art of self diagnosis

Not recommended. But in my defense, I was the one who was there--

 

It happened when I wasn’t paying attention. It snuck up on me, bound and gagged me, and threw me in the backseat of my brain, and suddenly I wasn’t the one driving--it was something other, something not me, something alien that now had control.

I had never been hijacked before. Not in real life, or even as a joke, and never in my brain. Perhaps the euphoria of making it home for Christmas masked the takeover, so it wasn’t until five, six months later I noticed anything unusual anyway. I had been effectively locked up, and put on autopilot, and all my desire and connection to life around me had been severed and hidden in the trunk. It was locked away, and I couldn’t hear it kicking and screaming to be let out, and I couldn’t even care it was gone. I just looked out the window as images flashed past.

 The alien driver made sure I got to work on time—every day.  I worked; I came home: lather, rinse, repeat. It drove me to church, and to ballgames. It got me to everything I was supposed to get to, everything I was obligated to do. But I was detached and cold, watching from a distance, left with no desire to participate in the world that flowed around me, the world that had seemed so natural and normal previously and that now had little claim on any thought or care that I had.

Not that I had many cares. But, was I worried that foreign governments had bugged my bedroom? Yes. Was I on high alert to flee at any sign of suspicious behavior? Yes, again. Did I boil into a rage if anyone touched me, critiqued me, or sometimes, dared ask me a question?—Yes.

 None of this mattered, not to me. I was still tied up in the backseat just looking, just browsing, no help needed, thanks. Not even when I stopped making plans, not even when I forgot how to pee, not even when I realized how easy it would be for me to die, did I care that I was being driven past field upon field of blood red flags, billowing in the wind.

 It was the flashback that saved me. A random email jolted my memory like an electric current zipping through me, and while one moment I was at my desk, the next moment I was on the busy sidewalk, people, smog, bicycles, cars, lights, buildings, noise, noise, noise, pounding in my ears with each pump of my heart. Terror squeezed my chest, and I couldn’t breathe.

 And then I was back at my desk.

 For one instant, my desire to connect kicked out the taillights in the trunk and frantically waved down a passerby. For the first time in a long time, I looked at myself with a detached interest.  I knew that something was wrong with me, and I knew that I couldn’t control myself. The brain had taken over my body; I wasn’t master of my own brain, and that flashback? It couldn't be explained away.

 

I printed off a page of symptoms and took it home to my mother.

 Can someone be certain something is wrong without being diagnosed? If a tree falls with no one around, is there a sound?

 

What if a tree falls and there is no lumberjack to chainsaw it into logs and haul it down the mountain? The log becomes part of the forest, rot into nutrients into foliage.  Or maybe it becomes fodder for wildfire. Either way, it's change; it's a natural passage from one state to another.

 

And so I'm back in the driver's seat. More aware, more wary. Also more compassionate to others in distress. If my alien could hide in the open, so could another person's demons. We aren't built to go through that alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

art of shopping

 Or, in other words, Confessions of a Shop-o-Phobic

If any of you out there in this blogging-void know me, (which you should, since you're family, or friends), you may have noticed at one point or another that I'm not overly fond of shopping. Maybe it's my aversion to spending money, maybe it's all the people in the stores, or wandering around looking at things that I have no interest or no need for...who knows, but I don't particularly like to shop.

In fact, I think the only lies my mother has ever told in her life have been trying to get me to spend a day on the town with her.

"Where are we going, Mommy?" says Little Me, trusting eyes looking up innocently.

"We're just going to stop at one place, then go home," Mother assures her.

Five department stores later, when Little Me realizes she has been duped, and she turns into a snarling, stormy-faced 22 year-old woman, who waves her fists in the air in Wal-Mart parking lots, her mother remembers that the least fun person to take shopping might just be her oldest offspring. (True Story)

A similar conversation may have happened between me and Heidi occasionally in China. Heidi, like all normal, healthy women, likes to shop, and China is just the perfect avenue for her commercial interests. For me, however, it's like a horror flick...
 
Imagine my delight, then, when I realize that the only way to get a few presents for my fellow MeiGuo-rens, is to go to the famous bargain booths in Beijing's city center. (As if things couldn't get any worse, why don't you throw a store in there where price tags don't exist...)

The story of the week should start with me walking into the YaShow building in Beijing, a 6 story building packed with vendors. Or maybe it should start with JJ, who took me to there; she was an expert at spending her ex-pat husband's money and finding deals you didn't know you needed. Or maybe it should start with descriptions of all the stuff available, the shirts, shoes, bags, red drums, painted fans, carved chess sets, samurai-like swords, or strings of white pearls, swaths of red and violet and yellow silk, and traditional parasols.

But no, my story starts when my dazed eyes cleared briefly, and I found myself already sitting down on a stool in the aisle, my feet shed with a pair Pumas.

What just happened? I thought.

 

I stared stupidly at the Chinese woman, who explained to me, in English, why this pair of Pumas is the best quality of knock-offs and why she will sell them to me for 460 RMB.

 

I jerked up. No way!--No way am I going to spend 70 US Dollars on a pair of shoes. Not even in MeiGuo (USA) will I do that! I didn't even know that Pumas weren't just jungle cats until I sat down at her ruddy booth. How did I get here?

 

I felt some accusatory feelings toward Heidi and Mrs. J, who had led me on the path of what I considered hell, and as I stood to leave, sliding off the shoes, the vendor called out the famous, most common words in the bargain markets: "Okay, okay, okay. Name your price."

 

And, so it began. I don't know how it happened, but I was playing the game--getting the best deal, buyer and seller locked in this infinite struggle against profit and bargain--400 RMB, 350 RMB, 200 RMB...

 

"No," she said, laughing at me, fakely. "These are Pumas. They are such good quality. 200 is Lowest Price."

 

I shook my head in unbelief. I needed to get out of there.

 

"Okay, Deal." She said suddenly. "I give you "friend price." Friend price, 100 RMB."

 

 I think she could sense that I wasn't in love with the idea of buying a pair of shoes.  Truthfully, I wasn't even in love with the idea of being there, but maybe that's the best mindset to be in when bargaining.--And as fast as you can say " China is now the world's second largest economy," I was on my feet, a bag of Puma shoes in my hand.

 

"It's not a big deal," said Heidi, reminding me. "You needed a pair of tennis shoes for hiking the Great Wall anyway."

 

Easy for you to say. I thought. You know what Pumas are...

 

So I went around every floor of Ya Show terrified that I was going to be putty in people's hands and buy the whole store. (I did find some very China-y things, though, and made off with a few bags full of presents. Folks at home would have killed me, otherwise.) 

 

I'm glad that I didn't have much money with me though (on purpose) cause I am horribly bad at bargaining. I don't think that is one of the gifts that God has given me. Unlike some of the vendors, who have been especially trained in secret academies, I'm convinced, to haggle, exclaim, twist, and argue up any price for any thing sold in China.

 

Ironically, this happened in Beijing on Monday. And on Tuesday, the Chinese Central Bank declared a interest rate rise, and a lot of other economic lingo, which basically means that the world was in shock for a few days for some reason, but also that China is only behind America in large economies, and now I can see how, as I am partly to blame.

 

It's because Me and My Fellow MeiGuo-rens buy all of China's knock-off Pumas.