Rx: Blogging

I lived in rural Mexico for three months during my sophomore year in college. It was my first time living in a different city (not to mention country) than my family. I was nervous--about the food, the language, the program, the other girls, the dogs,....okay, about everything. Except the swine flu. Thankfully that came later.

When my American facilitator took me to the village of 200 people that I was supposed to live in, she admitted that she had not yet found anyone willing to take me in. She put on a cheery face when she told me she had one last family that she felt good about. I was feeling anything but good at that point, but I followed her meekly and mutely to a little blue house surrounded by a wall of rocks. I remember sitting on a chair on the kitchen's dirt floor and trying to contain the wave of panic that was threatening to crest over into a tsunami of tears.

I remember the long looks the parents gave each other when my facilitator finally dared to put forth her request. After a long silence, while I traced patterns in the dirt floor with my toe, they finally agreed to take me. I ate dinner with them that night (spinach and chicken) and got violently ill (in two directions) before the sun was up. Lucky for me, I had taken a "tour" of the premises and I knew right where to find the "poo room."

The "poo room" was an approximately 10 foot by 10 foot room on the back side of the house. The light coming through its one small window barely illuminated the frame of a chair that was missing a seat, which served as the "throne." The process was simple, in theory at least. Sit on the chair. Deposit the goods on the cement floor. Leave. (Once a month some poor unfortunate soul cleaned it out. It still makes me shudder to think of it.)

In practicality, I couldn't quite bring myself to use the throne. But a more significant problem became apparent after, oh, about one visit to the poo room. How does one get out without stepping on or tracking out any of the other deposits? It was the rural Mexico equivalent of walking out of the bathroom with toilet paper stuck to your shoe...but a lot stinkier.

After using the "poo room" for about a day I began to despair that there was no way that I would survive another 89 days with this routine. Each passing airplane far overhead caused me to fantasize about civilization and to despair about my reality. I often wondered how bad it really was to be a quitter. Because shame seemed a small thing compared to facing the poo room multiple times a day. (Among other trials!)

It was at this point of discouragement I discovered a coping trick. And when I say trick, I actually mean miracle. It came to me after I solved the poo-(on-your-shoe)-room problem by buying a cheap pair of sandals, which I dubbed "poo shoes." They lived outside my door and were always and only used in the poo room. I was so proud of my solution that I wrote home to my family about it. And the following week, when someone STOLE my poo shoes (they cost $1 literally) I gave a follow-up report. And you know what? My family laughed and liked my stories. And the miracle occurred right then when my little brain realized that "bad things" often make for great stories. The trick is to survive the moment and write, write, write about it as soon as you can. It's pretty cheap therapy, and it really makes irritating or frustrating things became bearable.

So that's why I had to mentally leave my band of six yesterday to blog (and nearly Twitter) about my misfortune.

And that's why my archives contain too many posts about potty training.

And that's why I'm proud of my little sis, Kim, in England, who didn't despair at her failed trip or her second missed train, but instead ordered a cup of hot chocolate, pulled out her laptop, and looked for the rainbow through the rain. Or the poo shoes outside the poo room. Figuratively speaking, that is.

And that is one of the reasons I love to write so much. Because it is great medicine for getting me through the hard times.