I was spiralling out of control. Barely holding on as I swung in desperate circles. My wrists were breaking, my neck was snapping. It wasn’t a game anymore.

I called Dr. Brace and requested an emergency session. My head was filled with murky water. I couldn’t concentrate, focus my eyes, or sit still.

“I’m scared,” I whispered, circling the kitchen table over and over and over, the phone cradled in my neck.

“Come in right away,” he said calmly.

I didn’t feel safe to drive. I could barely see what was directly in front of me. Objects were indistinct and nebulous; everything seemed to lack definition. I called for a cab.

When it arrived, it smelled of stale tobacco and vomit. There were tiny black-rimmed cigarette burns in the leather seats. I ran my fingers over them.

“Where to?” the driver asked, peering at me through the rear-view mirror. He was middle-aged, with a shiny bald spot on the crown of his salt-and-peppered head.

“The Crisis Centre on Pleasant Ave.”

He nodded, and we rode in silence.

My movements seemed inconsequential and like they were happening in slow motion. My senses were heightened to the point of nausea. It seemed as though the world was made up of only lengthy shadows. For a moment, I couldn’t see any light. Unable to stomach looking out the window, I stared straight at the meter as the price went up by five cents every few seconds. I shut my eyes for a moment.

“Here we are.”

Startled, I opened my eyes as the driver turned to look at me. I forgot where I was. I forgot everything. His eyes were strikingly blue, clouded and crystallized with age. I tossed a couple bills over the seat and pushed open the door. “Keep the change.”

Standing outside the rusty-red and brown brick building, I let my head fall back, counting the windows. I kept losing track, forgetting what came next, and beginning again. The taxi driver honked his horn, jolting me back.

I headed for the main door and tugged the handle. It was locked. I pressed the buzzer three times, waited a few seconds, then buzzed again. A robotic voice came through the intercom: “Yes. Do you have an appointment?” This made me smile a demented, tight-lipped grin. How crazy do they think I am? They really need to protect themselves from me by a locked door and intercom?

“Yes,” I replied, giving the door a second and third yank before it clicked open.

I nodded at the intercom woman as I passed the front desk, barrelling down the hallway. I turned my head from left to right, counting and humming. One, two, three, four; closed door, closed door, closed door, closed door. I reached the familiar precipice of Dr. Brace’s office and entered without knocking.

He was sitting in his chair but, startled by my entrance, was quickly on his feet. “Grace, what’s going on?”

“I can’t sleep.” I paced back and forth in the narrow space. I couldn’t look at him. I imagined sinking my nails into my skin, smashing my head against the wall over and over until blood poured from my orifices and I lay motionless on the ground. My thoughts were moving so quickly I visualized them, like wires of unharvested electricity circuiting through.