jars.

when you finish the bell jar you don't get immediately depressed. depression is not contagious. although indeed, it's the book about breakdown and depression and suicide.

the bell jar is like death

beautiful and absorbing, full of curious and unconfirmed ideas

and like death, it doesn't take effect until you let go for a few moments, thinking you're fine, you don't have depression in your blood, you're never an overachiever, you're just a regular girl trying to read as many good books as possible, so. this book won't affect you irl because your life is perfectly n o r m a l







the next day

you're not depressed. you just feel less like eating/sleeping/reading

you feel

sick.

each thread of oyster noodle each bite of xxl shilin crispy chicken each lick of blackcurrant yogurt each vein of mayonnaise dipped salmon skin that has climbed down your sloppy throat, makes a gentle churning in your tummy. its ugly, inaudible noise only you can hear races up fast to your nerves, furious. each dendrite each neuron each synapse is now occupied by the silent buzz, and you try to keep its volume down until you feel like puking, puking, puking, only puking, the table and the chair and the grilled pavement are the perfect places for you to puke.

the last time you puked, you had a diarrhoea. five years ago. you bowed and drowned your head in the toilet bowl. you made screeching sound, you woke the neighbouring colony of ants up, you grunted and wrestled your torso around. you could still taste the moss green liquid that reeked of celery and tofu and chicken skin. it was horrible.


your vision is getting blur, but of course it's because you have to change the prescription.

you think this must be some sort of bad suggestion you're giving off yourself.

you're never sick, Amanda. everytime you thought you had a fever the thermometer always said otherwise. and so you stop making faint presumption, you're never that kind of intuitive girl who can feel spirits or look into the future or read your friends' palms engagingly






the next day

you have your favourite dish, sesame rice balls with beancurd gravy. you barely taste it at all, but it's still good because of its warmth and silky texture

you also have your pancake, caramel custard filled, with both sides dark brown toasted. your brother wants a bite. you hand it off. his plump, healthy hand opens up and reaches out for the pancake in your hand. his hand brushes against yours, making an awkward gesture afterward. as though he just had an electric shock. and you know pancake is never known for being capable of such thing.

he says

you're sick.

my mom presses the back of her right hand on your forehead immediately and tells you to get a panadol. soon you feel a blanket of warmth covering your body, every inch of it, permeating into your arteries and veins and flows along with the haemoglobin in your blood, going around in relentless cycles.

and you think that it feels good to be finally sick, because fever always means warmth, humanlike.

warmth is like air, you don't need one unless you're getting any.





you're not depressed. you just feel less like eating/sleeping/reading.