A man walked down cold, desolate streets wearing nothing but a patched up hoodie and ill-fitting boxers. He didn’t know how he had gotten those clothes. He wasn’t sure how he would explain them to his wife. Admittedly, he probably wouldn't have to. Little chance she would care.

I. The sun dipped below the horizon; I clutched my grandma’s hand a bit tighter. She had turned sixty-seven that day, I was a mere ten. We strolled through the old neighbourhood, the streets lined with trees bearing shiuli flowers, their fragrant aroma hanging in the air.

I can’t grapple with – understand, process, comprehend – the fact that I am, by all evidence against me, very mentally ill. I am sick. I am weak and guilty. There is something – a variety of things – wrong, here. My mother is published in numerous medical journals.

I can still remember the first time I felt true devastation- it was the 28th of January 2019. I’d been keeping two pet mice for almost six months at that point, and I rarely thought about anything else.