The clinic is new and has no smell: no damp, no perfume, no disinfectant. My room is like something you might find in a cheap hotel. The ceiling is high and vaulted. Instead of a wheeled, adjustable metal hospital bed, there is a single mattress on a simple, sprung frame. It’s covered in a non-descript, beige-ish, synthetic fabric. There is a set of drawers next to the bed, a dresser and a narrow wardrobe, all made of pale pine veneer. A phone with a private number is on top of the set of drawers – I am allowed to make local calls. Heavy green drapes conceal floor to ceiling windows. The windows open for fresh air but are screened with a fine steel mesh. Next to them, a door opens onto a private shower room with a toilet. On the first day I was here, I was visited by a nurse who asked me a lot of questions and jotted my answers onto a sheaf of forms: Why was I here? For a course of transcranial magnetic stimulation and intensive therapy. How was I feeling? By turns deeply depressed, suicidal, manically anxious and paranoid. Am I on medication? No. What is my psychiatric history? Have I been agitated or aggressive recently? Do I drink or smoke or do drugs? I sign the last page of the forms, consenting to the rules, which are mostly about controlled substances for those who are in rehab' here.Later, the nurse asked what I did for a living. I told I her I was an artist. She asked what kind of art I made but before I could answer she said, “You must go to lots of openings, like on Sex And The City!” I wonder what the fuck Carrie would write about if she found herself where I am now.