I hid in my room all day under the pretext of work. I haven’t done anything even remotely productive; just painted more patterns & watched many episodes of warm tv shows. These creepers, fish & colors are my mental health patterns. I went out of the room only to eat, many times. My family eats every 2 hours & talks about food all the time. This is not a figure of speech. My Family ACTUALLY talks about food ALL the time. That is how they express affection, stress, or anger. I am assuming/psychoanalyzing that to be the crux of my aversion or at least disinterest in food.
The heartwarming tv shows I am watching were recommended to me on an Instagram poll. I love social media for these reasons. & for all the beautiful, fucking empowering things you’ll write. The show breaks my heart (one day when I couldn’t get out of bed, when I was trying to not hate mummy or when I was trying not to be angry with myself for hating her when I was reminded of papa’s heart attack) & puts the pieces back (the family members stay back after visiting hours, a person accepts that she needs & will forever need medicines to have her brain work normally & that’s okay when people stand up for fairness) & then hugs them tight (when they fight & makeup, stand up for each other, cry & kiss other’s foreheads)
It gives me hope, these paintings, episodes, and the food when I feel like I have hit a dead-end (that I won’t study Psychology or Anthropology again, like I will always be stuck looking at ‘organizers’ on Amazon, or hope that a pink Lapdesks will fix a heartbreak, that there won’t be peace no matter how beautifully things align). The hope makes me believe that I will make it through this, that life is long enough to study & organize more, that Lapdesks won’t cure heartache but will make the painting-while-watching easier. It will be like the time R asked me ‘which one’s the break’ before taking me on a drive when the man at the cafe said “I just typed ‘French Music’ on Youtube” when I asked him which song he was playing, like running into Neelkanth mama in a bar, understanding not the music or the language; but trying, figuring, even doing well once in a while.