Honey Walnut Shrimp

Honey Walnut shrimp 2022

By Nivetha Sundar

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honey walnut shrimp

2022

By Nivetha Sundar

Copyright © 2023 Nivetha Sundar. All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

To The Websters, Scooter, Lemmy & Oz

At what point does talking (or in this case, writing) about personal experiences bleed into narcissism? I don’t think there’s an element of vanity that’s woven into this book. In fact, I think it’s quite the opposite. It’s sans importance. Sans self-importance.

However, there are a lot of “I’s” and “me’s” and “my’s”. So yeah. Be prepared for that.

Routines & The Lack Thereof Joyful

How the hell am I ever gonna get a book deal? Wait Being Cumbersome Confession Before I Go Striking a Balance in Berlin How To Cure A Brown Woman with Trauma Me & My Polycystic Ovaries Stupid Anxiety Triggers Dreaming Of Paati A Ticking Time Bomb Unsolicited Advice Playlist of the Year The Day I Met Stromae Now This, is for You

shag cuts & day dreams

This Is For Me

Sometimes I feel like I’m watching myself live. That even my own experiences aren’t inherently mine. Like I’m an NPC in someone else’s grandiose life, but suddenly I’m realizing that I’m self-aware. I’m aware. I’m hyper-aware; I’m not the piece de resistance, but an appetizer. (kinda like honey-walnut shrimp)

Yet this is only true for the happy moments. They feel unreal. They feel borrowed. And then when the not-so-happy moment comes by, it’s somewhat expected - that if I felt so happy yesterday then it makes sense that I’m supposed to feel sad today. I somehow deserve the bad feelings, and the happy ones are just beginner’s luck.

My intention isn’t to make you feel sorry. I’ve felt too much sadness this year and so much less of the bliss. And I hope that by sharing some of what I’ve been trying to keep so hidden, that somewhere, someone feels heard. Deep down, I don’t think I have to search very far for them. So this book is actually not for you, this time; it’s for me.

Routines & The Lack thereof

Life is a little boring at the moment.

I try to keep a routine that keeps me relatively occupied.

• Wake up ten minutes before my first meeting of the morning, which gives me enough time to brush my teeth, eat a banana (sometimes), and settle down in front of my computer.

• Attend said meetings until about 11 am, and drudge over to the kitchen to make a breakfast I’ve made almost a thousand times since the beginning of the pandemic. A combination of bread, eggs, salmon with a spread of cream cheese, and a cup of some caffeinated beverage (which is coffee, most of the time)

• Eat breakfast and continue working until I crash at about 1 pm.

• Just as I completely crash and my brain begins to stutter, I set my work status on “lunch” which is code for “time to grab my phone and lie in my bed for about half an hour and doom scroll through TikTok”

• After some doomscrolling, I open Youtube and practice my karaoke skills, just in case one day there’s a dire need for someone to belt out Elton John’s “I’m Still Standing”.

• Once I realize I’m not Elton John, I go back to work with a background score of Azealia Banks, Duckwrth, Jimmy Bryant & Speedy West, and the occasional 80’s hair metal playlist.

And this repeats most days. After about 5 pm, it’s a gamble of activities. Will I go to the gym and shed 600 calories? Would I munch on a late lunch or an early dinner? Will I doomscroll again, buried under my comforter for hours until my walls beg for the lights to be switched on? If I’m lucky, I could go a whole day without saying a word to someone outside of work. I’m even luckier if I don’t leave the comfort of my 300 sq. ft apartment…I’m being sarcastic.

Three years ago, I would have killed for this life. A legible routine and the choice of staying indoors. But as time moves on, I crave excitement. I long for drama and regrettably, a fear of something other than my mortality or the possibility of

ailments that could be affecting my health. I want the feeling of butterflies before my first day at college and the anxiety of losing love all over again. The latter, perhaps not — but you get the idea.

I’m happy, I’m in love but I’m just bored and unafraid.

Joyful

When Lennon wrote “Happiness Is A Warm Gun”, I kinda knew in the back of my mind that the song was just another reference to ‘shooting’ up drugs. However, the older I get, this song seems to take on a newer meaning each time I listen back to it.

To me, this “gun” that Lennon refers to feels more physical; dare I say ‘suicidal’. I feel the weight of this cold barrel lying heavy in my hand and it’s evident that I only have a limited number of shots I can take. So, I have to be very calculated in how I choose to pull that trigger. When I do, this ocean of positivity floods my soul, leaving this proverbial revolver warm from its release.

My body doesn’t naturally produce a lot of serotonin or enough dopamine, so in some ways, the gun does resemble a drug. It’s scarce, yet each bullet packs quite a punch. I think Lennon knew what he was doing when he created the score. We’ve all heard the story of when a school teacher asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, and his response was “to be happy”. Did he know then, what I know today?

Despite all the joyful attempts to keep myself alive, I feel that by doing so, I’m cheating death. I keep using these bullets and still keep finding more in my back pocket. It keeps me up at night and I almost always worry that the farther the aim, the easier it is to miss the target. And alas, these bullets would go to waste or worse, make someone else happy at my expense.

How the hell am I ever going to get a book deal ?

I never complete projects. I start them with such vigor and hope that by the end of it, I’ll have made this entity that I’m proud of. Yet, somewhere in the middle - the doubt begins to set in. Who will read this? How is this going to feed me if I give it away for free? If I don’t give it away for free, then WHO will read it?

There are so many other written pieces out there; some better; some even drawn from actual violent trauma whereas mine isn’t — well, — violent. Maybe I should just charge people…a dollar. Maybe three to five dollars? What are my words worth?

What if I want to make it big? What do I have to do to get the attention of a big-wig publisher? I have to start somewhere right? “Trust the process”

And that’s when I stop. Stories half written on paper, on Google docs, and the rest scrambled and buried somewhere deep in my brain. For five years, this doubt has kept me chained to imperfection.

How does someone with a crippling need for external validation write & finish a fucking book? How do I hope to be a mom, one day, without having fertilized and birthed something all by myself?

commute’s a bitch, ain’t it <3

Being Cumbersome

I told Sean today that I was bored and wondered if he would be free to chat. To which he’d replied, “I don’t know how you would say such things when we have the internet, AND you live in San Francisco”, closely followed by a profuse apology. It’s never a short conversation and sometimes it’s hours before we peel away from our phones, so with his busy schedule, a simple “chat” wasn’t possible.

What I really wanted to say was that I missed him and that everything was crashing down on my shoulders, making me feel claustrophobic and anxious. But I’d played that card multiple times in the past, and it’s the kind of card I only use every other month lest the frequency of my meltdowns chases him away.

So I carry it and deal with it. Knowing Sean, he’d shake his head and say, “I wish you would’ve told me. You still could have texted.” And he’s right. I could have sent him paragraphs about the anxious beast that was sucking the air out of my lungs, but I chose not to.

So with every passing hour, the world seems to get heavier. And sometimes, I have the choice to share that weight. Again stupidly, I choose not to. It’s like trying to carry in all my groceries in a single trip. It’s hard asking for help. I feel like it makes me come off as weak-kneed, and even worse, I’d hate to be denied help.

I still won’t ask and I will still carry.

Confession

There once was a girl who didn’t understand love. “Love is love. He showers you with compliments. He sweeps you off your feet. He sings to you”. She thought she knew love.

She’d had a boyfriend in college. She’d believed he was going to be the one, but there was only one problem. Her parents didn’t approve of the proposed union. I heard the excuses she’d made, as to why ending things was the best path she could take. “We still love each other, but my hands are tied”. She couldn’t imagine her parents having a change of heart; she wasn’t going to disrupt the peace she had with her family.

“What would you do in my situation?”, she asked. My opinion wasn’t really valid. It wasn’t my place, you know.

“I’d fight,” I said. “…but only if he’s willing to fight in the same capacity”.

Alas, my advice didn’t sink. So she would forget the love of her life; she would forget the years they spent talking about their future together. And she would forget the loving, the showering, the singing. Her feet were planted firmly in the Earth and she was not one to be swept away.

Months passed and through meeting friends, she eventually fell for a boy who had been an acquaintance of mine. He was a touch-and-go type of person, but their love seemed tame. Me being me, questioned the nature of it. Something was off. He’d lie about his job, his life and I knew him to be a cheater. As they say, ‘once a cheater, always a cheater’.

But was it even my place to say something? Should I have said something? Maybe I should’ve tried harder, to be louder. I should’ve said something.

Three months later, they were engaged. And their love turned sour. There was no affection; no positive affirmations or healthy conflict resolution. It had begun to point out her flaws, question her fidelity, and rip her clean of her financial bearings. She cried at parties, drank her sorrows, and sought comfort in the arms of another man who showered her with compliments, sang to her, and swept her off her feet.

Another three months passed and she married the beast; lavishly, painstakingly. She married the creature who had made her feel sub-human.

And five months into the marriage, she left.

I tried my best to be there for her but one drunken night, her mother blamed me for her daughter’s failed marriage. If I hadn’t been friends with the moron she fell in love with, this marriage that had cost them so much money would never have happened. And on some days, I believe that.

Before I Go

I’m going to Berlin soon, and I can’t contain my excitement. It’s the kind of excitement that morphs into midnight pangs of anxiety and suddenly you find yourself preparing to be an expert at all things Berlin overnight. The S-Bahn, U-Bahn, Deustche Bahn. Currywursts, Spargelzeit, Biergartens. The guten morgens, danke schons, and bittes.

It’s like I’m training for a marathon, with no idea of what the trail looks like or even the runners I’m up against. I was prepared to leave San Francisco a whole month before my scheduled flight. My suitcase was packed and pushed to the corner of my room. On top was placed my passport, purse, spare phone charger and travel adapter. These were the essentials that I needed at the forefront of my visual cortex.

I don’t think a lot of people knew that I’d considered every possible way something could go wrong. Or that I was even afraid to tell people about my upcoming trip because being Indian meant that I fully believed in the power of burinazar .

It’s stupid, right? - that I spent 3 months worrying about problems I may never face, or just worrying about being a dumb tourist? I wish I could have taken it all back because worse things have happened and I’ve gotten through them. I regret that I let my anxiety get the best of me. And as I’m on this flight, I hope that three months of preparation has made me a Berlin local at best!

Striking A Balance In Berlin

Everything that went wrong

• Covid rendered me stale right before it all mattered.

• I underestimated the language gap

• My luggage carrier had been broken into despite there being a lock on it.

• I spent 20 EUR on a single load of laundry because I couldn’t understand the instructions at the “WaschSalon”

• I was catcalled by a “man” from who I was trying to buy a plate of currywurst from

• I got yelled at by a group of German women at a restaurant because I tried to squeeze past them since they wouldn’t move after I had failed to explain that my table was behind theirs.

• I accidentally asked a pharmacist for a “fuck”, because I didn’t know that Vicks took on a different meaning in Germany and that it was, in fact, sold as “Wick Vaporub”.

• I had five ubers cancel on me at 11 pm at night when I was trying to get my ass to a hotel that was 15 minutes away from the airport. “Noone would accept a short ride”, I was advised later.

• All my flights were either canceled or delayed by hours.

But here’s everything that went “oh so” right

• I semi-mastered a country I’d never been to before.

• I didn’t have to spend a dime! (perks of a great fucking job)

• I got a new tattoo that I’m in love with.

• I was compensated with 140 EUR for my damaged luggage

• I read and finished two books! Both are by Matt Haig. (The Midnight Library & Notes on Nervous Planet). Ironic, I know.

• I finished watching Love, Death & Robots in the time I spent quarantining. Amazing show!

• Jetset to the Netherlands.

• I met people that mean the world to me.

• Visited so many quirky European cafes and watched people as they lived their unique lives.

• My God - THE MUSEUMS! THE ART!

• Ate to my heart’s content and walked everywhere until my feet couldn’t take it anymore.

How To Cure A Brown Woman With Trauma

For a while now, I’d been on the lookout for a book that would completely destroy me (emotionally). The only stipulation was that it had to have something to do with being brown, or at the least speak to the experiences of a South Asian woman. And in early August, after scouring through 3 bookstores I found it.

While I couldn’t commit to buying the book right then, knowing that I had plenty of unread ones at home - I settled on borrowing it from my local library; the SF public library just past the grimy, piss-ridden Tenderloin district. It was a journey to a rather questionable destination of pain and catharsis.

This book in question was actually a collection of poetry called “How to cure a ghost”, by Fariha Róisín - herself a Muslim Australian-Bangladeshi who was born in Canada and is currently based in LA. There was something about reading the back of the book that instantly screamed that this was the thing that would bring me to my knees. It wasn’t the “navigating the paralyzing obstacles of her intersectionality”. It was the “written fearlessly about the pain and strength required to reach the ever-elusive idea of self-acceptance”. Everything about that sentence was what I needed to be told; that self-acceptance was difficult to feel and achieve. And here someone was brave enough to write about it in her own words.

I devoured it in the short span of 4 days, and I was left shattered to bits. Sure, there were some experiences that I couldn’t relate to, but I could feel my soul reach out to Fariha through its pages — forming synapses and pulsing empathy with every word. The writing was impeccable and true. This was a woman who had felt real pain and in a weird cathartic way, I felt it too. Years of feeling like there wasn’t really a place for girls like me, and in Fariha, I’d found my niche.

It was melancholy, something I’m too familiar with. Here, there was someone who wrote about their pain and I loved reading it. Fariha, you’ve instilled in me confidence and hope.

Me & My Polycystic Ovaries

In 2022, I’ve felt more out of control with my body than I ever have. And it’s mostly because I feel like I’m battling femininity or I’m battling to preserve it. Some days I feel like ripping my uterus out of my body and never wanting to deal with its indecisiveness; to bleed or not to bleed.

When I don’t have a period (which is most months), it leads me into a cycle of paranoia. I desperately try every avenue in preparation for a week of menstruation. I drink parsley tea, practice yoga, and massage the pressure points on my body that are supposed to induce ovulation. I even listen to the “Induce Your Period: Binaural Beats” playlist in hopes that the placebo kicks in and the crimson tide flows effortlessly, and painlessly the week following. But despite all my best efforts, nothing. Not a single drop.

Then doctor’s appointments. It’s always the same thing. “It’s your PCOS. Take birth control”.

I’m not opposed to birth control. I just feel dismissed every time it’s suggested and since there’s technically no cure for PCOS, I cave. And I take birth control. It’s always great in the beginning. My skin clears up. I start to lose the weight that I’d tried so hard to lose in the past 6 months. I look lush and I feel more like a woman than I’ve ever felt.

And yet, there’s another kind of paranoia that begins to set in. The anxiety behind this foreign object in my body. Random pangs on my sides. Is the pain even real or am I imagining it? I start to feel so uncomfortable because I’m forever expecting my body to reject these hormones because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t want to be fertile.

Sometimes I feel like my uterus hates me for wanting some sort of normalcy. So at the moment when I least expect to bleed, I bleed. Only a little. But it’s enough to send me into an anxious mess. Every article I read has information that is drastically different from the others. Do I have fibroids? Is it endometriosis? No, it’s normal

to spot during the first few months of switching birth control. Wait, scratch that... You actually might have an infection. You should also get that checked because you might want babies in the future and birth control can make you infertile if you keep it in too long.

Almost all of these articles tell me to see a doctor, but I feel like a failure every time I talk to one. I understand that I sound like a crazy person when I tell my gyno that this stupid thing scares me and I want you to run all the tests that’ll confirm that I don’t have cancer. But that’s not how doctors work. They’re not just going to recommend you to an endocrinologist if they think that whatever you have is normal. And my brain screams, “Yeah but what if it isn’t fucking normal?”

That’s when I feel helpless. Like I’m the only woman in the world who doesn’t have her shit together, you know? Having a period is the one automatic thing your body is supposed to do and it just won’t do that one thing. And that’s what PCOS feels like. Anything can make it worse. Stress, caffeine, alcohol, cannabis, lack of sleep, too much weight, too much exercise, stress..and it just continues to feel like a battle that I may never win.

StupidTriggersAnxiety

• Empty beds on Sunday evenings

• Organic Chemistry

• The pile of dirty dishes that’s been sitting around in my sink for a week.

• Walking back to an empty home, through lit-up streets and buzzing activity.

• Waiting for texts

• Professors named “Karthik” and the word “Kaya”

• Inflation

• Flying

• Black Mirror (also a guilty pleasure)

• True Crime Documentaries

• Reading about Chernobyl

• Thinking about what happens after I die

• Driving at Night

• As we’ve previously discussed, PCOS

• Gen Z social media Influencers

• The Kardashians

• The Tenderloin

• Impromptu Work Meetings with no agendas

Dreaming of Paati

I’m a sucker for hidden messages, ghosts, and divine intervention. It’s the closest thing we have to magic and for a fleeting second, it feels real. At times, in my own life, I’ve had the gift of experiencing these little miracles — like the time I’d been listening to Nowhere Man non-stop for a week, only to hear a busker play the very same song by the Powell St. BART station.

It’s those moments when I feel like I am right where I need to be. It’s a weird sense of happiness that comes with feeling protected or guided by the universe. In some ways, everyone needs a guiding light and I think for me, it’s been Paati.

My grandmother doesn’t appear in my dreams very often, but when she does it’s never without reason. This particular night was a difficult one. I began to overthink, as one does, and three hours later I was crying myself to sleep worrying about the house I’ll never be able to have or the trip to Iceland that I might never be able to afford. It always leads me to think, “how am I supposed to figure out all of this life stuff with no one to help me?”. And before you stop and think that this fear of mine simply isn’t true, remember that I’m not the type to EVER ask for help.

Soon after my tears had lulled me into a deep slumber, she appeared. I felt safe in her omnipresence. That night, she took my hand and I could feel it. Her skin was soft, warm, and illuminating. Our breath aligned.

Paati always took the form of her much stronger, younger self — possibly in her 50s. I think it’s because I imagine she had to have been her strongest when she was in her 50s (mentally and physically), or maybe it’s because subconsciously she mirrors my mother, who is currently in her 50s.

She whispered, “I don’t say this a lot but I’ve always been so proud of you”. I woke up soon after feeling delicately happy and sad, with her words gently echoing throughout the day. What do you do with a message like that other than hold it close to your heart and simply wait for the next?

A TimeTickingBomb

The closer I get to 30, the farther I feel I am from all the milestones I think I need to hit. There have been so many days where I’ve stood in front of my mirror, mindlessly picking at my skin, drowning in the voices that scream, “hurry!”

“You’re wasting time! Precious time!”.

My therapist and I have spoken to lengths about this misconception I have about women and societal expectations of them. We repeatedly dig into the reasons why I hold myself to these outdated standards while I also believe that other women should live as they please — as long as they’re happy & safe. And you’d think that by 2022, the so-called timeline would have been eradicated.

“Shouldn’t I want to be like this in 2 years?”

“Should? What is ‘this’? Why only in 2 years?”, my therapist replies.

“I just feel like I haven’t gotten to that part of my life where time stands still. When everything reaches a crescendo and I find my purpose. I feel like I used to know what that was”

As soon as I’d said that, I could feel my ribs ache. I’d lied. What I had wanted to say was that I used to think I was meant to make people feel good, and be there for them when they needed me. And if they didn’t continuously want me around or wonder where I was or what I was doing — then it meant I had no value. So my problem wasn’t the lack of purpose — it was just that I didn’t want to feel like every interaction was a bargain; a poll of my overall approval rating.

COVID caused that exhaustion of people-pleasing. And just when I thought I’d stopped giving a fuck, those negative intonations continue to pierce through the sound barrier and haunt me.

If there’s one thing I’ve hoped to gain this year, it’s perspective, and I think that that is truly a gift to procure at my “old age” of 29. I’m not planning on running this race if it means I’m trying to chase goals that others expect from me. I want to be happy. I want to be comfortable. I will do anything that will allow me to continue being happy and comfortable.

These milestones will likely fall in place.

Unsolicited Advice

• Always book an appointment when you know you’ve got to go to the DMV.

• Do something every day that gives you dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin, and endorphins.

• Make and store an emergency kit for anxiety/panic attacks

• Take a day to clean up your inbox and unsubscribe to all that marketing spam

• Plan days where you do absolutely nothing

• As Moira Rose once said, “Take a thousand naked pictures of yourself, and one day you will look at those photos with much kinder eyes and say, “Dear God, I was a beautiful thing!”.

• If you feel like everyone hates you, take a nap. If you feel like you hate everyone, eat something. If you feel like you hate yourself, take a shower.

• Dress up real nice and take yourself out to dinner once in a while.

• Don’t forget to wear sunscreen

• Steamers are a 1000% better than irons. Fabric shavers are a Godsend.

• The LEAF Safety razors - amazing.

• Don’t listen to anything Jordan Peterson says

Playlist Of The Year

love is a hard word to say, but I’ll say it anyway

The Day I StromaeMet

I’d been listening to Stromae since 2013. His song “Papaoutai” was making its rounds and while out drinking with a group of french students in Wolverhampton, I was introduced to this Belgian marvel. Since then, his music was always a part of my rotation; something I’d keep coming back to between moments of melodic explorations.

I’d listen to months of screamo punk and then sit down one evening, coffee in hand to play “Quand c’est?”. At the gym, I’d jog to the rhythmic pacing of Duckwrth and later walk home humming “Tous Les Memes”. And after swimming through the occasional Nu-Disco, I’d spend my weekends grooving in solitude to “Alors On Danse”.

It was the day he was performing at the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium and my coworkers had all bought tickets to go. Since I’d spent so much money the weeks before, it was something I had to forgo. But on this particularly warm October afternoon — I don’t know what I did to deserve it — I had the pleasure of bumping into this man; this icon that I had only ever seen through a screen. It almost felt kismet.

I knew I couldn’t be myself; the version of me that was the obsessive, crazy-eyed fan girl. He probably hates people like that, but how are you even supposed to act during situations like that? I had only left my house thinking I was headed to the corner store. Meeting a celebrity wasn’t what I’d planned for.

With all the courage I could muster, I practiced what to say in my head. Should I call him by his stage name? — No, I’ll just say hi and continue on. In the three seconds, it took to reach him, I’d had my piece ready to go. I practically word-vomited my adoration for his music and apologized for not being able to come to see him in concert. As humble as he was, he smiled and wished me a good day.

I texted everyone I knew who knew Stromae. I called Amma in vain. I told my coworkers. I bathed in the excitement and for once I didn’t feel pangs of immense guilt because of it. It was pure, unadulterated happiness.

now this, is for you

If you’re not one of the four people who have read previous iterations of each of these excerpts, this one is for you.

Creating this for the second time has been an exercise in letting things go. And truly, to be all “Que sera sera” about life is a really hard thing for anyone to do. It’s like you’re surrendering yourself to this idea that nothing on the outside is going to change. In theory, that makes complete sense, but it also feels like a cop-out; like I’m giving up on someone or something just because I can’t work them out. And I know I have it all wrong.

Besides. Today I’ve had the benefit of being with you, in a weird virtual format. So, thank you for giving me your time and your valuable attention. As I stand on this little soapbox sharing pieces of my life, I hope that there’s something in here that resonates with you and that there’s something you can keep close to your heart. While, yes, a lot of what you’ve read is very heavy stuff - it has helped me realize that even with the not-so-happy moments in life, there will always be happy moments that follow.

And with that, I wish for you Unabounding Love, Compassion for yourself, and The Power to always have the perfect comeback.