I'm Scared to Speak to Anyone

It's something I've struggled with before, back when I was only a tourist here. I'm afraid to use what little Finnish I know. What if it comes out garbled? What if I say "kylla" instead of "kyllä," or "muta" instead of "mutta" ? Clearly, this is something I'll have to overcome, and quickly.

I've been studying Finnish a little on my own with a beginner's textbook (that's oppikirja) that I bought while still in The States. I'm proud of the modest progress I've made as well as overwhelmed with how much there is still to learn. Finnish doesn't belong to the Indo-European language tree (as does English), and is instead Finno-Ugric. As you might imagine, this makes for a real dissimilarity between English and Finnish.

Fortunately for me and for all would-be Finnish learners, the language makes a lot of logical sense. It's really just that damn linguistic barrier between Finnish and my native language that makes learning it so difficult. It's been fun for Rami and me to go through it together, though; I read dialogues aloud from the oppikirja, piece together the meaning and attempt to wrap my head around verb conjugations and noun suffixes. He fills in the gaps. If it weren't a pursuit of such import to me, it would be a fun intellectual challenge.

The problem is, I find it hard to imagine a time when I'll feel equipped to actually use Finnish. It's not just Finnish I'm reticent to speak, though; I'm equally afraid of speaking English. I hate the idea of seeming like an ethnocentric American who thinks she can survive with English because "everyone here can speak it so well!" I mean, it's certainly true that the Finns generally tend to speak English quite well, but I don't want to rely on their skills to make up for my lack of facility with their language. If I really want to assimilate as seamlessly as possible, I have to learn Finnish as well as possible. I just wish I knew how "well" is possible for me.

Shocker

So I've been trying to secure Kela coverage for my Avonex. It's been a bit of a battle in that we were given some wrong information regarding what was required. I'll likely have to pay out of pocket for two months worth of the stuff. This was something I was prepared for, though, so although it is a "worst case scenario" sort of situation, it appears to be one I can handle. Plus, I'll be reimbursed most of the money I'll shell out.

Instead of dwelling on this setback, however, I'd like to mention something that nearly caused me to faint in shock. When I went to the doctor to get a referral to a neurologist at a medical center here in Lappeenranta, I brought about a hundred euros in cash with me. Since I'm not covered by the national social security system yet, I thought I'd have to pay a ton of money out-of-pocket. When they handed me a bill, which I had fourteen days to pay, it read 27 euros. The receptionist explained that this cost covered doctor's visits for the entire year, and would include all of the offices in the Southern Karelia region.

Yep, I love Finland for that alone.

Hard

I haven't written in a while due to being busy with preparing to leave the country and all. The last month has involved seeing a lot of family and friends and saying a lot of deeply painful goodbyes. The ironic and bittersweet connection and reconnection with many in my social network caused me to feel both closure and regret. I hadn't really anticipated that.

I thought as soon as I boarded the plane I'd feel some relief from the sadness pangs; having goodbyes said and security dealt with was my primary focus. I was half right. The plane ride was easy. I couldn't wait to land. Let's get all this travel over with and start building a new life, I thought. Landing was easy, too. Our bags were among the last to emerge, and I felt as if I had been spared the hugely stupid struggle of hunting for all my earthly possessions. I napped fitfully on the car ride to Lappeenranta. I dreamed a little of home and family. Things began to seem scarier -- more daunting than they ever had before.

I knew this feeling would come, but I wasn't prepared for it. I'll be helpless until I have even a rudimentary grasp of Finnish and, even then, I will never, ever be able to communicate as effortlessly as I can with English. I'll be starting over almost from scratch socially speaking as well. Of course, I knew all this long before embarking on the move. I even knew that I would feel sad and helpless and scared. Even so, it was a thing both inevitable and miserable, and it had to happen shortly after landing.

Today, though, I feel much better. Walking around Lappeenranta to see all of my favorite summer sights and studying a little Finnish seemed to pull me out of the funk I felt. I'm still frightened -- it would be pretty stupid if I weren't -- but things are back in perspective.

I'll be writing about my new life here (adjustments, fears, successes, culture, and, of course, cuisine) from now on. I plan to update regularly and often. Watch out.

Depraved

Well, I'm writing a pretty filthy prose poem that reenvisions the immaculate conception as not so immaculate. [Edit: My religions expert sister-in-law tells me that "immaculate conception" refers to Mary's lack of original sin rather than Jesus' birth. Rookie mistake, and my apologies.] I'm trying to make it satirical so as to avoid the likely pitfalls of having it come across as overly sentimental, purposely shocking, pornographic, or overtly feminist. The thing is, even if no one ever reads it and I am too mortified to ever show it to another human being (this is highly, highly probable), it's still fun to write.

In a sense, though, it is a rather feminist undertaking. I initially thought to myself, in somewhat biblical language, "Why should God have thrust unto Mary all consequence and no pleasurable causation?" Throw the girl a bone, as it were. She's the mother of your child. Oh, because she ought to be above pursuing her baser imperativ-- excuse me, desires?

This is precisely where the atheist and the religious person differ; if there is no god, there is no impetus to deny one's sexuality in adherence to a divinely structured morality. By extension, there is no reason to avoid deriving enjoyment from sexuality. Given that sex is a healthy biological function, it's an understandably uncomfortable thing to forgo. If there is no exterior motivation to abstain (we have the technology to remain relatively safe these days and, in this particular case, I doubt that the lord has any STIs), why would you? From my perspective of disbelief (and non-motherhood, to boot!), it seems unfair to ask a young woman to bear a child without that most fundamental biological bribe.

The virgin birth myth is not one that began with Christianity, however, so apparently lots of women around the mediterranean were once impregnated without so much as one lousy caress. There's something funny -- in both the "comical" and the "weird" senses of the word -- about that. I'm going to explore it in my super secret prose poem.

Breasts, Broken Relationships, and Bipolar Jukebox in Torrington

Last night, a friend and I went to a local theatre event in Torrington, courtesy of The Desultory Theatre Club. The show began with a really charming burlesque artist, Dot Mitzvah. She had just the right dose of silly along with her generous helping of sexy. My friend and I discussed what it would be like if we were to attempt burlesque, and we giggled at the thought of our diminutive chests and their probable inability to properly twirl the nipple tassels.

Then, we were treated to a really well-done short play about a relationship gone to shit called "Vapor, Liquid, Snow, Solid." I keep wondering whether or not it was an indictment of monogamy. Either way, it was particularly well-acted.

Dot came back and showed us a bit more T+A.

Lastly, we got to hear a really impressive band called Bipolar Jukebox. Holy musicianship, Plastic Man.

It was a really good night, and we're lucky that such things happen here in the middle-of-nowhere. I highly recommend that you go see the next show at Artwell in T-Town. I'll regret missing out on these events when I'm gone.

Fiction: It may or may not be any good.

Well, I've graduated. College. This milestone is a pretty belated one, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I had a lot with which to come to terms in the years immediately following high school. Anyway:

I thought it might be beneficial for me if I began to post some fiction. I'm not sure if y'all are interested in that, but I suppose there might be the odd individual who'd be willing to dispense some criticism.

Here's the beginning of a story. I've always been interested in Christian fanaticism and the sexual repression that often manifests in its practitioners. Also, I've always been interested in evangelical disdain for Catholicism. Anyway, tell me if you think this stuff is any good and where you think it's going. If you want.


I drink a good deal of tea. I keep a metal travel mug in my hands nearly all the time, because it keeps my throat loose and wet. I yell the word of God on the street, and you’d be surprised how well the tea soothes the ache and the soreness of my abused larynx.

It warms me in the rain and the snow of the New English winter, it quenches my thirst, and it soothes the tool with which I praise God and spread his word. I do not own a microphone, as amplification would only dampen the intensity of my message. The rough, prickling breaks in my tired voice add gravity to it. Mint, black, sweet tea, bitter tea, it’s all the same to me.

Main Street is bereft of the Godliness that once characterized this great nation. The bar signs burn with a gaudy neon lust, and the antique stores -- filled with Catholic idols -- creak in sin and fanaticism. Only the lowest and most ragged people venture out at night to drink, and the worst among that lot loiter in the street with their beer bottles to their lips like they were nursing at their mother’s tit. That is why I am here. I was once like them: empty and Catholic, knowing only the mother and never the son. I knew him only as a babe at Christmas, a creature of monumental prominence and consequence, but the beer bottles on which I suckled kept me clinging to that virgin’s skirt. Emptiness persisted in my gut no matter how often I sought to fill it with drink. But then, his image found me at night, curled in bed as if in the womb, and told me to leave his mother behind, for she was not the intermediary those idol worshippers would have us believe. No, in fact, it was he who would lead me to God, and he alone. I unhooked my fingers from her hemline and I followed him to where love and sacrifice usurp lust and greed. I was born again from the womb of his atonement.

The drunks laugh at me. Sometimes they even throw their empty bottles in my direction, jeering. What makes this worth my time are the few who come to me with tear stains on their cheeks and God in their heart. They are curious and attentive, asking questions and seeking clarification, and they promise to consider getting saved. Some get saved, some do not, but I plant a seed in their heart. If they care for it and tend to it, they will see it flourish. Love will burst forth from their chests. Their lives will begin anew in Christ’s love.

Some of these bar folk are not drunk, and yet they still laugh along with the rest. I see one walking languidly by me with a smirk. His heart is hardened. When I see him, he does not look like a member of this small town. He’s wearing tight blue jeans and a black t-shirt covered by a blazer. He is clean and does not look as though he had been sitting on a tractor or working with his hands. An Ivy League boy, home from the halls of academe? A Wall Street boy, home from the affluence and sin of the city? Is he visiting friends? Why is his chest so broad, his shoulders so wide?

I Have Multiple Sclerosis

It's true. I do. A lot of people hear this disease mentioned and imagine tragically infirm people in wheelchairs, watching wistfully as walkers raise money for their benefit. I suppose some people with MS embody just that image, but I don't (yet) fit that description.

I have had problems -- I was legally blind for a year, and I've had bouts of numbness and such -- but I've been lucky. Really, the worst part is the anxiety associated with getting my medication, a thing frequently threatened by incompetence and greed. My hope is that when I get to Finland, it won't be such a headache. Ass-ache.

What's it like having a chronic condition, the future symptoms and severity of which are entirely uncertain? There's a lot of worry and hypochondria involved. "Why did my leg just twitch? Should I tell my doctor? What's up with that debilitating pain in my back? Should I tell my doctor?" And when your doctor inevitably leaves some true, tell-tale symptom unrecognized and untreated, you might find yourself asking, "Why is my doctor such a dumb shit?" You might have two spinal taps, the first just for shits and giggles; these lab results will determine that you're spinal meningitis free!
But, bad news. They don't have enough spinal fluid to correct their mistake. You'll need another one.

For me, it also involves a lot of denial. Healthy denial, I think. First of all, I'm relatively symptom-free. Why should I ruminate on the possibilites more than is necessary? What I should really do is enjoy my mental faculties and motor functions a whole hell of a lot in the event that they one day diminish. Secondly, I tend to like to avoid doctors at all costs. They do nothing but order painful tests that yield no results, and they ignore you if they can't devise some way to torture you. Experience has taught me that keeping them at arm's length is actually pretty beneficial. [To be fair, my current doctor has been good to me. I'm thankful for both him and his office. Still, I'm not ready to trust. I'm just not.]

There are certainly things I think of during rare moments of reflection like this one. Should I avoid having children? MS's genetic heritability is uncertain (I think? I'm woefully ignorant about such things. It's part of that healthy denial I mentioned), but it's certainly possible that I could pass it on to some potential kid. Fortunately, I don't really want children anyway. Will I become some sort of invalid? Well, probably not, given how the disease has progressed in me so far, but if I do, I guess I'll deal with it then.

Sometimes people force me to think about it. Like in biology the other day. My professor was under the impression that all MS is progressive -- that is to say, it progressively destroys your myelin sheath until you're immobile and stupid. Well, from the little I know of MS, it most commonly manifests as a series of relapses and remissions, hence the term "relapsing-remitting." Sure, there's a pretty sizable element of progression in those relapses, but, hey, quit telling me I'm doomed if you're not entirely certain.

I think, actually, the most painful thing about it is to think a lot about it. So far, its hold over me isn't disability but rather fear and anxiety. In that sense, I'm quite lucky. Nevertheless, it is a little like having someone threaten to punch you in the face and not disclose when it will happen. "When you least expect it," it says.

Still, I am lucky, and I know it. But I think I'll retreat back into denial now.