Pink off-brand duct tape. Waterproof and multifunctional, yet undeniably affordable. Tiny geometric parallelograms coated in thick adhesive. Miniature honeycombs drenched in a synthetic honey-like paste with the ability to hold the world together regardless of the humidex. When I say Thailand, pink duct tape doesn’t come to the forefront of someone’s mind. You instinctively imagine tropical beaches inhabited by full moon parties, and buckets of jungle juice. You predictably entertain the idea of elephant sanctuaries and cheap pad thai from soi carts, enjoyed in the company of ornate Buddhist temples. This postcard-version of Thailand boasts tan lines and cocktails, laced with smiles and laden in tranquility. Now, consider the Kingdom of Thailand from a different angle; outside of your 90 degree viewfinder. Encourage your brain to forge new connections in the never-ending adventure of neuroplasticity. The brain fascinates me - from its physical dissection, to its somewhat mysterious inner workings. The fissures, synapses, connectivity, and unknowables all provoke profound wonder in my own curious mind. The chemistry in my brain is uniquely flawed and imperfect; this I’ve come to know. However, perfection is not necessary in order to achieve greatness. I am a powerful and deeply motivated human, willing to take risks and massive leaps of faith into the wider world. At times it’s simply the lack of my imagination that’s the limiting reagent in my own equation. Taking up a teaching post in Thailand would be no different to any of my other ambitions. I would attack each day with unmistakable vigour and enthusiasm. I would be infallible: no one could point an accusing finger at perceived imperfections or gawk at suspected cracks. Anxiety and obsessive compulsions are not who I am; they are merely an inconsistent inconvenience, as are the feisty burning bites of fire ants in the morning after indiscriminate late night snacking. I would revel in the South-East Asian sunshine and photosynthesize my way to glorious aspirations. I would traverse the white, flour-like beaches, and propel myself through turquoise waters amongst the fishes. My lessons would captivate the expanding minds of my students, and those watching from home would be awestruck as I achieved my dreams. I would be brave and fearless, propelling the limitless growth of my Canadian prairie roots into fruitful Thai flora. My small existence in that bachelor apartment on Phetkasem Road wouldn’t expose my inconsistencies or fallibilities. Thailand wouldn’t strip me of my resilience. This was now home in my new expatriate life. My salt and pepper was placed in a Ziploc bag within a Ziploc bag inside a Tupperware, as with all of my other dry goods. This was normal. Crawling on hands and knees to inspect every dark speck on the floor, ensuring the nondescript fluff wasn’t another black house ant threatening an invasion. This was okay. Everything was rose-coloured in that apartment. This wasn’t due to the lens I viewed life through, but from the pink duct tape I bought from the small shop down the soi. The window needed to be sealed properly; the screen couldn’t be trusted to keep the Dtua Dtor at bay. The drain needed to be meticulously covered to ensure maximum control and protection from sewer dwelling insects, like the canine-sized cockroaches that would invade the ground floor units. I felt validated. The door needed a weather strip attached to discourage under-the-door miscreants from entering, like the brown spider that laid babies in the hallway. This was imperative. The holes in the plaster needed to be caulked to dissuade suburban Thailand from entering the sanctity of my newfound home. This was obvious, and everything was fine. Until it wasn’t. It was at that moment, holding my phone torch to illuminate the kitchen table in search of the translucent ghost ants, while calmly explaining the situation over speaker phone to my family back home, that I felt what composure I had left slipping away. I was no longer in control. No amount of pink duct tape was going to hold my unravelling mind together. I was going to lose my sanity amongst the songthaews in Nong Khaem. Did the smog-laden, pothole-ridden city of Bangkok disassemble my mind? Or was it simply in pieces from the start?