Does the body store the remnants of unprocessed emotion in one site or are they distributed unequally across its expanse, tucked between pores, nudged in the interstices between bone and flesh, wedged between rib and lung, stomach and intestine? Do they lie submerged in blood only to rise like tidal waves when the moon is full? Watching a clip from a promo for a Reality TV show, Couples Therapy (2019), I related with an Asian man, one half of a couple that had chosen to wash their laundry in public, guided by the lead therapist, Dr Orna Guralnik. It would seem his biggest problem was the absence of feeling — the inability for him to register emotion. Orna asked him if he could remember ‘the thread’ of a feeling. This term endeared itself to me. Maybe this is how the remnants sit inside us, as threads of feeling, frayed and loose, like an overworn T-shirt whose hem has long since come undone but the fabric still somehow holds.

As I was trying to process my anxiety around taking the B2 level bilingual exam, even though I had, in theory, made my peace with failing, I realised that the whole situation was bringing up unresolved trauma around the desire to overperform — an extension of people pleasing. When I was in school, failing was met with severe disapproval from everyone — from parents to teachers to other students. I remember distinctly a moment in the sixth standard when I was told I failed a Math exam. I felt so ashamed — even though I knew I hadn’t done well in the test. The result wasn’t surprising to me, but the reality of it, and having to share the news with my family, was enough to crush me. I remember even the first time I got a B grade during my post-graduation studies at JNU. It felt like a shock to my system because I was otherwise accustomed to getting some variation of an A-plus or minus on my assignments and exams. Even though there was no one around me to admonish me, I had internalised my past admonishers. I felt answerable to them, even though they were only spectres within my brain.

Preparing for the B2 level bilingual exam unravelled all of these memories. I had chosen to take this exam, and it is not mandated in any way. After my hospitalisation in November, I felt like I was forgetting all the Italian I had learned. I frequently felt that with this particular language, I kept going in loops… achieving some degree of proficiency, then losing it because I wasn’t practising the language. Registering to take the exam was a way to motivate myself to study. I was under the illusion that it would take months before I would get a date. Unfortunately, that was not the case. I could only defer the date once, which I had to do anyway because it interfered with my teaching schedule at the university. This meant that on Tuesday, I had to give this exam. If I didn’t show up, I would be banned from registering for another six months.