Seasons Change, So Do Plans
Alo there :)
First things first. Instead of songs tied to words, this time I have a playlist for you- Yellow Lights and Laughter. It was born a night I was surrounded by heart-filling-tummy-filling love, and since has been my go-to for little reminders of joy.
Summer has announced itself in Hyderabad. Which means:
mango shakes: yes, I LOVE LOVE LOVE mangoes, and yes, if you meet me in summers and I share mangoes/juices/shakes with you, I LOVE LOVE LOVE you.
heat: remember that old Glucon-D ad? The one in which sun (with a kaafi evil face) casually sucks energy through a straw from unsuspecting children casually going about their lives in summer? That is precisely the feeling- you drooping like a plant running out of water each moment. Except during the pleasantly cool nights.
watering: plants, lips, throat- all fight the straw-wielding sun, urges me to water them. and of course, the sweating, the peeing.
Indifferent to this drama, my mind (me?) is wandering lost in a dramatically cold Russian winterscape. I remember a History class from bachelors. S, our professor, who reads a lot and remembers every word he reads, whose classes were more democratic than any other, meandered into the story of Russia. The Russian winter swallows the region in whole to vomit out layers over layers of snow, and refuses to share the land with anyone. The winter that won wars for Russia as it isolated the country and killed invading soldiers en masse.
Does what keeps away war keep you insulated from connection?
Is that why we are lonelier in winters?
Memes and internet nuggets seem to be convinced that winter cold is a good enough metaphor to capture the harshness of depression.
Should what keep away the war insulate you from connection?
It is absurdly difficult for me to think of things as they are- analogies are my wayfinders to reach at meanings. So it made sense, depression being likened to bone-chilling blood-clotting winters.
But when I am actually low, all this metaphor business seems too lofty and cool.
Trust me, if anything, depression is uncool. It is a winterscape, yes, and you also feel your body burning from prickly heat, and there is numbness- oh, a LOT of it.
One of my biggest fear while starting (still is) this newsletter was that I would be forced to give up on it (as I have earlier a lot of times on a lot of ideas, projects, people, etc.) when I fall into the depri-blackhole. The plan hence was to beat this fear by enormously lowering expectations - write and share, maybe once in a month.
This is the third letter to you, written on consecutive Wednesday midnights. The first one I sent out cause I was too excited, the second cause A. promised to force-feed me sugar-syrup-dripping-jalebi (my NIGHTMARE) if I do not write regularly. This time around, I wanted to knock at your inbox with a story I really, really wanted to tell you.
All through this past week, I was building this story in my head. Picking the right words, moments and music. It was to be about the sea and love, and love for the sea. On cue enters a low.
Seasons change, don’t they!
I drown into darkness. Float occasionally where light touches the water, and I drown.
I sleep, drink chai, try to read, try to watch movies and give up and go back to playing Modern Family. I scroll through Instagram feed, switch between apps, and curl into myself. I loose myself in hugs, I laugh with my people, I hold-squeeze them until our bodies meet thawing the coldness that has settled on and around me. I think of writing, I think of wanting to write, I think of not being able to write despite wanting to write, I feel sadbadmad, I fall into an uncomfortable slumber. In my dream, I write. I wake up to a wordless silence. I sleep again.
Seasons change, they do, after all.
After locking myself in my room to cry in the dark, I reached for my laptop, typed in the password, opened substack, clicked on “new post” and started typing. Not that I am not low anymore (when will we get to not worry about our madness being scrutinized and dismissed?), not even that the crying returned words to me. I cannot tell the sea-stories cause I cannot remember any of it, but I want to be witnessed, and here I am.
Growing up, every time I was asked to sing before an audience (irrespective of the size of the said audience), I would morph into a leaf trembling in the wind. Before getting to the song, I would croak an apology. More like an anticipatory bail.
“My throat is a little sore”.
“I haven’t practiced this song at all”.
“I am not sure of the lyrics”.
Nope, I am not humble. This isn’t about that all. I was just terrified of being not-liked.
The amount of catching up you need to do to unlearn trauma responses is almost ridiculous, if not for the crushing weight of self-hatred. This letter is a reminder to step away from the need to be perfect. A reminder to refuse to believe that love is scarce and must be earned. This letter is your permission to show up, and let yourself reach towards love. To write, even if it is to write poorly. To do what you want to do, need to do, even if it is to do it poorly.
That’s all for now.
Meanwhile why not write a letter to yourself? It is something I have been doing for a few years- sometimes just a line, sometimes pages and pages, a memory I do not want to lose, tidbits about what excites me, evidence that I survived another breakdown. And I’m a fan of FutureMe which let you write letters to yourself and send it to your inbox some time in the future. With love from the past you, for the future you- sounds a little bit like magic, no?
Thank you for reading, thank you for writing back to me. And please keep reading and writing back to me with your thoughts, stories, music and art.
Or you could tell me about your first/favorite memory of the sea?
I will wait to hear from you :)
