5 Years

Last Thursday, August 27, I felt an unshakable sadness. I immediately knew it was going to be a tough week. Aren't we through this phase? As anniversaries three and four passed with comparable ease, I figured five would follow this transgression--time heals. We all know what can be said about assumptions; this year feels impossible. Coming off an action-packed, fun-filled summer, how did my body and mind flip a sudden switch? It's anniversary time. The period to punish thou with lack of appetite and sleep while still actively forcing said person to assume societal duties.

Thursday night. Sunday night. Monday morning. Wednesday afternoon. Thursday morning. These have been the darkest times this past week. The times life felt heaviest. The periods where my heart felt truly broken. And the nights, all of the nights--sleep has been minimal, yet life marches on.

I do wish in times as these I could ease the pain. (Or at least ride the wave, as the majority of the calendar year I'm able to happily reflect on my Peace Corps service in Lesotho and the months I had with T.C.M.) My heart hurts--I want to shield myself and fix this nagging ache. I have such a strong urge to hide these emotions. I'm embarrassed by this sadness. It has persisted long past its welcome. I'm fine, I want to scream. While this event certainly altered the course of my life, I do believe I'm fine. Changed--for better or worse, certainly.

All I can do is keep walking and continue to attend to the business of life. September 3, 2010 did not mark my goodbye. This, sadly, was not the case for T.C.M.; he had no goodbyes. One step at a time. I confess this emotional day has my heart and mind in an anxious spiral. My heart and mind can haunt me so cruelly sometimes.  

Life can be so brutal. I cannot shield and shelter myself (or others) from the realities of love and loss. Everything living will pass away. In the case of T.C.M., far to early in his stay. Today, I'm feeling the weight of walking through the loss and managing grief as if it were raw and new.

Still missing T.C.M. Still don't think I'm the only one.

FOUR Years

This is a post I forced myself to write. As this blog is truly rooted in my grieving process, I would be remiss to not acknowledge the fourth anniversary of T.C.M.'s passing.

I'm done grieving, as far as the process goes; I accepted T.C.M.'s death, though I'm not sure I followed the five stages in order. There are still moments of anger and phases of depression. Most days though, I’m smiling again. And I’ve been doing so for some time. These past couple months have allowed me to perceive exactly what that means.

Four year ago, I–with the rest of the world–lost him. While it's nice to be beyond the heartbreak, living a simple life doesn't seem enough. As mentioned, I'm not entirely all right. I'm mostly all right. But those moments where I am overcome with emotion, they feel so defining. And that's not fair. I don't want to be defined by an incident. I don't want to skate around particular dates–February 15, T.C.M.'s birthday; my own birthday; the dreaded September 3; or even the holidays. I want to live freely, not under the reign of grief. These times can occur outside the above predictability. There are times I’m commuting to work and reminded of T.C.M. in a random song lyric. I don't often down right lose it anymore, but I can be thrown off my tracks and forced to fight to 'right' the rest of the day. And honestly, it's not just these darker moments; I can be overcome with grief when I feel happy in the silliest moments. It's the realization these times do not exist for T.C.M. any longer. These times stopped on September 3, 2010. That still kills me.

But then, I can see how far I've journeyed, how I've allowed my life to progress when his has stopped. This year (and prior to the third anniversary) was tough. I'm not sure these anniversaries accurately reflect where I am on a day-to-day basis. Last year, I was preparing to return to Lesotho to testify in the High Court. The case progressed for five days and was eventually delayed until November, at which point I was given a 'green flag' to travel home to the states. The postponed date was further pushed to February 2015 and eventually until September, later this month. So with that in progress, it’s often hard to think of anything else.

I'm not necessarily awaiting justice. Because, again, I've accepted T.C.M.'s death, without justice. I let go of that a long, long time ago. Accepting was one of the first things I did. I couldn't stand the thought of my short service being tarnished by one individual when I felt loved and protected by the whole of Basotho Nation. When I felt loved and protected by him.

Most recently, there’s been a lot of news coming out of Lesotho regarding a coup, which is horribly upsetting. This is so unlike Lesotho. And naturally, like the unlikely murder of a Peace Corps Volunteer, this is occurring during the dark period. I'm almost certain it will effect the impending court date. So we'll keep waiting and those on the prosecution team will keep fighting.

Life and grief and loss and pain can be so isolating. It doesn't have to be, though. There are so many people, together, that care about T.C.M. eternally. And those who have cared for me and walked this walk with me. 

 

I miss T.C.M. And I don’t think I’m the only one.   

An Affected Life

The New York Times is writing an article about recent Peace Corps volunteers. These journalists are currently collecting data on the broad topic: How Did Your Recent Peace Corps Service Affect Your Life? I'm someone who believes in processing and understanding and learning from; naturally, I opted to answer the call. I'm doubtful that anything will become of it. I'm hopeful an article on this topic will be published at all. After challenging myself to respond to two questions with strict word limits--100 and 150, respectively--I thought I would share my answers here.

Why did you extend or not finish your Peace Corps commitment?

While celebrating the "Close of Service" of fellow volunteers at a hotel in Maseru, the capital of Lesotho, my friend and I left the event to walk back to the Peace Corps (PC) Training Center, a quarter mile down the road. On our return walk to the hotel, my closest volunteer friend and PC neighbor was shot and killed. I was then sent back to the US for medical attention. PC eventually decided it was unsafe for me to return to Lesotho with a suspect at large. I restarted my service in Ghana and was medically separated shortly after.

How did your service affect your life after you left the Peace Corps?

First and foremost, I lost a friend while serving in Lesotho. As a result, the depth to which Peace Corps (PC) still affects my life today is in almost every way. There isn't a day, there's hardly a moment, that passes where I'm not reminded of my service. Through PC I experienced my highest highs and lowest lows. These highs, whether listening to my host sister share her story in broken English or planting gardens for orphans, showed me the brightest side of life. They've given me hope, taught me kindness, and instilled patience within me. Losing a friend, among other lows, ignited my courage and strength. These darkest times taught me to fight and to believe in myself. We as humans may not be able to control the unpredictability of life. But these moments--high and low--inspire me to live a life outside of myself.

Peace Corps recruits with the slogan, "Life is calling. How far will you go?" After serving in the Mountain Kingdom, I promised myself I would find my calling in local charities, often just as in need as the foreign nationals I served amongst. There are people fighting illnesses in need of blood. There are puppies at shelters in need of cuddling and walking. There are underpaid workers at the fire department that would love a plate of homemade cookies. There are underprivileged children in need of tutors and positive adult role models. There are soup kitchens that need servers. Through writing today, I realized my own needs have been elevated above the many deserving individuals in my community. If I want to be the best version of me, I need to answer these calls.

Will you join me? Let's serve.   

The Beginning of Closure

To tell this story right, I need to flash back to March 2013, when Peace Corps reached out to me with an “urgent question”. To ask this question, Peace Corps wanted my phone number. For several reasons, I felt less than comfortable providing my number to this agency. I said I would consider answering the question via email.  After more than two weeks of waiting – clearly lacking urgency – Peace Corps opted not to question me and once again dissipated from my life. In March, it was the Country Director of Lesotho who reached out to me.

In August – on the 26^th – Peace Corps returned; this time the Regional Security Officer, a man based out of Pretoria, South Africa and the same man who sat through all the interviews before I was released from Lesotho contacted me. He asked for my phone number, and again I refused to provide it. Four days later, via email, he asked me to return to Lesotho to testify in the High Court. I had several stipulations for travel, my number one priority being that I would not travel alone. My conditions for travel were met on September 10. Mind you, in the interim, the third anniversary passed. Then the preparation began. On September 12 at 5:30 am I had a conversation with the prosecutor to address my questions (and those questions others helped me prepare). On Friday, September 13 – after work – I spoke with the Victim Advocate by phone. Then, on Tuesday, September 16, I went to Peace Corps Headquarters to meet with the Lead Security Specialist, the Chief of Overseas Operations in the Office of Safety and Security, the Victim Advocate, a counselor, and the Acting Director of Peace Corps. I was there for over two hours being debriefed on everything. At 11:45 am on Wednesday, September 17, not having heard anything, I reached out to the Lead Security Specialist. And it wasn’t until then – departure set for Friday afternoon – that I received confirmation this was real; Boyfriend and I would be traveling back to the Mountain Kingdom. So preceding this, I shared the news with extended family and friends.

The back and forth with Peace Corps was a blur. Fielding the countless emails and phone calls was a second full time job. I tried through all of this to give work – my paying gig – my best; I was busy prepping for an impending Government Shutdown. And when I’m on the clock, work is (as it should be) my number one focus.

Those final two days leading up to departure continued in a hazy manner. I remember there was a lot to get done. But mostly I remember breaking down a whole bunch. Over. And Over. Same story. I pulled myself together on Friday morning enough to function. I managed to write overdue thank you notes, sent birthday cards, and run some errands – bank, Whole Foods, Dunkin Donuts, and the library. Oh and I finally packed. Boyfriend showed up about a half hour before he arranged the taxi, a million hours too early. But I had zero energy to refute his bizarre airport etiquette. So I went with it. In tears. At the airport we browsed every store Terminal B had to offer… and then waited. I read Emily Griffin’s Love the One Your With, in search of true mindlessness. After arriving in Atlanta, where there were food and shop options for entertainment, we had zero to no time to move from Terminal B to Terminal T. If you know Hartsfield-Jackson, you know what a feat that can be. The plane was exactly what you’d expect a 15 hour flight to be – poor food, intermittent sleep, cramp-y legs. I read. Boyfriend slept. I slept. Boyfriend watched videos. And I vowed to never fly Delta international again.

Then we landed in Jo-Burg. And based on my inability to ID any suspect coupled with the fact three years of time has passed and I there was a single new piece of information I could offer, I wondered what the heck I was doing on the street of Africa… again.

Three Years

Three years can be an impossibly long time. It can also be the blink of an eye. This all depends on your perspective.

On September 3, 2010, something went terribly wrong.

I witnessed a murder.

I had just turned 23. (My dad turned 52 that day!)  

I saw the darker side of reality – the ‘bad stuff happens’ side. And the sad truth is most of us are not immune to the bad stuff. It usually seeps – or burst in – to every one’s life at one point or another.

There is pain. There is sorrow. Grief. Rebellion. Depression. And so, so many tears of sadness. There is fear. Justifiable anger. Confusion.

My soul experienced a burn. One that buried itself really deep inside my soul.

For so long, I felt as though I had to ‘act’ like a young twentysomething should. Going through the motions was exhausting. Some days it still is. Because when you suddenly lose your luster for life, the relationship with living is tiresome. And when you do enjoy life but do not trust it, you try to control everything on your own. And that is a very big job. But I kept at it.

Until I just could not. I had to quit fighting for control. And when I did, things began to shift. Throughout the course of the past three years, seeds have been planted. Some small. The chance to finish my Peace Corps service in Ghana. Some big. My first 'grown up' job after eight months of unemployment. Some failed. And some rose through the ashes, shining light on tiny bits of new growth. These seedlings were fighting for life. 

They were my hope. They led me to love too generous to deny. And have allowed me to slowly turn my focus back to the good news. To shift my perspective to a place I am comfortable with. 

To borrow a quote from Mitch Albom, I know: “One day can bend your life.” And though it may not be for the better, life will be OK again... and I believe can even be restored to great.

For T.C.M., forever remembered.    

An Arrest

I am going to make a statement that I know very, very, very little about. And I'm slightly hesitant to do so.

This is what I know:

The man who supposedly murdered T.C.M. has been arrested, along with the man who sold the gun. 

After two and a half years, police in Maseru, Lesotho are fairly confident they have the suspect in custody. This was published in Public Eye, however, not available online until recently. I honestly do not know how this makes me feel. I found out a week ago. And I have been sitting on the news. A huge part of me feels so removed from this incident. I have tried to create a life for myself beyond this tragedy. I do not want to be defined solely by this incident. This was a part of my life, a defining moment, but there is much more.

I want there to be so much more.

Say Something #22

So many milestones stick out in my mind. Little has been forgotten. So much has changed. Little has remained the same. This season is a new one. The depression seems far gone… a blissfully wonderful feeling. Except lately, a cumbrous weight of a different variety keeps trying to sink my ship. It is ugly and most commonly referred to as anxiety. Throughout my many revolutions around the sun, I have carried burdens that do not belong to me and taxed stresses more heavily than necessary. That being said, I am generally stable person. In lieu of all the 'real life' bad, this problem is hindering a better me. See this is going to sound absolutely ridiculous but, let me reassure you, oh so accurate. The "greatest" part of depression is the ability to hide behind it. Even with a sound family structure and incredible friends, you can fake your way through much of life. I thought of it more as seeing life through a different lens. That choice is yours. Depression will give you grief--exorbitantly lonesome times--and you will inevitably falter. But mostly you will succeed at keeping this heavily stigmatized diagnosis from the big wide world of judgment. And that, my readers, is a glorious thing. You get to be a quiet person for a while… nobody comments… and life does eventually pick up.

Well… anxiety is an entirely different battle. Let me reiterate: Entirely. Different. The most noticeable distinction is everyone and their pets notice it. You are pretty much a walking mistake without a barrier to hide behind. You mess-up time and time and time again because you are so spun out. Then you get called out for it(!!!). And before you realize the problem(s) you have created, you are trying to collect your ideas and the unpredictability of life, which is no easier than trying to box a cyclone. There is continuous anxiety compacted on top of nervousness and angst--what will be the next blunder? As in crazy, I am mad.

It really has been a jovial couple of weeks.

Say Something #21

Let me list all that is bad:

1. My grandparents are both old and failing (and super stubborn, to boot). My physical distance from Michigan makes me essentially worthless in the healing process. Letters only do so much.
2. M is a sick sick sick little boy. And his mama, while gracefully strong and brave, is understandably a bit broken. This breaks a friend heart--I will keep repeating that here until I am blue in the face.
3. Two weeks from today, I will be forced through the two-year marker of a well-lived life. To say the nightmares have returned is really only a hint at what my sleeping habits have been as of late.
4. I am near certain I have an ulcer. (There is not a bit of stress in my life!) And if that is not the case, my pet parasite is acting out with a vengeance. I can count on one-hand the number of “meals” I have consumed in the past week.

Hooray Life.

Say Something #12

Life can change with the blink of an eye. This happened in my own life not far enough back that I have been wholly healed, though long enough I have been able to recreate and redefine me. A piece of me needed to begin writing to share my recent zest for life. After struggling for months with denial, anger, bargaining, and admittedly depression... it is now, 23 months later, I am beginning to accept the death of T.C.M. My friends and I remember him fondly, and rejoice in what his life was.

Another switch was flipped recently. And since then, so much has changed. The other piece of me, here today, felt compelled to verbalize the story below.

Latte Woman entered my life in September 2011, when I was struggling with the one-year milestone. She has been an integral part of my healing process, a dear friend from day one. 

But in late July, Latte Woman seemed utterly absent from my life. Despite more than one text to reach out to her for coffee dates or wine nights, miscellaneous runs or outdoor play... not a peep from her. It was a rare Saturday, a Saturday free from obligations, a Saturday I began much later than my normal rise time with a late morning workout. Then vaguely suspicious something was terribly wrong, I gathered up the tupperware I had been harboring from all the delicious meals Latte Woman has recently prepared me, and I marched the two doors down to the G's house. I knocked. And knocked. And knocked. Eventually Latte Woman's husband opened the door. We stared silently at each other. With an action plan, he spoke first, "I will go find Latte Woman." From where I was standing in the entryway, I could see her outside, hunched over the deck railing. She was visibly thin, 100 meters away--a shell of her former self. The tension in the air was palpable. I migrated towards the kitchen to meet her halfway. It was the first time in a long time I could not fill the air with words. I was speechless. Her eyes filled with tears, mine followed suit.

I was guided me to the couch to greet her two beautiful boys. And it was then, that the all-too-familiar feeling of heart piercing pain returned--the one where the world standstills, nothing matters, and perspective immediately shifts. Despite M's contagious smile, the bandage on his lower right leg served as the physical sign something was off. My heart silenced the internal screaming.

Distraught, Latte Woman and I relocated to the porch where I learned days before my unannounced visit, 11-year old M was diagnosed with osteosarcoma (bone cancer). We spent the next two hours, together, sobbing. To date, hands-down, the most difficult conversation I have endured with a friend.  The waterworks flowed and flowed and flowed through the afternoon. (My tears brought reprieve to the Northern Virginia drought!) In my feeble human brain this does not seem fair. M is one of the good guys--funny, well-mannered, athletic, bright, giving, and wise (just like his mama!).

At the peak of heat on this July afternoon close friends of the G family arrived with a sushi buffet. We lingered on the porch awhile longer exchanging tearful hugs before heading inside. The gang prepared plates. My nonexistent appetite was undeterred by the gorgeous sushi spread. And I was definitely not alone. I sliced fruit in an effort to be physically doing. I washed dishes in an effort to busy myself. I changed bed sheets with Latte Woman to temporarily remove myself from the downstairs pain and sorrow.

Mostly I listened and observed, cringed and cried for the remainder of the day. 

There is a long, and quite possibly bumpy, road ahead... and I will be there for each leg of the journey. Each one of us may have a grand moment of two in life, but the older I get, the more I am convinced real legacies are about relationships, authenticity, consistent faith, and genuine love. I cannot allow myself to sit around and wallow. I am challenged to wake up each day and live a life more committed to love--not in big Earth-shattering ways, but in seemingly small ways of showing up, serving, and displaying authentic, life-changing love for the people in my life. There is no limit to friendship. I am going to stand behind Latte Woman (and family) and fight this to the bitter end.
  

Say Something #3

I have over committed myself... it certainly did not take the re-entering the writing world for me to realize that, but I now have a clearer picture. There is a lot going on. And I hope to share more in the coming days.

For now though, this: On Wednesday at my work function, I learned a lot about the harsh realities of business politics. I left with a sour taste in my mouth... and it is still resonating poorly with me today. So what this boils down to is a challenging day of work... followed by a tough conversation with the women of 'my hood'... and 23 months without T.C.M.

Yesterday Aside

So I am doing some LSD, which stands for long slow distance in the running world, and my mind is racing with blog updates—the general thought pattern being the positive path life is on. I am this perfect type of content, comfortable with room for improvement. This day, April 15 at 9:00 am, was already promising—I woke up with plenty of time to make (and eat) pancakes with a side of fruit and indulge in a latte, all before changing into running clothes and hitting the gym. The weather was so nice, yet I opted for the treadmill instead. I had plans set for lunch at the best café in town, where outdoor seating is plentiful. Throughout the pounding, I just kept thinking to myself “I feel so good right now. I am so happy!” This thought transcends beyond those running moments. I am physically the best I have been since January 2010--I am in shape, I am eating healthy (and regularly), and I am sleeping better. These sound like basic human rights—freedom to exercise, freedom to indulge, and freedom to rest peacefully… until they dissipate. In the beginning I struggled with the absence, then in human fashion, I learned to adjust… to the extent where a meal proceeded without a stomach ache or a full nights sleep threw me off.

It is ironic that on Sunday, just five days after recovering from a three-day migraine coupled with bouts of stomach pain, I was already thinking about how great I am doing physically. I was hesitant as to whether or not to share, when Sunday night, hours after this “thoughtful” run, I got a headache. (This one--luckily?--never progressed to full blown migraine and was gone after sleeping.) I decided the update was necessary because even if I am not operating at-best physically, I am doing much much much better.

I used to ascribe value to being more athletic, kinder, prettier, skinnier, smarter, etc. because I trusted in them to give me worth, to make me happier. Then I graduated from high school, quickly discovering that these things are not true. Like anyone over 17, I had to dig internally and find strength elsewhere. It was there. I was a strong person, or thought of myself in that manner anyway, faulty attributes and all. Adult or not, I ascribe significant value to my health. I believed general wellness was controllable... until the unrelenting parasite. The ongoing saga makes me feel really really really weak. Weak. Pitiful. Vulnerable. Exposed. Ashamed. Had I been told in February 2010 I would coexist with this parasite for a possible decade—the estimated time this friend will be with me—I would have given up. But now that it is April 2012 and I know how to manage the symptoms, I will survive, living a fairly normal life.

Half (or more) of our being is mental. And, here too, I am a revived soul. How is that for drama? In all seriousness, since September 2010 I have waited on me. The third changed my life drastically, and mostly I could handle this, but I refused to start from scratch; there were pieces of me I very much liked—my passion above all. Part of my new found “mental energy” I suppose comes with having a working purpose, though job or not, I am less apathetic. Following the tragedy, I stopped caring about much of what fueled my past, namely Mother Earth, starving African children, and friendships. It is nice to have recently caught myself inserting opinions where and taking pleasure in pastimes. I honestly shock myself with my concern regarding this and that, experiencing these feelings is foreign.

My family joked that my 24^th year of life had to be better than 23… but the mood-swings in September and illness in November shot that dream down quickly. Then, no longer joking, we hoped for 2012. And one-quarter in, this might be the year. Because if nothing else, I have a recovered frame of mind.

The Anniversary of the End

Sunday, December 18, 2011 marked my first full year back in the good ole U.S. of A. after the abrupt termination of my Peace Corps service. The end came before I truly got started. (The first year of service is about acquainting yourself with culture, developing relationships, identifying needs, and establishing trust.) When "I" agreed on Ghana, knowing Lesotho was not longer an option, I was aware my story had veered down a path of its own. Instead of the 'normal' two year stint in a single country--a single village--I would have two first years. I had the lone advantage of understanding--to expect nothing. I would learn a new language and, with time, slowly find my place amongst a far more Westernized culture. For this 'less is more' loving girl, I was skeptical and unsure of my ability to handle a second first year. 

The alternative was quitting... which was not actually an alternative. 

I must have arrived in Ghana to utter chaos; the month-long experience has been 'blacked-out' from my memory. That was not my intention; I still tug at my brain for memories--the name of the my headmaster, the name of my school, or the name of my village. If it were not for the four words of Twi (principal native language of Ghana) I learned or the grand total of six people interacted with, I would argue I spent a month on the tarmac of the Kotoka International Airport. 

I boarded the America-bound plane and panicked. If you have not met Rock Bottom, allow me to introduce you: Shrieking. Numb. Oblivious. Tears. Confusion. The United Airlines pilot privately escorted me off the plane to address "my condition" as he referred to it. I would learn, I could not be in this state at the time of departure... or I would be left behind. I searched for a metaphor in this. 

I never found my metaphor, but I found good fortune in the form of a six hour delay. There was a crew shortage... which, in retrospect, is probably why the Pilot Man had to deal with me. Then there was engine failure. I was able to stay outside under the warm Ghanaian sky, while the rest of the passengers sat--starring out their blurry oval windows--inside. Special Treatment? Pilot Man had his newest Crew Girl call me inside to my seat. I adjusted my seatbelt... and started shaking and sweating. We were in motion when the waterworks began. Another lecture. People were whispering about sedatives. Mom taught me not to take candy from strangers so I was not about to bum drugs off Randy Random(!!!). 

There was a minor victory when faulty wheels were discovered seconds before take off. I was re-released to the now brightly covered starlit night while repairs were made. And then the Boeing 767-300 and I were actually ready to go... at this point I felt more at ease than my fellow passengers appeared.

I landed on American soil between breakfast and lunch to the whites of my dad's eyes. He came inside to get me… or carry the luggage I did not even bother to bring home. I did not want belongings tainted with 'the end' of something I was unprepared for. I got to our snow-covered home and climbed into bed. After sleeping on a thick-ish pad in Ghana under a towel--soaked with sweat by morning--my twin-sized Costco bed luxuriously welcomed me; I climbed in for the winter hibernation ahead. I slept for six straight daytime hours--the most I had consistently slept since September 3. Minor victory #2. 

The holidays skated by in one big blur. I could not wait to be out of the season of joy--this time of year is the blatant reminder we are without one. 

In an ideal world, I would have shared this story yesterday on the one year anniversary. It was not, however, until today that I was able to combine the first half saved online with my word documented ending. What might seem ugly and embarrassing, even funny, to the masses is a display for myself of the length I have traveled between then and now. It is far to easy to count this year as another loss, after all, I still catch zzz's in my Costco bed... which between last year and night has become more unwelcoming than ever.

“Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending.” (Maria Robinson)

What If

What if I had never joined Peace Corps? What if T.C.M. and I had never met? What if T.C.M. had never been killed in front of me? What if I had finished my service in Lesotho? What if I had never went to Ghana? What if I had not been medically separated from Ghana? What if I never got a parasite? What if these nightmares never go away? What if my luggage had made it safely back? What if Peace Corps cared about me as a person? What if I remain a spectacle to the media? What if I had never moved back to South Carolina? What if I never find a job? What if I never start to feel again? What if the rest of life is just going through the motions? What if these migraines and stomach aches stay with me the rest of my life? What if something terrible happens... again?

Two years ago today, I picked up my life and sealed my heart for Lesotho. I bid a tearful goodbye to both my parents... and joined 28 people, who shared at least one common bond with me, in a hotel conference room in Philadelphia's historic district. Together, we sat through orientation, spent the night getting to know one another, and in the wee hours of the morning, boarded a bus to John F. Kennedy International Airport, and finally a plane to Lesotho via Johannesburg, South Africa. The memories began building that night... and continue to this day. So the answer to one of my many 'what if's' is I would be without the volunteers I came to know through this experience, the connections made through these volunteers, and my rural mountainside living adventure. And that would be unfortunate, but okay.

Because, today, two years later, sans the bureaucratic garbage, I can all but guarantee I would be a better person. I would, first off, be happy and, second, employed or in grad school. Sure, I would have given up on a dream, but, unknowingly, be less damaged then living the nightmare. I would be the person I left, with many of the friends I had, instead of a phantom of my former self feigning interest in dwindling relationships. And even though that person lacked self-confidence and hated more than she loved, I liked that girl a lot. I might be 'stuck' with the mentality of my 22-year old self, which is probably not ideal... but that would be okay; I could make that work.

Before I left I valued happiness. I didn't need a 'rock-the-boat' night, in turn, a wasted two-year experience, to teach me how to work for happiness. I didn't need to be stripped entirely of control, to learn to manage my control issues. I didn't need to see the pain, work through the loss, and rebuild entirely new beliefs. In this season, I'm angry; I'm not able to care about anything the way I used to... I'm cold and mean... and know it. And when I have the best of intentions, they fail me. This was not my thought process a few months ago, and it may not be five years from now, and that will be okay.

This is today. May this not be tomorrow.

A Look At Early November

Sleep: I was a champion sleeper throughout part one of my life, the 'prior to' September 3, 2010 half; these years were a sleeping heyday of sorts. No noise or action--an ambulance wheeling my dad off to the hospital mid-night, trains running along their tracks in the backyard of a childhood friend on sleepover weekends, a neighbor vacuuming my bedroom pre-sunrise, my roommate studying, or social-networking, on her computer, in our shared bedroom with the lights shining and television blaring while I dozed off to sleep, catching a nap while lacing up my shoes for the run I never ran as people slammed the apartment door on their way to morning classes, ones unintentionally skipped on this tiresome Tuesday, or animals cooing from their crawls to make their presence known in the darkness--was loud enough to wake me from hibernation, night after night I 'aced' sleeping. This might be part of the reason losing my greatest talent has taken its toll on my mental and physical well being. I never, ever learned to function without sleep.

Two days into November, my alarm sounded at 7:15 am for an anticipated average Wednesday... except this was different, following 13 months and 28 days of horrible, terrible, no good, very bad sleep patterns, I awoke startled from my coma of peace. I was alive, well rested, energized--ready to take on the world. Though the sleeping has drastically improved with each month, until I felt this calmness lingering over me from sunrise to set, I realized this was a first. I had finally experienced the nature of sleep that was routine in my old life. The rest of the week was not quite as hot, but I will cling to this night of security with hope.

Dog-sitting: The human-sitting tasks have slowed for the week, but I still spent plenty of time with a few of the neighborhood pooches. The fall weather has been extra crispy this week after the weekend snowfall--throw in the sunshine with the breeze and walking dogs has been quite enjoyable.

Letters: My final scripted tales were mailed to the training class I entered Lesotho with on November 12, 2009. The motivation to write has dwindled recently, consequently this batch of letters was kept brief and open-ended. Ending this exchange is bittersweet, though, expectant seems an appropriate adjective to capture the mood too. I want, or am ready, to close this chapter of my book. Lesotho will always hold its own in my heart, but the thought of being a collective group on this side of the world is refreshing. I have no idea what their individual homecomings will entail... or how many of them I will reunite with. I do know--these people matter--each volunteer played a role in my story; they will be definite priorities in the new year.

14 Months: Thursday, November 3, marked 14 months since T.C.M.'s passing. And if you think I've stopped noticing the world is minus one, you have down right lost your mind. I came across this photo two nights ago, and it made me really happy.

T.C.M. has not made an appearance on the blog in quite sometime, though he's still quite vivid in my mind. There are periods of deep intractable sadness and anger, but more often, when I think of T.C.M., it's when raising a drink in cheers, in happy remembrance, or in form of music, songs that have become his songs. 

Job Hunting: Ongoing. Advised by many superiors I gave in--much to my chagrin--and joined, yet another, networking site: LinkedIn. Feel free to befriend me or network with me or do whatever people do on LinkedIn with or to me... or, better yet, just hand me a job(!!!). 

Regionals: C.A.H. and his teammates claimed the runner-up trophy at the Region II meet on Thursday. Watching these kids fly up hills over the thick un-mowed grass of the beautifully landscaped Northern Virginia at five minute mile pace is nothing short of inspiring. The crowd littered the course with chants and cheers of encouragement. My voice was hoarse from screaming, "You are awesome. You can. You will." at C.A.H. The sub-18 minute race was nerve-racking with the first place prize in sight, but after close tallies... the Raiders would come up short. Though, none of the hardware earning runners were complaining, medals pinned to their sweaty uniforms, the Raiders are one of four qualifying teams from Region II for the upcoming state meet. And coming from the most competitive (of four) region(s), winning state is not a far-fetched goal.

Frederick, Maryland: On a whim I went to the holiday open house at The Old Lucketts Store. The crowds left my shopping partners and I in a frenzy, so we headed out of town for Frederick, MD... where we squeezed in a bit more shopping before settling in at Acacia for an easy Friday lunch. This was my first time to Frederick, and I was a little shocked by the size; the town is much larger than I imagined. I will definitely have to go back, there's plenty of good vegetarian friendly eating, mixed in with 'vintage hip' shops. And when I return, I will bring my bike for a tour along the tree-lined streets, featuring quaint historic houses.

Clemson is sidelined with a bye this week; the Tigers should be thankful for the extra seven days to comprehend and dwell on the pitiful loss to the Ramblin' Wreck from Georgia Tech. There's still plenty of other reasons to enjoy your football Saturday. For one, at this house--nine pounds of kettle corn awaits me downstairs. For two, three, and four, Michigan, Michigan State, and Georgia.

There you have it, you're all caught up--you have no reason to call.

The Week After

The yearly marker will forever coincide with the birthdate of my father. (Happy--belated--Birthday Pops!)

This date is so incredibly sacred, therefore sharing it, is for the obvious reasons, tough. 

Though, sharing the date does positively frame a focus on life--rejoicing in another year for Pops, honoring the story of T.C.M., being thankful for my own. 

A week later I still do not know where I am at... besides at a loss for words. (That doesn't happen often!)

There were opportunities to be with company on the dreaded day. That, lacking all reason, did not feel right. The people with the ability to provide the most comfort were beyond reach. Engaged with my family in a full day of joint birthday and college football celebration was a second best.

And an extended weekend trip to The Big Apple to visit the backbone of much of my strength on this side of the world will hopefully rebound me right back to where I want to be.

The 365th day of this journey was not the destination. It was little more than a symbolic rest stop. This week has been an elongated pause at a scenic overlook--an opportunity to reflect on the distance traveled until now and refresh myself for the subsequent phase of the adventure.  

10 months with you, 10 months without you

My friend’s sister went through a tough pregnancy with her now twin one year old girls, who are simply adorable and have been nothing but a blessing for her and her family since then. Anyways—very few people actually knew how incredibly rough her situation was…until she shared the story on her new blog. It brought most everyone, including myself, near tears. The journey was unimaginable, unless you went through it yourself. Sound familiar? From her I learned how healing it was to put her story out there. And from my experience, I know the more I discuss the event of September 3, 2010 the easier it gets.

I have had a fair share of opportunities to share my story, yet as a "blogger" I feel opening the flood gates for others to read (or ignore) at their own will would be most beneficial. At this time I do not feel as though it’s right for me to publish the details without the consent of the people who may have been hurt the most, T.C.M.’s parents, whom I have had zero contact since the night of the murder. I have no idea what they know about the events of the night… but whatever they know was derived from my mouth, most likely channeled through several officials before reaching them.

Healing is difficult when your natural tendency is to dissociate. You never actually heal from such a trauma; it becomes a part of you. Right now I can't share the actual account but recollecting the back story seems appropriate on the ten month anniversary.

T.C.M. and I were not involved in any sort of romantic relationship; we were extremely good friends. Despite our platonic status, he continually professed he was going to marry me one day and prematurely insisted on calling my parents his in-laws. This was all in fun and games, of course. I was closer to T.C.M. than I have been with most people in my life. Part of this closeness was the nature of our situation: two young high school math/science teachers stranded “together” in the same mountainous district of Lesotho, for what was supposed to be two years. Apart from our proximity to one another, we had a lot in common. I had a college friend from his hometown, we shared rival National League East baseball teams, were both educated at southern institutes, come from families of musical inclination, and much more. Our extreme personalities counterbalanced each other quite nicely. He brought out a side of me I didn’t even know existed, a side of me I really liked. He was a schemer (I find most men are) with the unique ability to dream big and follow through, an admirable character trait.

Confident and caring, he shared my passion for Lesotho and global health, while remaining grounded by his family and large friend base back stateside.

Before moving to our Thaba-Tseka homes we spent a long weekend together in the South (of Lesotho), with a volunteer two classes our superior, learning about site life. During the three month district lock-down we were able to visit each other, prior to celebrating our "newbie" status with the remainder of our district. As time went on I grew less fond of public transportation and my primary teaching job. When I needed an escape from my village (or a shower) I weekended in Katse, T.C.M.'s home. He was always there to bounce ideas off of or forget about stress with for awhile. When he ran out of money or fresh produce... he made his way to the camptown where I resided. The entire district of Thaba-Tseka has very few high schools, meaning our schools frequently brought us together for events--track meets, debates, science competitions.

The first semester ended and we were both ready to get off the mountain, well mother nature had a different idea. It snowed and snowed and snowed a little more. There was never any real accumulation--just enough to keep transportation inoperable. We made the best of the situation by celebrating the World Cup opening at the lodge with his co-workers. The weather cleared and we parted ways, reuniting in early July.

T.C.M. visited [my] town to track down the perfect pig for a 4th of July slaughtering. He had "his" welder make him a spit for the occasion I was not planning on attending (me=vegetarian). You had to be there to understand the trials and tribulations required to purchase swine in Lesotho. Reeediculous! Realize, what was supposed to take him a day, took the week, in addition my accompanying him back to Katse, where I eventually witnessed this debatably humane killing.

The rest of winter came and went, ending with a week long AIDS training in Nazareth, a five plus hour trek West from my home. Immediately following, school started back, not feeling well I kept to myself for most of August--finally accepting company the last weekend. We got into shenanigans only T.C.M. would track down. Hotel party? In Africa? The very next weekend we traveled the six hours to Maseru, the capitol of Lesotho, for the Close of Service Banquet in honor of the education group ahead of ours.

This post is now a novel; I never said it was a short story. After typing I feel much relief, recalling many more good--over the one epic bad memory.

Nine Months

By Peace Corps’ 27 month standard the education 2010 volunteers have completed two-thirds of their service. While I officially completed 13 months of service, only 10 of these months were served in Lesotho. No longer a volunteer I am very much united to my cohort of friends still in country finishing out the remainder of their service. We have been without T.C.M. for a complete trimester.

At the finale of each month abroad I chose one song to essentially define the atmosphere throughout the month. My playlist, heavily influenced by T.C.M., included these nine songs:

• Month One: Wagon Wheel—Old Crow Medicine Show
• Month Two: New Shoes—Paolo Nutini
• Month Three: Wonderwall—Oasis
• Month Four: 1901--Phoenix
• Month Five: I Got No Ceilings—Lil Wayne
• Month Six: She Moves in Her Own Way—The Kooks
• Month Seven: Waka Waka (Time for Africa)--Shakira
• Month Eight: July, July!—The Decembrist
• Month Nine: Let Her Cry—Hootie & the Blowfish

The second trimester, in country or out, has been a difficult one. Regaining confidence, resetting values, restoring passion, and finding a general sense of normalcy has included a celebration of small accomplishments. This month I reached a big milestone; I was able to start listening to these nine songs.