What I can stomach

On grieving my previous self, plus eating notes from Chennai

Hello old and new subscribers—welcome! If you like this newsletter, follow 💌shelfoffering on Instagram and please share with a friend or two.

---

Prologue

‘house plants in the windows facing south
the cacti the cyclamen are blooming on the brink
of winter all it took was a little enforced deprivation
a little premature and structured dark’

Ellen Bryant Voigt, Geese

—

It has taken me four years to admit this to the world at large, or just my tiny world of newsletter subscribers, but I’ve been agoraphobic since 2020. In the year of our lord 2024, it seems chic to self-diagnose and… I’ve done just that. I’ve been stuck at home, in a city that is home which has increasingly felt ill at ease, pushed into the deep end and suffocating as I sink, a fever dream with no end in sight. It’s funny because before this I’ve felt comfortable exploring other cities where the language might’ve been a barrier, where the strange became familiar, and where my everyday went from exotic to unremarkable.

Going out for a walk in Chennai, in those four years, brought out immense anxiety that I’d have to have a cry for an hour and then decide against it. There is always tomorrow, I’d reason with myself. Four years and countless tomorrows have been wiped out. If I found myself out alone by some cruel twist of fate, I’d walk as fast as I could, counting down the minutes till I reached home and ensconced in the safety of my room. Even as I write this, I feel so nauseous and dizzy, which is how I felt every time I stepped out. A sense of dread and depression.