The Beauty of Hitting Rock Bottom

When I was a kid, my parents used to call me “Mugwump”, which inevitably morphed into “Mugmump” and got shortened to “Muggie” and “Mugs”. In fact, I didn’t know what my real name was until I was almost 4 years old. Anyway… My dad used to tell me that the name was a Native American word meaning “rebel”, and it fit my personality from Day 1. I’ve always been fiercely independent, testing the limits. But the difference between me and a true rebel is that I only resist out of stubbornness, not defy wholeheartedly. I’ve learned since then that the original meaning of “mugwump” is an Algonquin word meaning “war leader, chief, or important person”. And, believe me, I’ve been on the warpath lately. (By the way, mugwump later came to mean “fence-sitter” in the 1884 Presidential elections, and that definition, too, has had significance in my life in recent weeks.)

We have had problems with the apartment the entire time we have lived here. For 9 months now we have had a steady stream of workers coming in and out, almost on a daily basis from mid-September to May and a mere 1-2 times a week during the past 2 months. One handyman after another giving their opinions, giving assessments and quotes, fixing things that just break again, or they just never show up at all after I rearrange my day to make sure I’d be there to let them in. The waiting is killing me. I’ve been relegated to the simple role of sentinel – I guard the door and wait.

The problems have been endless: toilets that leak at the base, toilets that don’t flush, toilets that don’t stop running, pipes that aren’t connected to sinks, faucets that don’t work, crossed electrical wires that make ceiling fans in one room turn on while turning off the light in another and vice versa, the only electrical outlets in the room not working, A/C problems, a water heater that turns off when it feels like it – 4 or so times a day, and a leak from who-knows-where that streams down the wall, causing paint to peel off and ponds to form at its base …and last but not least, marble floors and shower walls that have exploded creating valleys and mountains and making for hazardous walking and precarious bathing conditions.

And, let’s not overlook the months that it took to get the contractually agreed upon security doors, alarm system, and curtains installed – all of which were supposed to be completed prior to our arrival. No, no, the owner didn’t do the negotiating, the hunt for the most reasonable prices, get a minimum of 3 quotes, or determine which workers would complete the work (a big problem here – work left undone). No, he didn’t have to wait for an alarm system to be installed, only to have to have it reinstalled because it was put in improperly. He didn’t have his belongings broken in the process. He didn’t have to schedule, reschedule, and re-reschedule an appointment with the people who installed the security doors because the handle was too loose to use. Not too secure, huh? Oh, and by the way, I’m still waiting for the owner to find someone to remove the former doors and window pane that still sit in our entry way. He won't let us do it because they have to be placed i his storage room. Yes, it’s been wearisome.

So we have had our parade of 8 plumbers, 7 marble workers, 5 electricians, 4 security door installers, 3 alarm system installers, and … I feel like I should be singing “The 12 Days of Christmas”, the handyman version. Many of these gentlemen (if I can use that term lightly) I have seen more than once, some as many as 7 times. God love them, I just really wish to never see any of them again.

And, in the midst of all this chaos has been Jose Amet. My husband has affectionately, though sarcastically, started calling him my best friend, since I see him more than anyone else here (at times, even more than my husband). Jose Amet is the intermediary between the owner, the handymen, and me. He’s a wonderful man with a good sense of humor with no power to make decisions, but he does a fabulous job of making sure the river of workers never runneth dry. (If the apartment owner ever reads this blog, I’d like him to know that Jose Amet works his tail off.)

Net, I feel like I’ve had to fight tooth and nail to get anything done. Letters, and calls, and more letters, and text messages, and more calls, and more letters. I tried to explain to my husband how useless, helpless, and unappreciated I have felt during this whole process. If my job is to run the household, then I have been a complete and utter failure. No one seems to care if they are making me wait, if they are wasting my time. I have come to realize that being a woman makes my opinions and my voice soft, useless. The cooing and consoling. The promises that work will be done. Oh, the many promises. It has consumed my time, and it has consumed me.

So, here I am, sitting on a fence between frustration and despair. (The 1884 definition of my nickname) American women never truly understand how good they have it until the balance of power is wiped away from them. I’m a married woman. My husband’s voice is the only one that really matters here. I finally had to break down and ask for help. Please call. Please send an email. Wouldn’t you know it – what took me 8 months to accomplish, he was able to achieve in 15 minutes. A more rapid response, I’ve never seen. And, to prove my point, the email he sent was written by yours truly.

When we decided to move here, I thought this would be a wonderful opportunity to reinvent myself, create a new identity. I thought it would be fun. Little did I know that my change in roles would mean feeling less important, feeling a loss in status, and produce such a lack of confidence.

Having to spend so much time in the apartment, waiting for people to show, meant that I was (and still am) missing out on networking opportunities, kindling friendships, and familiarizing myself with other aspects of life in Panama. Mental stimulation was limited to debating with a plumber who believed WD-40 could solve all our toilet problems. (Please, do you have some duct tape to go with that???) I started to feel alone, very, very alone. My independence had been compromised. I felt as if I no longer had control of the situation or my own life. The apartment ruled my every thought. I had become disconnected from everything that made me happy. And, for the first time in my life, I didn’t know how to create my own happiness.

My husband, not understanding the undercurrents of the situation, as I had not explained my feelings to him, also did not understand why the only topic I ever talked about was the apartment. The apartment had become my prison, not my refuge. All of this produced a deep sense of displacement and anxiety. I hit rock bottom.

But the beauty of hitting rock bottom is that the only place you can go is up.

I spoke to my husband about my feelings, something I had not done because I didn’t want to burden him. He already has so much to deal with, a high-stress job that requires frequent international travel. But, sharing my frustrations allowed me to clear my mind and air out my soul.

The very next day, my motivation returned. I have decided to withhold payment of our rent until we have tangible results. I have contacted a lawyer. And, I have started reestablishing my relationships.

Indeed, I am reinventing myself here in Panama. You see, there is always an opportunity for growth.

Mugwump is back!