where all seems easy and you are euphoric about finally receiving your dream. Then you move into reality and this is where the dream's ephemeral qualities suddenly tumble into broken pottery. Everything is frustrating and nothing makes sense and the only thing that keeps you going is the knowledge that, once upon a time, this was your dream and you cannot abandon it now. 

So you slog on through. 

When I returned to the country I had spent my teen years in, I felt my dream had come true. I had left this country more than 15 years prior with the sad feeling that I would never be able to live again in the moments that had defined who I was. I was certain I would never see my dearest friends again. Yet somehow fate smiled on me and here I was, back when I belonged. 

I soaked up those first two years, even as I battled through the homesickness. Every free moment was enraptured with falling in love--with a country. Taxi drivers who would have married me for the equivalent of a Happy Meal were incredulous at my jubilant exclamation that I was so happy to be here. Then reality hit. The garbage piled high on the side of the street. The lack of due process and procedure, overridden by connections and the almighty dollar. The buildings crumbling in disrepair as no loving hands respected their precious historical value. The relationships that only meant something if you were someone, or could give something. It became difficult. Too difficult. 

I married. I had a steady job. We moved into a cubby-hole-perfect little first basement apartment. I battled mold, learned to cook complex Iranian dishes, ate roasted sunflower seeds by the kilo, and vacuumed the house every Friday afternoon. I was living my dreams in the country I had dreamed of, and yet I was not happy. 

Perhaps it really was okay to blame everything on the pandemic. Or perhaps I just simply grew up. Perhaps now I was having to accept that the dreams I'd had, when taken off the pedestal and out of the soft light, were revealed as they really were. Just another fact of life. A broken piece of pottery I was now responsible to polish and scrape until it looked somewhat presentable for society.

Because in the end, that was where my circle came back to. Doing things for others. Doing things because others expected them. That was why I went to church every Saturday, cooked pasta with potato tahdig, made endless photocopies and answered inane emails, and tried to grow a garden. 

If I could do anything in the world, what would I do? I would work only enough in the year to pay for my expenses. Then I would take 3 or 6 months off and spend that time luxuriating in stillness. I would sit outside and watch the ants carrying bits of leaves to their nest. I would travel to countries just so I could visit cathedrals and sit reverently in a corner. I would get my doctoral degree in psychology and give seminars and teach. I would adopt three little children, two boys and one girl. I would live in a home with few things but many books. 

Some dreams never die. Others molt and become something bigger and more beautiful than we could have imagined. Some dreams come true but it takes us years to realize that what we have taken for granted all along was what kept our soul alive. 

For me, this is writing. And being loved. Above all my dreams, knowing I matter to someone is the best dream of all and I am so thankful for that. So while there are days I feel sad, or jaded, or I cry for no reason, I try to hold onto a little hope that dreams still have meaning. I still have purpose. I have a future. 

Remember the Forgotten

Dear Friends,

I would like to share something with you that I have carried in my heart for the past two years. This has been difficult for me, to remember, and also now to share. I want to start by saying that I forgive you for the oversight and I understand that it was not meant to hurt me in any way, despite how I may have felt.

When I came to this country, I attended all the church social events. Weddings, baby showers, bridal showers, birthday celebrations, farewells and more. I paid for my seat on the minivan, I paid for my meal, and I bought a small gift or contributed to the group gift for the deserving person. In the summer of 2019, I started to plan my own wedding. In the office there was excitement as I was told, several times, that there would be a lovely bridal shower for me. I looked forward to that special milestone as I had been to those of many others before me.

As things worked out, I had my civil and first church wedding in another country. However, I planned a second wedding to take place here so we could share the special day with all our friends, especially each of you. We had a lovely ceremony and a fun reception.

But there never was a bridal shower. I heard later that one friend had asked if there was going to be one, and was shrugged off with the reply, “We don’t know if she will even get married because of the paperwork.” While it is true that the paperwork held things up, I saw one couple have a bridal shower after their wedding, so it was possible to do one after the fact.

I still don’t know who would have planned the bridal shower, if there would have been one. Before, the women’s ministries used to plan it, but then they started leaving it up to the bride’s friends. My best friend was on annual leave, so she couldn’t plan anything, and my bridesmaids all lived in other countries, but I thought there were many others who would step up to fill the gap.

I didn’t expect anything fancy. I didn’t need a theme with matching paper plates and designer cupcakes. I didn’t need a photo booth with props or expensive gifts. I would have been happy with juice, chips, and a cake. With a couple of cheesy games and gag gifts. All I wanted was to be noticed. To feel special. To feel supported. To feel loved.

Maybe you thought that, because I attended a bridal shower for another bride, and during one of the games I was dressed up in a toilet paper wedding gown, that I had been celebrated enough. At a bridal shower for someone else. With a theme that matched what her heart longed for. With gifts for her. With little pieces of paper that everyone could write words of advice on to give to her.

I guess what I really want to say is, I felt forgotten by you. I didn’t miss out on feeling special and loved because I arranged a day, my wedding, where it was expected to express those feelings towards a bride. But I am still sad today because I couldn’t experience that from others organically. I didn’t have a bridal shower. I didn’t have a bachelorette party. I will never have a baby shower.

But I forgive you for forgetting me because I understand. I was not worth your time. And I have learned, once again, that I have a calling to remember those who feel forgotten. Because every person is worthy of notice. Even with a cup of juice, a plate of chips, and a slice of vanilla cake.