UNSOLICITED ADVICE

‘I think you should reconsider going into psychology. Your reasons to study are not enough to make you keep going.’ I look at her, masking annoyance with confusion, wanting to ask if she is a psychologist or has tried delving into the field. We have been talking for around fifteen minutes and beyond pleasantries, the conversation involves her giving me advice that I don’t recall asking for.

‘Personal experiences can be a very strong motivator, depending on how you choose to tackle them,’ I say, trying to walk the fine line between defending my standpoint and being obstinate because someone disagrees with me. ‘You will move on from the trauma that controls what you do. People heal, and this cannot be the only thing you hold onto as you go further into a rather mentally taxing field.’

For a moment there, she has me questioning my conviction, and I didn’t think that was possible. I am not sure if I admire her or feel angrier. Perhaps a mix of both, and this emotion, whatever it is called, is making me feel uncomfortable. I try to compose myself before saying, ‘I understand where you are coming from. Trauma itself cannot do much, but beliefs and goals arising from it are often strong enough to completely change the way you act. Enough years with those beliefs, and they grow independent of the trauma. Now I want to help people regardless of what happened to me when I was younger.’

She laughs, and I am genuinely confused. Did I say something amusing? ‘Your generation is quite entrenched in their principles. All I’m saying is, think of a back-up, perhaps a business degree, so that there is something to fall back on when things don’t go your way.’ I smile and nod. I haven’t slept well in four days, I am not eating sufficiently and my mood has been swinging higher than usual, so I don’t have the energy to make a woman in her fifties see the right in my ways. If only I wasn’t so conditioned to seek the acceptance of my elders, I’d feel better about letting this go.

‘My children used to be like you. I am actually visiting my son in London, he works here,’ she says, and I make a face that I hope conveys comprehension, because I don’t want to talk or urge her on. ‘All my children studied in the UK too, so I know everything that comes with shifting to a new country and dealing with the challenges that come with it.’ Do you? ‘Make sure you make friends early on. That is so important.’ And I suppose you know a magic trick that would help? ‘Host parties in your flat and make food for the people you want to befriend. People like those who cook for them. Do this twice a week and after a few months, you’ll have people coming to you, asking you to make them delicious treats. That’s how friends are made.’ Harry, yer a wizard. Convince Voldemort to not kill you by making him a delish meal. ‘I cannot cook,’ I say, smiling sheepishly while lying through my teeth.

‘That might become a problem, so try to learn basics before you start inviting people over. Learn especially American and English dishes, to appeal to their palette.’ Wow. ‘Right. Thank you for telling me that, I was worried about making friends but I feel better now.’ No, I don’t.

'I am glad we had this conversation, I think we all need someone from back home to comfort us. Take care, Hina. And remember what I told you.’ I laugh in agreement and thank her, grimacing at how odd the noise I made sounds. We get up from the table and I let her walk ahead, so that I don’t have to say anything as we part ways. She goes up the stairs to her room, and I walk out to go to the hotel I am actually staying at.

After my body recovers from climbing the staircase, I settle into my bed, back to staring at the fan-less ceiling. I feel so spent, with no bone in my body wanting to move or work. The pre-orientation homework given by our department at King’s is waiting to be looked at and completed but I cannot bring myself to do it. I tell myself I should shower but I only sink into the mattress even more. As I draw the covers over my face, a single teardrop rolls off my cheek and I plunge into the darkness of the thick duvet.