I weigh 52 kg. I ask the nurse what that translates to in pounds and she says she does not know.

I went missing for a day. No one knows where I was; neither do I. My last clear memory is drowsily sitting across from my therapist in her room full of dead roses and brochures. The pieces that somehow fit together: Being in a garden with a boy who told me I was taking too much Klonopin and me reassuring him; losing my French phone somewhere along the way; staring up at this unknown boy as we walked because I kept forgetting what he looked like; him dropping me off at the motto and giving me the most beautiful kiss a boy has ever granted me; him giving me a yellow Post-it with his name on it; going to a flea market on the way to my host family’s house.

The overdose was accidental, although no one believes me. The nurses ask, “Have you tried to kill yourself before? Do you want to commit suicide?” in broken English and I say, “Well, now I do because this entire situation is stupid.” What a smart-ass.

The amount of benzos still tainting my system has turned me into a disgusting mess over the past few days. My hospital linens smell of urine and there are puddles of it all over the room that I don’t remember being there before. I can’t walk properly without tilting over, my eyes are constantly glazed over. I sleep through days. The fullness of my body that was slowly emerging is now gone and I am the same, sickly, broken girl that I was before. Let’s be honest here: this was supposed to be my summer of change, and look where I am. I as might as well be floating in the Garonne the way everyone thought I was when I went missing. ♦