bad days

Bad days are bad. It's true. Regardless of where you are, no one like a bad day.

Bad days in Africa -- are terrible.

Sometime it's showing up to an event and no one is there. Sometime it's planning to leave for some where and no tro is there. Sometime it's riding on a tro and it's, all of a sudden, not going anywhere anymore. Sometime, it's sitting inside a tro with loud Ghanaian music/drama and you don't think you will ever make it to the end. Sometime, it's hearing a baby's insufferable scream and you wish you were listening to the shitty music/drama instead. Sometime, it's like you're somehow caught in your own drama and people are screaming at you and you wish they were never been born. Sometime, some assholes who should have never been born are touching you and screaming at you and all you can do is try not to punch them in the face.

Bad days are fucking terrible here.

It feels like an emotional assault. That a tidal waves had just hit and destroyed the barely held together fragile mental state that you have worked so hard to maintain. And no one is there to help you put it back together.

In Ghana, I am a white lady, a China, a Japan, a Korea, a woman -- an object of fascination and whatever the fuck. I am stared at, shouted at, grabbed at. I am constantly being harassed. Do you know what it's like walking down the street for even just half a block, having people calling you all kind of names that they think are appropriate for you, basing on your look alone. In America, it's racism, it's sexism, it's sexual harassment, it's ignorant, it's crude. Not here. And I can't get too angry. Just ignore them, they say. They are just playing, they say. I can't fight back. It's not culturally appropriate. They're really ribbed, they say.

Bad days are personal.

Some volunteers smile and joke back. Some volunteers give sass. Some volunteers are numb. I don't seem to have found a technique yet, and so I cry. To myself, to other people. Out of anger, and sadness, I cry because I can't do anything else. I cry because it feels as if I've lost the game. I cry because I've lost my cool and gave the the satisfaction of knowing that they have gotten to me. That they have broke me. I cry because  I feel broken.

Bad days are ugly.

I can feel a bit of myself rot away every time I walk away while still hearing the laughter and mockery behind me. A little more bitterness creeps up. A little more hate invades my heart. Misery is not without company. I can feel myself drowning anger, hatred and sub consequently, sadness. I see myself wishing that I was out of here. Maybe I should just give up. I hate these people, their country and their stupid self sabotage way of living and so-call culture -- the very barrier that keeps them from understanding me and my reason for being there. I am a loathsome monster of rage.

No words to soothe my pain, to calm my anger, to appease my sadness. I hate myself and all around me. I blame myself and all around me.

Bad days are seriously bad.