Six months in...

The troubles of being a white woman in Ghana:
If you asked me a few months ago, I would have told you that anyone could do two years of this. What is the big deal, two years, you could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Twenty-seven months. It is such a short amount of time. But now, now I would have to disagree. This job is freaking hard. Sometimes, it feels impossible. And most of the time, I am just lost and/or confused.
I know the last blog I was really happy. I have my moments. I do not want you to think I hate it here, because it is not true. Even the things I hate, I love (to hate them?…). My family knows, I have not been having a great few weeks (I know, I am dramatic- I like to think of it as emotionally connected).
Everyone who reads my blog, knows that I have had a hard time integrating (shocker to anyone?). Not from a lack of trying, it took me a whole two months to meet my chief (big deal here; should have been done the first week I was here). Well, the other week, my community health volunteers (which I did not know existed) came by to tell me that they meet EVERY Friday but did not want to come by and let me know or introduce themselves. Hello, I am a Health, water, sanitation volunteer. You did not think it was important? Or maybe the fact that the previous volunteer told Peace Corps to not let the head of the volunteers be the counterpart again made you and everyone in the community you told, hate me before I even came. Great to know. Thanks for sticking me in a village that will do anything to make my life hell, since he is obviously influential here.
Which leads me to my next point. My community does not want me here. They do not want me to bring them latrines, they do not want me to teach health lessons, and they do not want me involved in the community health volunteers. What the hell am I doing here?! I go out in the community and the whole village seems to hate me (except for the nurses and teachers, who are not from the village, and my next door neighbor). All the women think I am sleeping with their husbands (I do not know how that even started, but let me tell you, I was completely offended). How do you tell someone that their husband is a pig that disgusts you without insulting them?
Okay, next point: the men (and very few women). All of them tell me that they are coming to my house to sleep with me. They do not ask, they tell. They try to touch you inappropriately. I do not know how many more times I could actually take it, especially when most of them are in their 50s with children older than me and married to like six women already. I cannot even go to my neighbors without being harassed. I literally hate leaving my house in fear that I will be harassed and then the wife will think that I am actually complying. I say no, I leave situations rudely (which makes me paranoid for offending someone), and I lock my doors; do not let anyone in my house. How many other ways could you say no? Honestly.
Which brings me to my next topic. Sorry, I know you do not want to hear about this one, but I am fed up with not sleeping and almost always being scared. Nights suck. As you might have heard. Since I am afraid that the men will come expecting who knows what, I have a routine to locking myself in my house. Even then, I do not feel safe. The doors, which I want Peace Corps to fix, are not secure, the windows would be easy enough for a five year old to break in, and I live by myself (not in a compound with other people, like many other volunteers). So, naturally, (my dramatic self) cannot sleep through the night (having no mattress might be another factor). Every noise wakes me up, I sleep so light that I wake myself up almost every hour, and most nights I wake up, not being able to fall asleep (so I watch a movie on my laptop).
Needless to say, I am exhausted. I am tired of being told to let people in my house to sleep with me, or being hated because I am white and therefore obviously sleeping with all the men, being made fun of because I am white, or stared at, being called white person (more like screamed at).
Well, this blog is right on schedule, I think. Six months in. Sounds about right for a freak out. Hopefully, talking with my boss, he will either move me or… move me (please). This community does not want me (they must think they do not need me). I need to go somewhere that actually WANTS a change, instead of just wanting some white person to make the local men crazy and the women angry.
On a positive note: I left my dog in the care of my neighbor. I came home after being gone almost a week and she was alive and well. I thought maybe I could stick it out in this community after that, but being back for a few days, I realized there is no way I could keep going here for two years. There definitely needs to be a change. Luckily, we have our meeting (which is where I am heading now) and I will be able to break it all down to my boss.
And the answer to the question on everyone’s mind is no. I am not coming home. Forget about any preconceived notions you all had about me; I am sticking it out (unless one of my paranoias become a reality). I mean, yes, I want to come home. Everyday. Most nights, I end up in bed praying to God to let me just make it home again. But then I have an experience (or two or three) that makes it all worth it. It makes me want to help. Stick it out. How else am I supposed to grow, evolve, and get a great job? Sleep deprivation and psychological stress will just have to be something I go through for two years (and three months).