During my delightful stay in the psychiatric ward, I picked colouring mandalas. It wasn’t as much by choice as rather by force. Obligatory therapy. I hated it to start with. Then I got the hang of it somehow.
I still maintain that colouring is an activity suitable for five-year-olds and idiots, if you pardon me, not for a high-achieving educated adult. Against my better judgement though, I equipped myself with a cat mandala colouring book and a set of crayons. My health insurance didn’t cover these obviously therapeutic tools.
Colouring cats is weirdly calming. It’s a no-brainer. But I’m performance-focused and goal-oriented, so I take the shit seriously. I set out to colour as many cats as perfectly as I can and more. I’m not progressing as well as I’d have it, so it sometimes makes me more depressed than I was to start with. I’m apparently beyond help.