I.

      In the first dark photograph, I’m curled up on a mattress in an otherwise bare room. My limbs loose like spaghetti noodles, my droopy eyelids like two heavy rocks landing at the bottom of a creek with a loud thud, and my thoughts tangled in an imaginary ball of yarn that would intimidate even the most curious of cats. I haven’t shampooed my hair in days, and there’s purple crescents under my eyes. I’m wearing one of those unflattering hospital gowns, and the nursing staff have taken away all my belongings, including a black hair tie, a silver necklace, and a pair of cotton underwear. I’m left with nothing but my glasses, and with the lack of privacy, I might as well be lying naked on a treatment table, bracing myself for a full body scrub at a Korean spa. I imagine a small framed Asian woman massaging a mixture of salts and essential oils into my pores, even my wounds, then rinsing my body off with warm water, leaving my skin baby smooth. 

      II.

      In the second, lighter-coloured picture, I’m sitting across a psychiatrist, who asks me a series of questions. It’s mid-January, and he waits as I formulate my answers, still drowsy from the medication I was forced to take the night before. The Loxapine tablets have left me in some sort of metaphorical, sugar-induced coma. It’s as though too much glucose is pumping in my blood, and I’m suffocating under a weighted blanket. Unlike most psychiatrists, this one’s bedside manner manages to make me feel somewhat at ease, which is an enormous feat, considering the humiliation I feel at the thought of him seeing my nipples through the hospital shirt, which shreds the last bits of dignity sticking to my skin. I tell him about the sloshy waves and cars buzzing by, and the darkness of the unforgiving ocean. I tell him that taking your life requires more courage than I currently have, and the reason I failed is because I am 5’1ft, and too short to take the leap over the edge. He tells me that he does not make decisions lightly, and that I’m staying here. “The risk is too high,” he says, then gets up and leaves the room, his resident trailing behind him. I have just turned twenty. 

      II.

      In the following frame, I’m sitting in a wheelchair, accompanied by a nurse and security guard. The protocol stipulates that I can’t leave the acute care unit and walk to the longer-term inpatient ward located upstairs by myself, so I’m forced to have company. I’m not afflicted by a physical disability or a senior, so being pushed around doesn’t feel necessary. It doesn’t feel luxurious either, like a tired kid being pushed around in a stroller. We ride the elevator to the 8^th floor, and the nurse and security guard drop me off at the main nurses’ desk. They don’t say much and leave in a hurry, as if they’ve just delivered a bulky parcel, and I sit on a chair as the intake nurse takes my blood pressure and body temperature. This psych unit has big windows and natural lighting, and soon enough, it feels like a permanent home.

      III.       

      The following picture captures the monotony of the strict routines and daily inconveniences. Each morning, a nurse wakes me up and asks me to rate my mood on a scale 1-10, a question I hate despite it being popular with mental health providers. I prefer to trade numbers for words, because they roll off my tongue more easily, and capture the complexity of whatever is happening inside my head. Numbers have their strengths, however. When I feel lazy, or don’t feel like giving a lengthy explanation, a number works in my favour. The hospital staff seem satisfied whenever I rate my mood above a solid 5, and if I’m not a danger to myself, they leave me alone, and that’s fine with me. On Monday evenings, I blend pastels on white canvas and chat with the art therapist, Katie, while my roommate Jennie, in a full-blown manic episode, showcases her art, mostly pieces with vibrant colours and patterns. Tuesday evenings are reserved for the therapy dogs, Cooper and Maggie, and Wednesday afternoons are spent with Josh, a music therapist in training who lets me sing Disney songs. In my free time, or whenever boredom strikes, I complete jigsaw puzzles or watch TV.

      IV.

      The next photograph features a portrait, a handsome psychiatrist assigned to my case. Dr. G is Italian, and he stands beside my bed as electrocardiogram leads are stuck to my chest. I’m hooked up to different monitors, and the anesthetic resident gets the intravenous running, as Dr. G places electrodes on my temples. I breathe into an oxygen mask and start to relax. The room begins to spin, the ceiling lights become blurry, and I regain consciousness after receiving a round of electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). The resident removes the IV, the nurse gives me Tylenol Extra Strength for headaches, and I rub peppermint oil on my temples to ease the pain. It was Dr. G who suggested ECT, following the prescription of a new medication and subsequent allergic reaction. I’m in a rush to feel better, so I signed the paperwork, not caring about the potential side effects of the procedure, which later manifest in the form of memory loss, brain fog, and an inability to remember a combination of numbers. 

      VI.

      The next picture is glossy, taken during Spring, following my discharge from the hospital. In May, I land a part-time position working at a bookstore. It is oddly therapeutic, and my confidence grows as I suggest titles to customers, famous children’s books to expecting couples, and literary classics such as The Bell Jar to teenage girls who are probably just as sad as I am. I work a mere 12 hours a week, but it’s more a matter of salvaging the small amount of self-worth I have left, and I make friends with the owner of the coffee shop across the street. 

      VII.

      In the next frame, it’s early June, and I empty three bottles of pills, lining them up at a ninety-degree angle on my bed. Before I swallow a handful, I call a crisis line, and the volunteer on the other end urges me to call 911. I’m afraid that the ambulance ride will cost money, and I don’t want to make a scene. I call a taxi, but not before slipping the pills in the pocket of my backpack, just in case. In the ER, I sit next to a group of girls - Rachel, Megan and Anna - and eavesdrop on their conversation. I learn that Anna has been feeling suicidal, but her casual tone and laid-back appearance makes me wonder whether she’ll be taken seriously by the hospital staff. On my left, a young Korean man sits in silence. A missed injection of antipsychotic medication and appointment with his mental health team has led to an arrest, and I feel nervous at the sight of his handcuffs.

      VIII.      

      The next photograph lacks exposure. On the Brief Intervention Unit, I befriend Anna from downstairs. While I lie in bed with a blanket over my head, she paces around the room. She’s an actress preparing for an audition, and she asks me tips on how to get the psychiatrist to give her a day pass. I doubt she’ll be allowed outside - at least for the next little while - but I don’t tell her that and wish her luck instead. In the hallway, I meet a girl with blonde hair named Mia, who’s Irish and experienced a psychotic episode after a bad LSD trip.  She’s known for her string of past abusive boyfriends, and she transforms her room into a hairstyle station. We spend time together and speculate about the future. I tell her I want to visit the UK someday, and a friend comes visit, and shows us magic tricks. One afternoon, I sit on a chair, tilt my head back, and close my eyes. I wish we’d met at summer camp instead of a psychiatric facility, but when Mia begins to hum a song, her fingers combing my hair, I wonder whether this is meant to be.

      X. 

      The next picture is a collage, fragments of a summer spent in bed, at work, or in my therapist’s office. I suffer from persistent nightmares. In my dreams, I kick the furniture and hit my head against the wall until security guards drag me into a seclusion room. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, not knowing where I am. I speak with several doctors in the hopes of obtaining answers. One psychiatrist has a Freudian looking office, and I refuse to lie down on his couch, complete with decorative cushions. One physician tells me I will need to stay on medication forever while another assures me that I can taper off my meds within a year. 

      XI. 

      In the following photograph, my appearance hasn’t changed, but the trajectory of my life has, and I’m moving in a new direction. The scenery is no longer the same: the steepness of the hills has lessened, the sharpness of the curves has decreased, and the road ahead has become smoother, dirt and gravel being replaced with concrete pavement. I have a better grasp on the steering wheel and I’m able, for the first time in a year, to steer my life in the direction I want. On good days, I make it to the grocery store and tidy my bedroom, even dust my bookshelf. I’m a character in a video game. Each time I fold my clothes, brush my hair, or move my body, I earn a golden coin. 

      XII.

      In the next picture, it’s early September. To celebrate my return to university, I treat myself to caramel tone highlights, get a double helix piercing and buy my first pair of Vans sneakers. One day, I step into a spa and walk out with manicured nails as well as exfoliated skin. I undergo a social media detox, deleting unnecessary apps from my phone, in the hopes of becoming less bitter towards those around me, especially old classmates who are now married and purchasing their first home. One evening, I go out with my friend Alexa, who likes to talk economics and politics, and who introduced me to punk music. We get tickets for a show at Astoria, an unpretentious dive bar filled with hipsters, pool tables, and a couple arcade games. After a round of shots, I stand in the middle of the crowd, Alexa flanked by my side. Listening to Indie rock bands I have never heard of, playing songs with unfamiliar names, my head buzzes with exhilaration. I lean towards Alexa and shout over the loud music, “This is what healing feels like!” I don’t know if she can hear me, but I say it anyway. 

      XIII.

      The final photographs are in focus, candid and joyful, moments from a Polaroid camera. To somehow make up for all the days spent in bed, the hours pacing the halls of the hospital and every minute lost to a semblance of a normal life, I attend dinner parties, go on coffee dates, and shop for sunglasses at the mall. I’m still a straight A student, but not as proud of my embodiment of overachievement. I wonder if I can still count on my brain’s loyalty to keep making the world an interesting place. There’s anger and tender sadness underneath, natural parts of the healing process, and gratitude for life-long friendships and moments of laughter until my belly hurt. 

      I sigh and nestle the photo album on a shelf inside my mind, where it remains until I’m ready to flip open the pages again.