In my head I am convinced that if I could just make soup, then everything will be okay. I’ve been planning to make this soup for several weeks. I like soup. I’m good at making soup. I miss my mother’s soup.
Somehow I think every day that this will be the day I make the soup, instead of lying blank-eyed like a vagrant on the couch, waiting for pills to fix my brain. And yet there are clothes littering the bedroom floor and limp vegetables disintegrating in the fridge. And I am soup-less.
My psych asked why the soup is so important. Because it means I’m normal, I tell her. If I can make soup, then I’m totally fine. People in control of their lives make soup. People who are not nuts make soup. Making soup is an achievement. I mention I’d been thinking I’d like to adopt another kitten. She thinks this is a good idea and probably better than making soup. I point out the very clear crazy cat lady analogy but she has cats of her own so we talk about that for a while.
As it stands I have neither a new kitten, nor soup. Maybe I’ll get another tattoo.