On validation
I am writing this from one of the rooftops of the fancy new apartment complex in which I now reside, enjoying a nice early fall sunset.
How did I end up here?
It could be asked both literally and existentially. Anyone who has read my blog before probably thinks I only come on here to whine, mostly in the existential sense. Don't worry, that will come in this post. But in a very practical sense, this past week (or even couple of weeks) was one of the most problematic periods of my whole life.
I was supposed to move into a different, cheaper apartment in a more historical area of my town thanks to a former, seemingly generous and accommodating landlord who had something available. I toured the unit while it was inhabited and did not observe any glaring issues, though of course there is some sort of distance when the current tenant's stuff is everywhere. I don't want to touch their things or make a fuss, you know? It seemed good enough and had no signs of mold, the main reason why I decided to leave my current place even though I plan to get out of this city (and country) sometime next year.
I paid my security deposit and one month's rent. About 2.5 weeks ago I was preparing to move into this apartment despite ongoing renovations. The landlord was offering me a half month of free rent, hooray. I was excited to move to this neighborhood and enjoy a fresh start.
Until my friend and I showed up, looked at each other, and immediately realized that this apartment was, well, just Not It. The shower consisted of a tub that likely had not been replaced since the place was built in the 1940s. I wouldn't say I am incredibly picky, and I've never lived in a "new" building before anyway. But this shower wasn't even functional. We couldn't fathom how the previous tenant survived there.
Anyway, the apartment was rife with other problems that, admittedly, the landlord and his maintenance guy attempted to remedy in a timely fashion. Although I had already more or less made up my mind to try to break the lease, my friend and I still returned to check out the changes. They tried, but the place could really use thousands of dollars worth of renovations.
Based on my correspondence with the landlord, it seemed that I could break the lease. With which consequences, I had no clue, especially because he was about to leave for a ten-day trip abroad without service. So, I was left to scramble to find a new apartment in the meantime. Fortunately I was not without a place to stay because my current lease would not expire until the end of September. However, I was also going out of town at the end of August and, importantly, had scheduled a surgery for September 10th. I had to move my stuff by then because I cannot lift things for several weeks during recovery.
After tons of running around, I found a nice apartment. Too nice, actually. My search was restricted to luxury apartments because no private landlord would agree to a short-term lease. Even though I can afford it here, I'll be living lean for the next couple of months until I get a pay raise. I actually don't regret my choice, but the storyline that brought me here was unsettling to say the least.
The problems don't end there, however. I found out during my trip that I got this new apartment, yay. Everything went smoothly, and I am very appreciative. The plan was for my friend (and their car) to help me move the day after my return, on Labor Day. Should be done within 1.5 days or so, no big deal because I was only moving about five miles away.
Then I tested positive for COVID on Labor Day morning.
Like the first time I got COVID, the timing was the worst part of it. I am already more or less recovered, but that meant I felt like shit when my friend and I somehow pulled off a contact-free move that lasted several days because I had to walk between metro stops and apartment buildings, which took ages.
And because I got COVID, I had to cancel a pre-surgical appointment that was scheduled for Tuesday morning. And so I postponed my surgery until later this month. Not the worst thing in the world, but I do expect my pelvic pain to return before then because I decided to come off of the birth control pill that helped manage my symptoms but induced a variety of other side effects that I couldn't deal with anymore.
Finally, as the cherry on top to this series of unfortunate events, I received a snarky response from that landlord on Wednesday saying that none of my "monies" would be refunded. So, I lost two thousand dollars. Not nothing. At this point all I can do is laugh.
Needless to say, I haven't worked in several weeks at this point. My life feels turned upside down.
Yet, I'm here a little bit more at peace, typing this and realizing that this is all kind of my own doing. I've had good intentions: After all, I was only trying to better my own situation by moving out of a moldy apartment that may have contributed to my endometriosis symptoms. It sounds goofy, but I'll do anything to get myself out of a sticky situation even if it may only help by 1%. There's no way I can prove that my old apartment affected me though. And I'm not new to renting apartments, so I should have known better than to tour an apartment without being able to see all its problems.
Moving is hard. Getting COVID while trying to move is hard. Losing tons of money is hard. I was so close to reaching a breaking point this week, and I honestly kind of did reach it on Wednesday.
But it wasn't about all these apartment problems and getting COVID. I physically recovered from these upheavals and will probably financially recover within a few months.
It's about not feeling validated when it comes to my problems. These frustrations have compounded since December as I became riddled with pelvic pain of unknown cause without much sympathy from most doctors and in some cases from my own friends. Notably, this isn't the first time I've felt dismissed or at best ignored by experts or those who are supposed to care about me.
So, here I am realizing that this is why I spend a lot of my life feeling angsty. It's true that I do kind of live a cushy life. I live in this nice apartment now, and I'm about to finish a PhD. I feel safe where I live. I'm a smart and capable person. I have good friends who care about me. Besides my recent pelvic issues, I'm extremely healthy. I have a good future ahead of me.
The truth is, however, that I spend a lot of my time feeling like I'm not a real person because I am afflicted with "problems" that are more or less not acknowledged by society as such. If my problems aren't real, then maybe I'm not real either.
I don't usually seek advice when it comes to my problems. In general, I do what is objectively best for myself and possible under current circumstances. It's incredibly lonely though. What I really crave is validation. It sounds petty, but it's true. I can't handle being belittled, denied, or shamed for what I feel or experience.
I've written plenty of times about my adoption and how it has affected me. Generally speaking, adoptees are expected to feel grateful for what happened to them. After all, I was "rescued" from life in the wild nineties in Russia and brought to the US, and I'm fortunate enough to be typing this blog post. Right? There's a fun and relatable quote that I sometimes encounter on the Internet: "Adoption loss is the only trauma in the world where the victims are expected by the whole of society to be grateful." And that's exactly how my childhood felt. I was an alien and still feel that way a lot. I could ramble about that forever; adoption will always be one of my go-to topics on this blog.
Last month I realized that this need for validation extends to my endometriosis, another condition that is seldom recognized by society, often dismissed as another minor problem that women (although a few cis men have developed it as well!) cannot handle. It can be incredibly uncomfortable and painful.
In late June I had a terrible flare of pelvic pain that lasted three weeks. I wanted to cry every day. It was incredibly lonely, though I finally had a consultation with a surgeon who, unlike other doctors I saw, was open to the idea that I have endometriosis.
I finally felt some relief a month ago. It wasn't really because the flare had mostly ended by that point. It was because of my MRI result, which, to my surprise, actually found something --- so different from my uneventful ultrasound earlier this year and arguably many other patients with chronic pelvic pain whose images reveal nothing. In my case, only one image was suspicious. But there was something there, and it was suggestive of fibrotic endometriosis.
It's funny how something that could be so depressing to many people could make me feel better. All it took was an image. The validation was exactly what I needed, just to know that my problem is in fact real and not made up. It's not crazy that I've sought various ways to relieve myself from my pain. Am I worried that my endometriosis is severe given that it happened to appear on MRI? Yes. But am I just a wimp who can't handle menstrual cramps? No. Endometriosis is considered among the top twenty most painful conditions worldwide.
I think that MRI result is the most objective piece of validation I have received in my entire life. That's what I have wanted since I was a child. To know that my suffering is real. Sadly, it did not come from a human being. Maybe that makes it better though.